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Habits of Frustration

December 4, 2015 by Scooter in the Sticks 21 Comments

Sometimes old habits of frustration just bite you in the ass. One of my recurring sources of exasperation, completely self-inflicted, is the careless way I handle things –objects. My pockets usually contain crumbled up wads of cash that tend to fall on the ground when I’m fishing out keys or phones. Important notes, lists, and other stuff vanishes I’m certain because I pay no attention to those sorts of details.

It drives me nuts.

Yesterday I purchased a lovely Sheaffer VFM fountain pen — the Sheaffer VFM, Strobe Silver, Nickel Plate Trim, Fountain Pen: Medium Nib (E0940053). It’s an inexpensive pen — I paid $17 — but it’s a dream to write with; at least for the two sentences I crafted while testing it.

Today I was in a hurry and pushed the pen in my jacket pocket, one of those hand warming style pockets that aren’t deep but rather easy to access and not good for carrying things. Not surprising really, the pen fell out somewhere, another casualty of my habits of frustration. I’ll buy another because I’m marginally obsessed with fountain pens and love one that makes fine lines and is smooth on the page, but shouldn’t I be old enough to show a bit more respect for things?

Thankfully this kind of behavior never reared its head with photography gear or in riding. But beyond that, it’s a mess.

If anyone finds a silver Shaeffer VFM fountain pen — it’s probably mine….

Seasons of the Soul

November 15, 2015 by Scooter in the Sticks 18 Comments

Struggling to focus my thoughts about a cold morning ride in the central Pennsylvania forest I heard my wife talking out loud about a book she was downloading — The Seasons of the Soul: The Poetic Guidance and Spiritual Wisdom of Hermann Hesse — and everything became clear.

It was 38F when I woke with a steady wind and forbidding sky made riding the Vespa scooter seem foolish and when it began to snow only the simpleminded would venture forth from the coziness of a warm home. It’s the kind of thinking that the cold season provokes in me — a sacrifice of mental wellbeing for physical comfort. The mental process is indicative of one of the seasons of the soul.

The light over the Ski Patrol office at Tussey Mountain Ski Resort is a sure sign winter is near. Lately it’s been dark when I get ready for work and dark again when leaving the office for home which makes the sun more distant than the season already does.

With my cold weather gear in place and my brain coaxed into place the pilot light of desire bloomed into a hot flame as I moved through the winding forest roads of Rothrock State Forest. And I thought about something I read about how a person might think about how their life is going.

Of the ten messages shared the first stayed with me — you’re alive!

Regardless of what has happened or will happen, being alive is better than the alternative. And it’s a precious gift far too easy to take for granted. Being on the road gives me the space to think about all the moments that should be seen with gratitude rather than those that haven’t happened.

Or weather that’s not warm and cozy.

I’m alive. I’ve survived a serious heart attack and the accumulation of age on my body. I can’t do the things I once was able and some dreams are in the rear view mirror. But still there is mystery and adventure ahead because I don’t know what’s around the bend.

Riding on these narrow little forest roads is fun because I never know what I’ll see — a flock of wild turkeys or a bear, or a glistening sliver of water tracing through a cathedral of hemlock trees. There’s no place I would rather be.

The road took me to my granddaughter Emma and I like to think her reaching toward the camera is really her way of saying, “Grandpa, give me the keys to the Vespa.”

By the time Emma is old enough to ride I’ll be 76 years old. It’s possible I’ll still be around but there’s no predicting what will happen. I’ve still not wrapped my head around the natural cycle of life with my daughter and granddaughter. I understand it but at some level it remains impossible that the world has spun round so many times.

A scene on the way home, one of the many winding rural roads that the scooter can soar along like a bird.

I’ve always felt it important to feel passion for something. It doesn’t really matter what, just something that keeps the mind and body in motion and not surrender to the television or easy chair collecting regrets like so many extra old socks.

The Vespa, my Vespa scooter, is like bacon to my dogs. I want it. I almost drool thinking about it. At 1:16am it seems entirely reasonable to go for a ride into the night just to be on the road. I have no right to have such desire. I have no idea if other riders feel this way. But I know it’s a good thing and keeps the fire of being alive bright regardless of the seasons of the soul I may find myself amidst.

My god, what a great day it’s been…

Every Leaf Speaks Bliss

November 1, 2015 by Scooter in the Sticks 22 Comments

A riding intermission pushed other things into awareness. Autumn on the road gave way to the dogs racing through the garden as I pondered the bright yellow Sassafras leaves with my camera. The desire to ride despite a flare of an old back injury finally receded when I surrendered to a battle I could not win on my schedule. And now October has faded into November. Every leaf speaks bliss when I take time to pay attention.

