adventure Archives - Page 4 of 6 - Scooter in the Sticks

Dangerous and Beautiful Road

September 16, 2015 by Scooter in the Sticks 16 Comments

In the scooter’s dream, this is the road it rides…

How much does danger factor into the thrill of riding? When my spirit soars is it because I feel I’m flying or perhaps because subconsciously I believe I’ve left danger in the dust?

While I don’t intentionally ride in a dangerous manner I do accept that being on two-wheels inherently has more risk, more danger. It doesn’t mean bad things will happen, but they could, and chances are whatever does happen will probably be more intense that if I were strapped in the cage and surrounded by airbags.

Danger, or perhaps more specifically, risk is seductive and at the heart of a living game of chance. At least that’s what passed through my head as I watched the video of the Atlantic Road in Norway — Atlanterhavsveien in Norwegian. In the dark gloom with a pounding ocean I could sense the risk, the danger, and imagined traversing the windswept expanse and the quickened heart rate. It’s the same feeling I have when snow is falling on the road, or the temperature drops below zero — me against the elements.

Seems a screwy draw to riding a scooter or motorcycle. But it could be worse. I could be scrambling up the north face of the Eiger, or diving off a precipice in a wing suit.

I suppose each is just another dangerous and beautiful road…

The Excuses We Make

August 18, 2015 by Scooter in the Sticks 39 Comments

On a stop just after sunrise I realized how often during a ride I just want to look. Not for a photograph or acknowledgement of a specific sight but just to absorb the world. Thinking about it I also realize how often some other activity got me to that place of looking — ride on the scooter, a journey to make photographs, or even a walk with the dogs. Far less often is going out by myself for no other reason than to look. I wonder if looking is nothing more than a pleasant side effect of other activities.

Paul Ruby and I were on our way to breakfast when I stopped to make another photograph. Neither of us had any idea where we would end up eating but were confident that something would reveal itself if we were patient. During this stop I remembered sitting in the woods with my father, perhaps 45 years ago, while we were hunting squirrels. It was a fine fall morning with the woods glowing orange and yellow from the sun filtering through the leaves. He told me he loved walking in the woods this time of year. I recall thinking he never went into the woods except during hunting season and then only a few times.

Riding, photography, hunting — are these the excuses we make just so we can enjoy the world?

Roads lure me into secret journeys even when I know where they lead. For a moment, especially when a new day is coming to life, they promise an unknown adventure just waiting for me to discover. Those moments keep me coming back for more. Keep me standing in the world and watching for nothing and for everything.

Breakfast was still somewhere in the future when a paved road gave way to an abandoned one and potholes and decaying pavement from years of neglect became the challenge of the moment. This stretch of road lies between the Loganton exit on Interstate 80 and Watsontown to the east. I never knew this road existed and suspect it was abandoned when the interstate highway was opened. Twenty miles of slowly devolving asphalt and gravel with no cell service or traffic. A single overhead electric wire ran the length and appeared to be in use though I never saw any reason for it.

My father only walked or embarked on a journey if there was a good reason to do so. Standing around and admiring a view was not a good reason. I’m trying to remember the last time I walked out the door and down the road without a reason or purpose. Have I forgotten the joy of childhood — doing nothing?

As a kid I could have spent all morning playing in and around a creek like this. As an adult I have things to do and places to go. Not even enough time to pull off my boots and socks and soak my feet in what I’m certain was a frigid water.

I do remember doing nothing. The last time Kim and I were in Maine and I sat along the coast in the morning watching the sunrise over the ocean and suddenly being aware the sun was up and it was getting hot, my mind wandered and led me into some sort of trance. On a good ride something similar can happen.

Derrick’s Restaurant in Dewart, Pennsylvania was our breakfast destination — a recommendation from a fellow some miles down the road at a gas station. Sixty-eight miles from home we pulled into the parking lot to take our chances on a small local eatery. Finding a nicely restored 1965(?) vintage Ford Falcon with a 302 V8 engine was an omen that we were at some sort of eclectic place of power.

Derrick’s was one of the cozier, pleasant and odd places I’ve had breakfast. It was a mix of Christian themes and Budweiser art. Paul commented on the menu prices that they were the lowest costs he had ever seen.

We ate well.

After breakfast the sun had risen high enough into the sky to shred any vestige of magic from light and other illusions. It was just hot and bright. It did not deter us from adventuring on and discovering a small bakery in Muncy, Pennsylvania selling cowboy cookies or a variety of Amish buggies on the road. But as Paul knows I’m not much interested in photographing during the bright days of summer. So the ride continued another hundred miles before returning home to a lawnmower and excited dogs.

And I also carried home the thought that the excuses we make to get out into the world should be unnecessary. Maybe it’s time to just walk out the door with nothing to do and nowhere to be — just like I did when I was nine years old.

That was freedom and I didn’t even know it.

URAL Sidecar Motorcycles

July 24, 2015 by Scooter in the Sticks 27 Comments

How do you know when you’re ready for a URAL sidecar motorcycle?

