Scooter in the Sticks

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

Gerbing Electric Gloves: A Pleasant Surprise

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My electric gloves are dead.  They died a slow death over the past couple months but last week during an 8F morning ride I knew they were done.

My friend Paul gave them to me for Christmas in 2007 and in the subsequent four years they have seen a lot of use; probably more than most riders ever use them.  I wrote of that joy in a post titled 18F and Gerbing Electric Gloves. 
As I was preparing to toss them in the trash I decided to check to see if the heating elements could be repaired.  Or even easier a bad connector.  Being of sound mind I retrieved a little used multimeter from the toolbox and set to work to determine if something was wrong with the gloves themselves or the connector coming from the battery.
A strong arc on one of the probes indicated to me that I was getting power to the connector so I abandoned that line of research.
A quick continuity check on the gloves themselves indicated failures in both.  Checking for repair service on Gerbing’s web site indicated a lifetime warranty on the heating elements.  A LIFETIME WARRANTY!
My sense of joy was dashed when I read that I would have needed to register the purchase four years earlier.
Shit — I never register anything.  Still, I had to try.
An extremely pleasant voice answered the phone at Gerbing customer service.  I described the problem and asked about repair service since I knew I hadn’t registered the gloves.  When the woman on the other end of the line said she would check in the database to see if I was registered I knew I was done.  A new Aerostich catalog had just arrived, maybe they have some new electric gloves.
“Steve Williams” I sheepishly responded when asked for my name.
“Gee, we have a lot of Steve Williams’s in our database.” she replied.  
Williams is a terrible name to have if you’re trying to get a handgun or wade through registrations of any type.  The first because mostly we’re criminals and second because there are so many of us.
“What state do you live in?” was her next question.  
When I answered she proceeded to recite my address, phone number, place of employment, blood type, sexual preference and favorite chocolate.  I looked out the window and thought I saw the sunrise.
“Holy shit,” I thought. “I must have registered the gloves.”  
Great news from Gerbing.  They gave me a return number and said they would either restore the gloves to their previous toasty state or replace them with a brand new pair.
A real surprise to someone who is always expecting to get ripped off at every turn by capitalists everywhere except for L.L. Bean and Walmart.  Always bring Vaseline to Best Buy.
So the gloves are now in Tumwater, Washington and I am roughing it with conventional gloves until they return.  So far the temperature hasn’t dropped below 25F, easily managed for the comute to work.  But longer rides will have me on my knees praying at the muffler.
Still, I’m a happy camper.  I’m getting something for free!

Emerging from the Fog

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It’s hell to get old.  A familiar utterance from my father for as long as I can remember but until recently I didn’t fully appreciate it’s meaning.  Over the last two weeks I’ve worked through real and imagined ghosts of aging.
Stood for awhile in the studio today staring at the camera LCD wondering who this guy is. Self-portraits often reveal uncomfortable things.  They’re not for anyone who likes to avoid the truth. The recent ER visit may have been the wake up call but I hadn’t realized how far down the scale I might have fallen.
And just so you don’t think I spend my days at work taking pictures of myself I was working out photographic style issues for a new marketing campaign.  I was just a convenient test model.
Poor Junior. 
Opened my eyes on Sunday morning and peered out the window — fog.  No long walk on this morning.  Fleeting, vaporous, no time to spare when an enchanted landscape appears like Brigadoon emerging from the mist.  
Fast shower, dog out just long enough for morning responsibilities and I’m off on the Vespa seeking the quintessential magic image.  I’ve been chasing it for years. My blue butterfly.
Less than a mile from home I realize the fog has already moved off leaving just a gray calmness over the morning.  Abigail, the M4 Sherman tank in the picture, is similar to the ones in a photo album of my father’s recording his time in the United States Third Army in the 1940s.  I see his ghost when I look in the mirror and feel the biological clock ticking, reminding me that I have choices to make.
In the past two weeks I’ve lost 24 pounds.  Fueled by stress, medication and the flu it rendered my less than finely tuned body into what I can only describe as a frail, muddled organism.  A stoic denial of sodium in response to my blood pressure spikes I was so thorough that my arms and legs seemed to constantly be cramping.  Only some insistent advice from loved ones and friends was able to penetrate my hard head and adjust my diet.  The same hardheadedness that makes it possible for me to ride through the winter also makes it difficult to see the light shining.  
Sometimes.
I had to cancel my place in the MSF Experienced Rider Course.  I was weak and didn’t believe I could withstand the seven hours in the sun.  So much of me wanted to ignore all the data and go anyway.
 
Riding frequency declined for a number of reasons including the sudden necessity to replace our vehicles.  Bad, bad planning and requiring an amazing amount of time and effort.  So when I was able to ride it was mesmerizing.  Every possible good feeling and nerve end tingling greeted me.  It was good to be home.
Standing along Spring Creek and listening to the water sing almost made me cry.  I don’t know why I’ve been so lucky in life.  Or given so many chances to succeed.
 
