Scooter in the Sticks

Exploring life on a Vespa Scooter and Royal Enfield Himalayan motorcycle.

Interrupted Riding

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conflicting road signsIf 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.

Vespa GTS and Ducati Hypermotard on a rural roadPaul 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.

Vespa GTS and old Pennsylvania barnIn 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.

motorcycle and scooter on autmn rideIt’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.

Steve Williams with xray machineOn 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.

Top's DinerPaul 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.

Vespa GTS and Ducati Hypermotard on rural roadThe 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

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One pill of Plavix

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.

Construction cranes over State College, Pennsylvania

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…

 

 

Heart Attack Dreams

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“his old life lay behind in the mists, dark adventure lay in front.”
― J.R.R. Tolkien, The Lord of the Rings

Vespa GTS scooter along foggy highwayFog and mist this morning on the way to cardiac rehabilitation at the local hospital.  My old life that led to a heart attack is behind, and I travel towards a new adventure — I don’t know the destination but I do know the details.

Diet is different.  Fat and calories have changed drastically which probably accounts for the 22 pounds shed in past couple months.  Physical activity has increased to levels last seen in high school when I pretended to be an athlete.

And riding is different — senses slightly sharper, awareness heightened, decision making clearer.  All gifts of a heart attack.  Each ride seems special, even if it’s a familiar track from home to hospital.

All is not perfect though.  Blood pressure is runs low and fatigue lurks whenever I sit down.  I’ve not noticed it while riding but I have chosen not to ride because of it.  The last place I want to dwell as a rider is denial.

Riding remains a simple thrill and a quiet meditation.  The road continues to call despite the cardiac detour in May.  I don’t know what the future holds but in my heart attack dreams I hope it involves a Vespa…

Post-Heart Attack Riding

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Vespa GTS 250ie scooter on rural farm lane It’s been five weeks since an emergency room doctor said to me, “You’re having a heart attack.”

Hearing those words didn’t have a lot of power at that moment because of the pain and agony and I was more interested in actions to make it all go away.  There was no thinking of death or damage, just a singular focus on feeling better.  But since that night a lot of different thoughts have percolated into consciousness and changed the discussions in my head toward the expected recognition of a brush with death, a new appreciation of mortality, and a heightened sense of time as if I can see my own sand rushing through an hourglass.

Riding to work last week I noticed myself monitoring my body — measuring the ease of breathing, noting any unexplained twinge or riffle in function, reaching to determine any sense of heart rate or rhythm.  It lasted moments and was gone as the sky seemed to brighten for an instant or a breath of wind moved over me.

I know people who have been overwhelmed by these assessments and evaluations to the point that their lives are reduced to a quiet waiting for the next cardiac event.  It’s certain to come, there’s just no way to know when.  So far these trains of thought have been more curiosity than anxiety and haven’t intruded in any real way on the decisions I make.

Or so I tell myself.

I rode in a hurry today on Interstate 99 — 70 mph on a hundred mile there and back again ride to deliver Father’s Day greetings.  I did it because I wanted to know if I could.  Moving over the road I imagined hours and hours on the superslab crossing county lines and state lines in an imaginary trip to nowhere.  And the Vespa kept hitting the rev limiter reminding me we had limits.

In cardiac rehab, so far I’m not hit a rev limiter as they push my heart and body on machines to help me know my limits.  It’s part of my post-heart attack riding.

And just like a ride on the Vespa, I’m learning that lessons of the body, mind and spirit are important for the ride — on the road, and through life…

Courage or Insanity

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icy road surface with tire tracksThe morning brought central Pennsylvania’s dreaded “wintry mix” — a combination of rain, sleet, snow and freezing rain in a constantly changing mix.  During my walk with Junior the road surface changed from dry to wet to the amalgam in the above photo.  Definitely not the kind of weather I venture out into on the Vespa and certainly not on Aleta’s relatively pristine Yamaha Vino.

Running errands had the tires continually spinning on the Honda Fit with the traction control and ABS lights flashing repeatedly.  Traffic was light to non-existent as those not wishing to succumb to any Darwinian adjustments stayed home by the fire.

My last errand brought me to Rite-Aid Pharmacy and to my surprise there was a dripping, Bintelli Sprint 49cc scooter parked on the sidewalk.  “Cool” was my first thought while wondering who inside would claim ownership.  A closer look revealed a handicapped license plate which led second thoughts of courage or insanity.

Inside the owner was approaching, bright red 3/4 helmet on and one of those frightening, demonic skull masks covering the lower part of the face.  An eclectic combination of a big, hooded parka, blaze orange vest, camouflage gloves, jeans, and black boots hinted that the rider used their scooter for utilitarian transport with little thought about the style and convention of the riding fashionista companies that consume a lot of us.  The jury was still out on courage or insanity.

After an initial comment, “Quite a day to be on a scooter,” a conversation ensued that was both intriguing and frightening.  Allow me to begin…

It was a dark and icy day.  All the riders were home snug in their caves.  But one rider was on the road, using his scooter to retrieve required medications,  and take care of a friend’s dog.  He had already ridden twelve miles in the icy mess and had displayed the soaking wet pants from knees down due to the constant out-rigging of his boots to stay upright.  I know the technique and it’s tedious and tiring.  At this point I was leaning towards the courageous side of courage or insanity.

But there was the matter of the handicapped plate.  The rider shared his conversion from four-wheels to two which hinted at financial need.  The scooter was his daily transportation.  He also related the incredulity he faces when people try and balance a handicap with a two-wheeled scooter.  Listening I was saying to myself “emotional or mental handicap of some sort,” though the conversation did not reveal any hints of this.  Then the facts emerged.

Nerve damage affecting both arms to the point they could not reliably be used unless a surgical intervention took place.  Current status has several vertebrate fused and a titanium plate and rod keeping the neck together.  “Nerves are like bare wires,” made me cringe as he discussed how sudden jerks and movements could impair movement or cause permanent damage.  I’m now moving towards the insanity side of the courage or insanity balance.

And then he becomes quiet for a moment and says, “I want to live my life.”

The statement hangs in the air like a slowly fading smoke ring until I reply, “I understand.”

And then he went outside and was gone.  When I left a few minutes later I could see his single track across the parking lot with his boot marks dragging along side.

And I’m still wondering now if it’s courage or insanity.