My buddy Bill stopped by my office to show me his new URAL sidecar motorcycle. I have to say it’s one of the more elegant incarnations I’ve seen. Almost enough to dispel the mental idea I have of them as “mules” or “trucks”. I’ve put a few miles on these machines and I can say they ride more smoothly than the 1949 Willys Jeep truck we had.

Still, they are amazing contraptions and I have them filed in my head for “when I can’t walk too well” times. But who knows, they could surface sooner for a variety of reasons. Fear and loathing just to name a few.

Dom Chang of Redleg’s Rides has been pitching the URAL to me for years. I’m confessing now, for all to read, that his patient efforts have been in vain. I am not closer to purchasing a URAL today than I was in 1957 when I was sending in Kellog’s box tops in hopes of winning a Ford Thunderbird Junior.

Don’t give up though Dom. You just never know.

I saw a video today show up on the Scooter in the Sticks Facebook page courtesy of Fuzzygalore.com that offered one of the most impressive looks at the URAL I have ever seen. Part motorcycle, part mule, part pontoon boat — a machine for wilderness adventure for sure.

Have a look at the video and ask yourself, “Is it time for one of those URAL sidecar motorcycles?”

Accepting the Path Ahead

May 16, 2015 by Scooter in the Sticks 90 Comments

While the road may appear straight and the destination clear, there are endless possibilities for interruption – a tree limb, a vestige of a truck tire, a distracted driver or a sudden dash of a deer. A routine ride can suddenly become a tragic event. I’ve considered many possible challenges on the road and have worked through strategies to address them. Finding a measure of calm and focus is important and I have developed a sort of fateful acceptance of what I might face on the road and in life.

That fateful acceptance was tested when I walked into the Emergency Room at Mount Nittany Medical Center on Thursday evening.

A few days earlier I had been riding the Vespa on a few errands with a minor detour to enjoy some of the more open areas of the valley. After a long day a ride offers an opportunity to clear away the noise of the day and focus on what’s in front of you, excluding everything that doesn’t matter to the riding task at hand.

Standing in the emergency room I tried to summon that ability to focus on the task at hand and push the anxiety and fear aside for the moment. As succinctly as possible I described the events of the day to the triage nurse that brought me to her. Extreme fatigue in the afternoon, early to bed only to awake to pain in my left arm, nausea, heartburn, and shortness of breath. At home my blood pressure measured 200/105, a marked departure from my usual 120/70.

The solitary nature of riding has been instructive activity and has contributed to the unraveling of personal mysteries and shortcomings. I believe many non-riders think of two-wheeled life as a physical indulgence that’s both ego driven and fraught with danger. And on the surface, I might not disagree. But in a complex, harried world it can provide the mindful rider with a haven for relaxation, introspection and escape from the well-worn grooves of everyday drama.

I think the triage nurse was surprised to see my blood pressure standing at 210/110 and immediately send me to a bed where a technician did an EKG.

Heart function was normal.

Riding under a gathering gray sky is probably my favorite time to be on the road. Knowing the weather is changing and not sure what I’ll have to manage triggers a twinge of excitement as I consider how I might be tested. I’m certain it drives my encounters with winter.

The emergency room doctor questioned me on my medical history and symptoms as she worked to determine what to do with the high blood pressure while a nurse inserted an IV line into my arm and injected an anti-nausea medication that I could taste in seconds. Amazing how fast things move in the body. A minute later the nausea subsided and I realized the heartburn was actually pain.

While the doctor and nurse were in the hall discussing next steps I began to sweat and had trouble breathing. The pain in my arm and chest moved from annoying to something I can only assume was reserved for people who have lived on hot dogs, bacon cheeseburgers and little chocolate donuts.

For the first time in my life I pushed the red button.

Central Pennsylvania’s agricultural landscape is dotted with solitary trees that once served to provide shade for plow horses when farmers stopped for their midday meal. I see them as quiet testaments to life in a world where things change. Not matter how many times I pass this particular tree I almost always stop. I did this past week.

The ER doctor looked at me and asked for another EKG and it minutes it was apparent I was having a heart attack.

Things happen quickly in an ER when someone rings the heart attack bell. The rather mellow two person interaction suddenly swirled into a team of people acting in a precision dance of actions as they readied me for something yet to be determined. One person was shaving my arms and groin while another was placing a nitroglycerin tablet under my tongue. Morphine was pushed through the IV port and a cardiologist was on his way.

The pain got worse as I watched the ceiling lights on my way to the Cardiac Catherization Lab.

Remnants of my arrival at the ER – ports still in my arms in case they need to push drugs into me in a hurry.

The catherization team was outstanding – friendly yet undoubtedly professionally focused in ways I’ll never understand. They were able to convert what could have been frightening into something surprisingly mechanical. At least for me, they kept me focused on what they were doing so I wouldn’t panic with thoughts that I could die. I remember joking with them, thinking it would have been cool to have ridden the Vespa to my heart attack experience because it would have made a better blog post, but mostly thinking I hope they stop the pain.

A catheter was inserted into my wrist where the cardiologist determined my right coronary artery was 100 percent blocked. I remember feeling a sudden departure of the pain and muttering, “The morphine must have kicked in.”. The doctor said we just restored your blood flow.