Riding has a calming effect.  Or so I tell myself when I watch my blood pressure numbers decline to their normal levels.  The past week they have pumped steady between 110/65 and 125/75, the range they have been for the past 50 years.
As the early morning wanes I head back to town and cut across campus towards my weekly meeting at Saint’s Cafe.  The streets are empty as I ride beneath the last remaining elm tunnels. 
All the magic is gone when the sun is out.  Any chance of depicting Gordon as some sort of character out of a Harry Potter story is impossible in this light.  I’m thinking sodium at this point and what I can eat to give myself a bit of salt.
Mushroom and bell pepper quiche.  Vespa rider fare.  With much encouragement and advice I’ve moderated my stoic diet.  Weight loss has ceased and I feel good again.  The results from a battery of tests still linger in the future when I see my doctor later this week.  Until then I’ll continue to do what I’m doing.

Heavy skies were forming in the west when I departed Saint’s and by the time I got to Lemont I felt it wise to stop for a few minutes at the cafe and let the storm pass.  And a good excuse for tea and a cookie.  My first in a long time.
A cool breeze blows across the porch, delicate ringing from small bell chimes fills the air as every suggestion of the heat from just a few minutes earlier is washed away.  As the first drops of rain begin to fall I know I could stand here all day.

In minutes a steady, hard rain makes me smile that I’ve made a good decision.  Similar decisions loom down the road in regard to diet, stress and exercise.  What, me worry?

My father used to tell me I reminded him of Alfred E. Neuman.  Must have been the ears.

The rain passes and I make my way towards home.  The road stretches ahead and I don’t know what’s around the bend.  I can guess but mostly it’s paying attention to what happens next.  For now I’m ok.  Or so it seems.  

The business of living is moving along.  A new Honda Fit Sport has replaced our old VW Jetta.  My Ford Ranger will make it’s debut on eBay later this week with a Honda Odyssey van taking it’s spot in the driveway.

I’ve had no aspiration to be a minivan driver but years of all season Vespa riding has tempered me for the task ahead.

And my apologies for all of you still waiting for me to post my review of the BMW K1600 GTL.  And to make matters more daunting I also have to write reviews of the Ducati Diavel that Craig Kissell and I took a ride on.  The Ducati Multistrada and a second time out on the BMW 1200 RT.

Plodding wins the race.  Look for more soon.

And thank you to everyone for your kind regards and support.  I do appreciate it.

Adaptation

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Early in the winter riding season I find I must overcome mental and physical barriers before I fully adapt to the cold weather. Once it happens though riding is sublime. Around the beginning of December I notice the rapid appearance of Christmas decorations. I also notice the shortening daylight, more troublesome than the decline in temperatures. Riding to work in the dark, riding home in the dark, it can be discouraging. Almost claustrophobic. Inertia grows and I feel glued to chairs and couches. Riding gear is heavy and ponderous. It’s so much easier to drive to work.

I recognize a slow transformation as I adapt to the season. As I push myself past the litany of excuses a change occurs and I become a winter rider. I learn over and over again that if I engage in a process of action good things come about. I cannot wait for inspiration. The change and adaptation occurs while I am riding, writing, or making photographs. Inspiration comes through the doing of something, not the thinking about it.

On the ride home from work on Tuesday I was feeling good and when I stopped to take some pictures of decorations I started thinking about that change. I remember when I became a winter rider this year. It was on the way to work that morning. The temperature was near the freezing mark and I was watching carefully for potential icy spots. The cold air was flowing through the inlets to my helmet and as I crested a hill and rolled off the throttle I felt a wave of elation wash over me. I sat up straight on the seat and was completely awake and aware. The world was simplified — me, the Vespa, and the road unfolding before me. And this was not a revelation in some ethereal landscape, just on my commute to work.
I’m ready to ride and continue riding through the winter. Any misgivings or concerns have been swept away in the adaptation. Make no mistake I am aware there are challenges and risks to manage. I do not venture forth in a foolhardy manner. But I do travel with a smile on my face now despite the cold. I ride and am rewarded in spirit. And sometimes in material ways. It is still nice to curl up at the end of a cold day with Kim and have a cup of tea and a few chocolates.

Don’t Give Up

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Perhaps I was supposed to stumble across this video right now.

A flame of recognition runs through me each time I hear Peter Gabriel and Kate Bush sing Don’t Give Up. Woven through the lyrics and melody is a story of struggle, surrender, and hope. As the year nears an end I find myself more deeply engaged in reflection and the paths I have wandered. Old wounds and loss, opportunities squandered, poor choices and unfortunate circumstance. It’s good to remember. And perfect days with a wife who loves me, support of family and friends, good food, fine chocolate, fast sunrises over clear roads, and so much more to be grateful for. All these memories make up the tapestry of my life and remind me that smooth roads follow rough ones. Around each bend is something new.

Snow be damned I wanted to ride today. Left in the dark to have an early breakfast with my friend Howard. The streets in town were dressed in tiny white lights for the holidays. The Christmas spirit has taken hold. The roads were mostly clear and I was riding in straight lines so any sudden ice in the dark would be more easily negotiated. The weather forecast called for a chance of a sudden inch or so of snowfall about the time I would be riding to work but I’ll deal with that if and when it comes.