Autumn has always generated a nostalgic energy which colors my thoughts. As a child I recognized the change and loss the came with the season. Now I connect it with the natural cycle of life — in the mirror I see autumn. My body whispers of changes.

A first ride since an old back injury flared and sidelined the Vespa. Pushing the scooter out of the garage hinted of improvement and by the time I stopped to make a photograph I could assess the limits of body and mind.

Junior, our seven year old Belgian Sheepdog (with faulty ears), saw more of me the past two weeks. While I couldn’t ride I could still toss a tennis ball and reach the dog cookies on the counter. It’s easy to understand the positive affect a dog can have on people suffering from myriad ailments.

Thank you Junior.

Vespa GTS scooter in farm field

The biggest physical challenge to riding is sudden, jarring movements. The kind of indifferent attitude I had to where I rode and parked the scooter now is a more careful, studied act. I don’t want to pull the scooter on and off the centerstand several times looking for solid ground. My back demands I do it once.

It was cold during the ride — 37F when I departed. The heavy sky didn’t seem to matter save for add mood to the morning. Any fear I had of not being as cold tolerant after the heart attack seems unfounded. I remained warm save for the cold air striking my neck which my misplaced balaclava would normally protect and the expected cold hands.

Lily is no Junior. Not yet at least. At almost 10 months old she’s full of energy and has little time to comfort and console. She will ram into you at breakneck speeds or relentlessly remind you of the need to throw the ball, throw the ball again, retrieve a treat, serve some food, throw a ball, throw a ball…

At least you feel needed.

I’ve missed most of the flaming foliage this year. Riding through the forest I could see much of the canopy is now on the ground. Riding on the gravel roads introduced occasional ruts that provided striking reminders of my back. Strong enough to have me make a note to self: “No off-pavement riding for awhile”.

By the time I reached Bellefonte, Pennsylvania I had meandered for about thirty miles and decided my hands were cold enough to enjoy a cup of hot tea. I still love the transition from bracing chill to cozy coffee shop.

Cool Beans Coffee and Tea provided a welcome respite from the riding experiment and enough distance from the gathered throng of Penn State football fans gathered just ten miles away.

My friend Paul (somewhere in Kansas) is on his way to New Mexico with his Ducati in the back of his truck. He sent an email in response to a query about the trip and he said he was sitting in a cafe, drinking his coffee and reading his book. He’s trying to have no expectations and just do whatever he wants when he wants. Sitting in Cool Beans I was thinking of how difficult it is to reach that state.

Moments after making this photograph I learned a lesson about bad habits — leaving the engine running while stopping for a picture. That habit started some years ago when I was riding with a suspect battery which left me stranded a few times. I started not turning off the engine. Seems to work fine right?

As I walked back to the Vespa I could see it slowly start to fall over. With my camera in one hand I grabbed the grip with the other — the throttle grip. I wondered why the engine was revving so high and suddenly realized as the scooter fell more my hold on the throttle was applying more fuel. Had it come off the centerstand the scooter would have scooted right across the road.

My pride would have been injured at the very least.

So my riding experiment yielded useful data. My back is improving but not enough to ride with reckless abandon. I don’t seem to be less cold tolerant. And I’ve learned to shut off the engine when I park the Vespa. Add that to the still lovely riding landscape and it was a pretty good ride.

Interrupted Riding

October 15, 2015 by Scooter in the Sticks 29 Comments

If you ride enough you’ll get confused.

You may wonder where you are, what you’re doing, or even why you are sitting on your scooter or motorcycle at all. As much as I try to let the common concerns of everyday life behind they show up with the slightest provocation. Looking at these signs during a stop of a ride last weekend suddenly had me back in my office wrestling with a project that I’m having trouble making a decision.

Intrusive thoughts can lead to interrupted riding — a tarnishing of the escape I hope to make.

It wasn’t until I looked at this photograph later that I wondered what it was trying to say, especially since it was along an ordinary road with no choices to make.

Perhaps it was a hallucination.

Paul Ruby and I were on our way to breakfast in Alexandria, Pennsylvania — a meal served at the Methodist Church as part of Hartslog Day. Neither of us was familiar with the event nor were prepared for the sudden appearance of thousands of people gathering for a celebration which closed the town to traffic and led to more interrupted riding.

The older I get, the more seriously work to avoid crowds. Three is a crowd. We rode past Alexandria with new plans.