I’m not sure how long this all took but afterwards they showed me computer images of my artery before and after a drug-eluting stent was inserted. It looked dramatic to me and I felt like a new man save for some wooziness from the morphine.

I’ve been in the ICU for about 36 hours now and feel remarkably better. The cardiologist said I’ll probably feel better than I have in a long time since blood flow has likely been restricted for awhile. And it was good to hear that I could resume life as normal. Well, not quite.
I will certainly be able to do everything physically I did before and they actually expect a little more from me. The doctor stressed I am not fragile. Lifestyle changes are part of the adventure ahead that will affect medication, diet and exercise, two things I’ve fought a losing battle with for decades. Now that I have more concrete proof that I’m not indestructible I’ll have to tap into some of the riding focus to take a little better care of myself.

There is much to be grateful for with access to medical care being one of them. Since I got in quickly there was little damage to my heart and the cardiologist expects I’ll not notice any limitations. Accepting the path ahead is already done as I plan some changes. The devil is in the details though and Kim, our kids and friends will help to move things forward as we embark on another adventure.

And if I understand the cardiologist correctly, I can go for a scooter ride on Monday!

When the Vespa Won’t Start

December 26, 2014 by Scooter in the Sticks 29 Comments

After weeks of grey, gloomy skies, the return of the sun and the thermometer soaring to 39F could only mean a wonderful opportunity to go for a ride. And with the recent addition of heated grips and Tucano Urbano muffs there would be a cosmic alignment of solar and electric heat to produce the coziest of rides. With an entire day open the last thing on my mind was what to do when the Vespa won’t start.

After weighing geographic options I headed south towards breakfast at the Spruce Creek Bakery. The light was dazzling and the air seemed swept clear of any dense or negative energy. Gazing into the distance I entertained a rush towards the Maryland border and on into Virginia — just because I could and because I haven’t gone for a long ride in awhile.

The Vespa now has Koso heated grips and Tucano muffs installed to keep my hands warm. Usually at this temperature I would have my electric gloves on but instead opted for my LL Bean deerskin field gloves — light, supple, and comfortable. They’re similar to the Aerostich elkskin ropers that I wrecked in the garden.

While it wasn’t that cold (39F) it was obvious that the muffs did a great job offering protection from the wind. The heated grips weren’t warm, they were HOT. So hot that I had to run them on half power. As the weather gets colder I’ll experiment with the need for heavier gloves.

I was also surprised how quickly I adapted to my hands being inside the muffs. No issues at all save for a need to be deliberate with any thumb actions — starter, kill switch, horn, turn signals — since your hands are inside these big, fixed muffs.

The bakery was closed so I continued on towards Sinking Valley and another place to eat. Twenty-six miles from home and the scooter died.

This is as far as I got. Stopped to make a picture inside the underpass, got back on the scooter, started the engine, it ran for a few seconds and it died. I’ve been here before and some will probably say I should have gotten it fixed already. Try again, runs for a second and dies.

My best guess is the fuel pump is failing. When I turn on the ignition I don’t hear the pump running which is a bad sign. It’s done this twice in the past year. Each time I’d wait a minute or so, try again and it would start right up and run all day.

After about a half-hour I decide it’s time to get someone to fetch the scooter.

It’s always something when the Vespa won’t start. Having no cell coverage doesn’t help. At least the sun was shining and the temperature was in the low forties as I started pushing the scooter back towards Spruce Creek, Pennsylvania in hopes of a cell signal. It’s less than a mile.

A half-dozen vehicles stopped to ask if I needed help. Not a single Vespa technician among them. Nice to know that people care about an old man pushing a Vespa along a road.

In the parking lot of the Spruce Creek United Methodist Church I was able to get one bar of AT&T coverage to reach out to my friend Paul. He was available and would bring his truck to haul the dead scooter to Kissell Motorsports and most likely a new fuel pump.

While I waited I watched the fisherman work their way along the Little Juniata River just a few hundred yards from where Spruce Creek dumps its water and fish into the river. This is a popular spot for fly fishing. Not far from here is the club where President Jimmy Carter was a frequent fishing visitor.

Now, on to the dead scooter. I wish it would stay dead because it would be easier to diagnose and fix. As luck (bad) would have it the Vespa started. And more bad luck showed no cell signal again. So off I went with an eye open for Paul’s big blue truck.

About five miles up the road I saw him, we coordinated plans, and headed to Kissell’s to drop on the scooter.

After checking the Vespa in for repairs Craig Kissell showed us a 2012 Moto Guzzi V7 Racer that was just traded. Amazing bit of engineering and I could see Paul wanted it. Craig was ready to make it happen but Paul was too close to a recent Ducati acquisition. The more amazing part of the story was what the owner traded this motorcycle for — a new Vespa Sprint 150.

Go figure.

Anyways, I won’t see the Vespa again until after the new year. Until then I can focus on other projects like getting my darkroom rolling again or clearing the basement so a new gas fired boiler can be installed and the smelly old oil fired one (and the storage tank) can be carted away.

Always things to do, especially when the Vespa won’t start…

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