I want the Triumph Scrambler in my driveway. It’s been the subject of more than a few riding fantasies. Not long ago I had the chance to test my desire.

Next to my bed is an Orvis catalog. Their marketing and creative staff seem to have worked over time to push into my subconscious and trigger desire for canvas field coats, twill and flannel shirts, and an assortment of leather belts and boots, all to embrace the coming fall, all part of a design sensibility rooted deep in tradition and experience growing up, the outdoor style of my father, the look and feel before the advent of hi-tech fabric and construction.

Triumph has managed the same thing with the Scrambler. They’ve electrified my imagination by bringing this modern machine before me while triggering dreams of desert sleds and Baja adventure from my youth. It’s a potent combination.

While my personal fascination with traditional, timeless clothing style may be perfectly functional when it turns towards more mechanical iconography those items often wither under the bright light of daily use. Doesn’t matter if it’s a camera, car or motorcycle, the fantasy never lives up to my expectations when I attempt to put them to daily use.

This is a story of dreams.

Two people have a role in this tale — Craig Kissell, owner of Kissell Motorsports and granter of magical wishes by putting a Scrambler in my hands, and Jonathan Ziegler (JZ), creative director, designer, sometimes author of Two-Lane Blacktop, and rider of a 1977 BMW R75/6.

Craig has maintained that my riding and writing about his motorcycles helps his business and my slow, scooter perspective on the motorcycle experience doesn’t seem to hurt and I have the chance to walk on the wild side.

JZ is the kind of rider suited for a vintage airhead—attentive to detail, driven by style, and possessing the requisite patience needed to own and sometimes actually ride a vintage motorcycle.

I have no business owning a vintage motorcycle. While I can be seduced by the look and style of many older machines my lack of patience makes me a poor candidate to join the crowd of vintage airhead riders, BSA and Norton aficionados, or those poor souls who surrender their sanity to finicky vintage Triumphs, Vespas, and Harleys. I expect the bike to start when I press the starter button. Every time, regardless of weather, time of day, tide or phase of the moon. I find no romance in side of the road repairs regardless of how many riding stories they might inspire. I want to ride.

The desire for the Scrambler is based on anything but actual need and reflects a definition of a motorcycle in my head developed in my youth from movies, television and the infrequent motojournalism to which I encountered. I believe almost every rider, in a quiet moment of honest reflection, will find their choice of rides are based on a manipulation of desire based on style, tradition, perception and fear of being different. Choices based on actual need are tricks of the mind.

So I don’t often kid myself into thinking I actually need much. I do want a lot though.

A Saturday morning and I pull up to JZ’s garage, hoping his machine will actually start and we can take advantage of a lovely morning to ride. And get breakfast.

I’m drawn to simplicity of style and function. A look at the instrument cluster on the Scrambler reveals a Spartan collection of information:

A speedometer to tell you when you’re at risk of a speeding ticket.
An odometer, useful to keep track of mileage since there is no fuel gauge.
A green light indicating the turn signals are on – but not which one.
A blue light to let you know your high beam is on.
A small orange check engine diode informing you of, most likely, some incomplete product of combustion. Or maybe the engine is ready to blow up.
And another diode informing you that soon you will run out of gas.

Nothing else. No gear indicator, RPMs, ambient temperature readout (I’ll miss that one) or anything else. And certainly no stereo, GPS, heated seats or grips, and no windscreen. Just a straightforward motorcycle to safely and efficiently get you from point A to B.

In style.

The two motorcycles look good together and are completely at home on the backroads of central Pennsylvania. Looking at pictures like this makes me wonder why I don’t make more time to ride.

We headed south down the valley towards Petersburg and the Route 22 Diner, a small, unassuming establishment along US22 just east of Water Street. It serves a fine hearty breakfast without pretense or fuss.

The Scrambler is not a good choice for anyone requiring the like-minded support of others. You’re not going to find crowds of Scrambler riders at the local diner. This is a unique motorcycle for the rider heading in a different direction. Where Harley talks about the lone rider on the road in their marketing, Triumph actually delivers with the Scrambler. I have never seen another on the road.

Esquire magazine says every man in America needs a Triumph Scrambler. They’re seeing it as a statement of style. I see the Scrambler as a key to unlock insight, imagination, and the first steps towards spiritual freedom. Spoken like a true Vespa rider.

Fifteen miles from breakfast we’re buying fuel at the Sheetz in Huntingdon. The lot is packed with cars and motorcycles. At the next pump is a bright red Ducati MultiStrada ridden by Doug Roeshot, orthopedic surgeon and Ducatista. After a brief conversation about plans he invites us to join himself and another Ducati rider for a ride. Not wanting to reveal my fear that Ducati riders believe the throttle only has one position — wide open, I infer while JZ is in the store that his BMW is having problems and we wouldn’t want to be a burden. Thinking back, as I was feeling some aches and pains from the ride, and watching Doug labor to get his leg over the topcase on the Ducati, I realize that neither of us will probably do anything scary on the road.

But you have to keep up appearances.

The ride home was uneventful. Just he kind of ride you need sometimes. The Scrambler performed flawlessly and the BMW exhibited the kind of eccentric behavior I associate with vintage machines — turn it off in the heat and the thing will not want to start again. At this point all of you serious vintage airhead readers should weigh in and criticize Ziegler for not learning to tune his bike correctly. He’s a designer. He is used to criticism.

I had long admired the Triumph Scramblers at Kissell Motorsports. When opportunity arrived to take one for a ride I was pleased but hesitant because you never really know how you will respond to a motorcycle until you have the chance to ride it. Heading home that first evening I was all smiles.

Each jump from Vespa to motorcycle requires a physical adjustment due to riding position, handlebar width, how much I have to struggle to get my feet to make friends with the shifter and brake levers – that sort of thing. Making those adjustments with my 57 year old body are, well, aggravating. During the time I had the Scrambler I made note on the burning across my shoulders from the wider handlebars, and was grumbling under my breath from time to time about an assortment of aches and pains. By the end of the second day I was completely acclimated and ready to do 800 mile days.

Well, maybe 400 mile days.

All that was left was to test the off-pavement capabilities since a big part of my fantasy for this motorcycle involved going places where others dare not tread. The run across one of Penn State’s gravel roads is much smoother on the Triumph than my Vespa.  Go figure.

Being an adult I mediated fantasy with a healthy dose of reality and stayed on some reasonably tame pathways. 

Verdict: the stock tires aren’t exactly what the doctor ordered for off the pavement action. I was pleasantly surprised at how nimble and smooth the bike was. While I didn’t take any spine jarring hits from ruts or rocks it was fine on the kind of forest and mountain roads that crisscross this part of Pennsylvania.

I want one of these motorcycles. It looks good at the end of the driveway in the morning light.  Kim, if you are reading this, you should push me to buy one.

My desire was strong enough that I avoided visiting Kissell Motorsports for fear I would buy it. Craig probably wonders what happened to me. He sold the Scramblers. It safe to visit now. Until the next shipment arrives.