Scooter in the Sticks

Exploring life on a Vespa, Royal Enfield Himalayan, Honda Trail 125, and a Kawasaki W650

How Long Can I Ride?

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Steve Williams photography and printsLooking Closely

Sixty-one years old and one heart attack under my belt. It fuels some interesting thinking. Ten years ago when I was still invincible (and my riding jacket was still bright yellow) I was already drawn toward thoughts of mortality as I photographed my life, the people in it, and some of the icons of finality. I’ve always been curious about what’s over the next hill.  Seems appropriate that curiosity would endure thoughts about longevity — how long can I ride?

I’m not sure if a person reaches a certain point where they begin doing longevity math but the equations aren’t simple and the factors considered aren’t consistent.  My grandfather had a heart attack in the 1950s when he was my age and then lived healthy and at home another 33 years.  My mother died just a few years older than I am now from a rare disease. And my father from lung cancer at 76 though he was a heavy smoker most of his life, worked in a coal mine before moving on to a mill that worked with molten steel — something that generates a lot of great stuff to breathe.

Mental measuring of longevity is, at best, a fool’s errand and merely another way to rob the present with fears of the future.  Still, it occupies my thoughts from time to time.

What may be more important is the waking dreams of life down the road.

How do I see myself in ten years?

Vespa GTS scooter on a forest roadOld Man and a Vespa

It slowly comes into focus, an image of an old man on a scooter, moving smoothly along a forest road, his hands gives a slight squeeze to the hand grips and a smile grows on his face.  In the distance a granddaughter waves, wondering what treat the old man brought this time.

When I ride I can feel the flight of spirit and I squeeze the grips to hold onto the world. At 61, I hope I can stay close to that feeling for a long time and my body stays nimble enough to manage the scooter and my mind sharp enough to stay safe. And be able to hang out with my granddaughter long enough to warn her about boys and to not let anyone stand in the way of her dreams.

That would be a good ride.

Belgian Sheepdog portait in the snow at sunriseLike a Good Dog

How long can I ride? Only God knows. But like a good dog I’ll keep getting up every morning and make the most of what life has to offer.  Like Junior, who hopes he’ll get to chase some tennis balls and go for a walk, I’m going to hope I can keep riding. I’ll ride until I can’t.

That’s the view from 61.  I’ll check back in ten years and see how things are working out.

What’s your view of the road ahead?

Rain Riding

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Life is not a problem to be solved, but a reality to be experienced.
Soren Kierkegaard

Vespa GTS scooter on winding wet roadWith rain riding, the road is long and often dark.

Especially during the last week.  Rain and heavy overcast has created what can be an oppressive environment for riding both physically and mentally.  Rain riding often asks for a little extra from a rider to get on the road and stay safe while there.

Stopping along the road to make a photograph gives you a chance to examine the pavement you’re riding on.  A few steps, a drag of the sole of a boot along the road surface provides a sense of traction and the limits to work within.

And I’m always looking at the landscape in which my life unfolds.  On some days it can feel like a scene from a movie.

Vespa scooter alongside bicycle pathThe universe provides reminders that it’s not a movie.

Like finding a new bicycle path as a hint that some of my motorized riding could be transitioned to body powered travel in recognition of a healthier way of living.

I looked at my pink mountain bike today and considered riding it for a fleeting moment.

Vespa GTS scooter and farm landscapeThe world is a big place with magic everywhere.

I feel that but know it hasn’t always been the case.  Something changed that has allowed me to see the world differently.  I like to ascribe that change to riding the Vespa but I could just as easily credit my camera which has forced a continual visual engagement.

If pushed I would probably say the advancement of years has made everything more precious.  Looking around I realize how fleeting it all is.  Riding provides a front row seat on the world.  Getting older provides the patience to watch the show.

Round bales in a farm fieldReality is strange.

Riding across the valley south of State College brings a rider through some open, rolling agricultural areas.  The round bales almost seemed like some new form of livestock as they sat in the corn stubble.  The scene feels more like a painting than a photograph.

Vespa scooter and a foggy apple orchardYou can never see everything.

Fog and mist shroud the ridge tops obscuring the view. Imagination fills in the gaps and I’m always imagining Brigadoon.  Funny how stories stick in your head and trigger a desire for something magic to happen.  I have a long list of daydreams.

Vespa GTS scooter at the Pump Station Cafe in Boalsburg, PAThere is rest for the weary.

By the end of the ride, just shy of 50 miles, I was feeling the dampness and chill seep into my body.  Not painful or uncomfortable but enough to allow genuine appreciation of a hot drink in a warm place.  It’s easy to imagine travelers moving through the wilderness 200 years ago by wagon or horse and coming upon an inn at the end of a long day.

And so I sit with my hot tea staring out the window and imagining other lives and times, all because of a little rain riding.

Ten Thousand Steps

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Vespa artRiding a Vespa, as much fun as they are, doesn’t provide much in the way of exercise unless you’re pushing a dead one down a road.  Exercise has become an important part of my existence since a heart attack in May and I’ve been exploring options for healthier behavior. I’ve not wanted to resort to communal exercise in a gym or health club.  My cardiologist says I just need to move on a consistent basis so when I saw a reference to “walk ten thousand steps” on a list on David Masse’s Life on Two Wheels blog it started me thinking.

I passed William Snyder III’s Vespa painting while walking this evening.  With the ten thousand steps in mind I walk more and have become more aware of my body in motion.  During the past couple weeks I’ve averaged nearly ten thousand steps a day.  On some days nearly fifteen thousand — each step contributing toward the development of a new habit.

Pink scooter in State College, PADarkness and a light rain “forced” me into the car rather than ride the Vespa — a sensible choice that was somewhat deflated when I saw the little pink scooter parked along Allen Street in State College, Pennsylvania.  At least it wasn’t a Harley.  Then I really would have felt bad.

I lost the fire for walking but I’m not sure how or why.  There was a time when my feet were in constant motion in town or on the trails that crisscross central Pennsylvania.  I dreamt of walking the Appalachian Trail.  I read Colin Fletcher’s The Complete Walker IV obsessively.  The dogs and I (Essa and Iggy Pup) roamed the fields and forests together.  Then suddenly I’m not walking anymore and I have a heart attack.

Only makes sense to restore walking to my daily life.

State College, PA at nightMy dogs taught me a lesson about movement — no special facility or location is required.  It may be nice to wander the streets of State College but I don’t have to go out of my way to collect steps.  The youngest Belgian Sheepdog in the house — Lily the Hammer — runs relentlessly through our .70 acre property following an intricate web of paths and trails.  Watching her I pondered, “Why can’t I do that?”.

So rather than glue myself to one place while I toss tennis balls to exercise the dogs I’ve created my own web of walkways.  So instead of a handful of steps during the morning ball throwing session I now routinely collect 2000 steps as I make my way up and down paths and in and around trees and shrubs.

One of many lessons taught to me by dogs.

Habits of Frustration

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Self portrait of Steve Williams, Vespa rider and victim of habits of frustrationSometimes 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

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Vespa GTS scooter on a forest road

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.

Vespa GTS scooter parked outside the Ski Patrol office

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.

Vespa GTS on a narrow gravel forest road

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.

An infant reaching toward the camera

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.

Vespa GTS scooter near Meyer farm.

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…