In my dreams I spend most of my time riding and absorbing the scenery — a quiet meditative act that allows me to ease into a life that’s less stressful, more intentional. Whatever that means.

This building is the Huntingdon Furnace Grist Mill which is part of, I think, the Huntingdon Furnace complex between Warriors Mark and Seven Stars. I wondered how many other men or women have stood where I was looking at the shadows on the stones cast by the morning sun?

Looking at the picture now I can only think of how there’s more interrupted riding — this time due to a sudden flare of an old back injury — one occurring in high school while attempting to become a pole vaulter.

It’s discouraging when things don’t go as planned despite how much I try not to hold onto expectations. The autumn world is a dazzling time to ride the Vespa. Our slow meandering path through the dappled colored leaves made the lack of a specific place to eat unimportant.

Sitting here now writing, knowing I can’t ride, knowing even getting out of the chair will involve wincing pain and struggle — it just sucks.

I’ve been here before. The last time was in 2008. Before that every five or six years since the pole vaulting nonsense some insignificant event would trigger a debilitating situation. Decades ago it became known as Saab Battery Disease — the result of pulling the battery from my 1969 Saab 99. Years latter it was a pair of wet jeans pulled from the washing machine. This time it was sitting in a chair at dog class for Lily.

Interrupted riding plans.

On the second day of chiropractic care I was sent for an x-ray of my spine just to confirm radiographically that my ankylosing spondylitis hasn’t escaped the grasp of my current medications and this is still just pole vaulting interrupting riding plans.

I would be pissed if this current situation is spondylitis related. Would make the whole “not retiring yet” seem wrongheaded.

Mostly, I’m frustrated that I can’t ride. Getting the Vespa on and off the centerstand would be a nightmare.

Paul and I eventually found a place to eat but not until bypassing two Hartslog Day choices and one out of business hole in the wall establishment. We ended up at Top’s Diner along US Route 22 between Mount Union and Huntingdon. The place was crowded with Penn State fans on their way to the football game but well worth the wait for breakfast.

When we left home the temperature was 46F — chilly by any measure but mitigated greatly by the sunshine. Leaving the diner it was nearly 60F which is near perfect riding weather in my book.

The ride home is often discouraging — the entire time you know something you love is ending. I hate that melancholy feeling. Maybe it’s because I’ve not exhausted my riding lust. It must be how my dogs feel when we head home before they’ve tired of chasing the tennis ball or swimming in the pond.

I’d happily take on that melancholy feeling right now in exchange for the nagging back pain. An hour ago I almost collapsed in the street as I tried to shuffle quickly ahead of oncoming cars. And almost anything that falls to the ground stays there. Retrieval means and complex process of descent and hands and knees work before calling upon my best MacGyver skills to get myself back up. And both directions involve cursing and cringing.

Someone once told me that “life sucks and then you die.”

Life is great right now. Really great.

Little Pink Pill

October 3, 2015 by Scooter in the Sticks 9 Comments

The ride to work today was a frozen, shivering, torturous experience despite being clad in my winter riding gear. The worst part was it was only 50 degrees outside. Fahrenheit.

At work it was suggested I just needed to acclimate to the colder days. 50F — seriously? This is almost summer weather. It was worse riding home for lunch, so much so that I returned to work in the toasty, elegant environs of a minivan. Later in the day I would test the arctic weather on foot with winter jacket, hat and gloves. The dogs were indifferent but I was freezing.

A phone call with a knowing friend suggested a reason — the little pink pill — clopidogrel; an oral, thienopyridine-class antiplatelet agent used, in my case, to prevent myocardial infarction — another heart attack. As it does it work to thin my blood is it making me less cold tolerant? Is my soldiering through winter on the Vespa scooter on the edge of extinction?

I don’t know.

As evening approached I found myself photographing a construction crane over State College, Pennsylvania, an act unique solely because I didn’t get out of the warmth of the van to make it opting instead to photograph through the dirty windshield of the minivan.

A quick search of the web showed a variety of ways a heart attack victim could die in cold weather and practically every shivering symptom a body could produce was a harbinger of doom. While writing I was reminded of something my cardiologist said to me when questioned about activity limits — “Experiment. Test your limits. Explore what’s comfortable. You know what symptoms of a heart attack feel like for you. Pay attention. Take your medicine. Live your life.”

Basically he told me not to worry and get on with it.

So maybe this cold angst is just a passing discomfort that I’ll adapt to. The morning promises to be even colder and mixed with rain. And I plan to experiment.

As American poet and essayist T.S. Eliot said, “Only those who will risk going too far can possibly find out how far one can go.”

I’m going to see how far I can go…

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