Scooter in the Sticks

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

The Pleasure of Being Lost

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This past Sunday morning was remarkably clear — bright, crisp, the world a surreal stage on which my friend Paul Ruby and I were riding our scooters. Abandoning our normal meeting at Saint’s Cafe we veered north towards Beech Creek, Pennsylvania, a 30 mile ride for our breakfast.

Easy riding through the broad Bald Eagle valley and along the lake at Bald Eagle State Park was a quiet reminder of how simple life can feel on my Vespa.  Paul abandoned his BMW K1200 in favor of a Piaggio Fly 150.  Sometimes less is much more.

After donning a liner to my jacket — the air temperature was hovering at 62F — it was time to eat.  Or so demanded my stomach.

I don’t come to Beech Creek often and when I do it’s just to pass through on the way to somewhere else.  The Furst Corner Restaurant deserves more allegiance.  How many places can I say serves more bacon than I can eat?

After breakfast a decision was made to take a scenic route home and I suggested a road along the west side of the valley that would wind the 15 miles to Milesburg.  Turning right towards Orviston would lead us to the road I thought I knew.

A few words about Orviston…

My knowledge is limited of the place which is nestled in the far northern end of Centre County seemingly lost at the end of a road far from anything.  I remember stopping there over 10 years ago at a little store which was part of the livingroom of a house to get something to drink.  All they had was chocolate milk.  More than a few of the houses had padlocks on the front doors. I thought it odd then and expected the same now.

Perhaps it was the light or things had changed but Orviston seemed a fine little town of 95 people.

On this day I never planned to be in Orviston but rather turn off towards home on some other road.

My cartographic memory failed me at Orviston.  I neither found the road or knew which way to go.  After a momentary pause to consider returning the way we came or to head up a little dirt track marked only by a sign “No Winter Maintenance” I motioned to Paul towards the path less traveled.

As the trail climbed up the mountain and the ride rougher I had absolutely no idea where I was or where we were going.  For someone who’s life is full of planning and careful consideration of strategy and tactics it was an absolutely electric feeling to be disconnected from everything.

The pleasure of being lost is rare in Central Pennsylvania, at least for me.  As Paul and I raced our scooters along a path more suited for a dirt bike I remembered why I have little interest in a GPS.  There is little primitive or wild available easily to me and a GPS would obliterate any chance like the one presented on this ride.

A view looking down the mountain road.  Steep and not the easiest to negotiate with a CVT transmission.  Loose gravel and unexpected washboard and rocks made several miles of riding that was outside the norm for the Vespa.

Emerging onto pavement on the other side of the mountain near Polecat Road I passed Paul who was riding standing up in what I could only assume was a gesture of triumph.  A half mile up the road, still unsure or where I was, a came upon a coyote standing in the middle of the road, a tall animal, lank, staring and glittering a warm brown in the sun.  As I slowed he walked off the road into a thicket of scrub trees.

And me, lost and seeing that coyote — how could I ask anything more of the world?

The pleasure of being lost…

Junior the Birthday Boy

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Junior is five years old today.  Kim and I have had the pleasure of sharing life with him for almost four of those years and look forward to many more.  This picture, made on one of our morning walks in the hills near our house, shows Junior resting after miles of running up and down the hillside chasing his beloved tennis ball.  On some days as I make my way up the hill and the view of the valley sweeps away to the west and north,  I feel as if I’m walking through a scene from the Sound of Music.

Life with a good dog…


One many mornings during those walks Junior decides to go for a swim — a newly acquired taste on his part.  Made this video a little over a month ago when he finally decided to go after the tennis ball in the water.  He was still tentative then.  He’s an expert now.  Not sure how Belgian Sheepdogs generally react to water but Junior has become a swimmer.

Happy birthday Junior.  What will it be — Outback Steakhouse or Texas Roadhouse for dinner?  Or just a big bowl of Fromm’s?

Happiness is Not a Destination…

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There is a moment before I press the starter button on the Vespa when everything becomes simple.  Even on cold mornings that requires a frustrating amount of time to put on, the moment when the ride begins is a door into a simple place.

Gordon Harkins displays a found object at Saint’s Cafe.

Happiness is a strange thing.  I’ve learned over the years that it’s not a destination.  I’ve heard stories that it’s a state of mind.  And others have postulated it to be nothing more than a chemical reaction in  our brains resulting in an emotional reaction we collectively label happiness.

Most instructive to me is Thoreau’s pondering:


Happiness is like a butterfly; the more you chase it, the more it will elude you, but if you turn your attention to other things, it will come and sit softly on your shoulder…

The butterfly appears while riding, and I shed the worries of the world and am grounded in the moments flying by on the road.

The past week saw the last of the snow evaporate and temperatures climb close to 60F.  I won’t be sad to see the cold weather behind and warmer rides the norm.  In a few weeks these farm fields will grow green and the winter tires will come off the scooter.

Evenings are still cool but don’t limit riding like frigid, sub-freezing ones not so far off.  In winter sighting riders is an infrequent occurrence.  Standing on the concrete deck of the parking garage I think I saw a butterfly…

Waiting for Junior

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Junior knew this vet visit was different. I could see it in his eyes — a nervous scanning of the office, maybe noticing the place was empty at the end of the day. Maybe he could feel the small injury that resulted from his exuberant reaction to my arrival at doggy daycare when he banged his head against something as he strained to communicate, “Daddy’s here!”. Sedation and stitches were in his future.

So I wait.

Waiting for Junior.

I picture him coming through the door, wobbly from drugs, drunken on shaky legs wondering if he’ll be able to jump into his crate in the back of the van or if I’ll have to heft his 81 pounds like a sack of potatoes. It’s been 30 minutes — the vet said it wouldn’t take long to fix him, close the cut in his face just below his right eye.

On the counter is a picture of a man hugging a yellow lab. I know that look. I’m reminded of the intense, shimmering lives led by dogs that seem to sparkle past in an instant. I’ve had a lot of dogs.

Waiting for Junior.

A stuffed dog perched amidst pamphlets for pet insurance and memorial services provide no comfort. It’s dark outside. Just a little injury, a small mishap in a dog’s life. Still, I miss my boy.

The dark side of imagination works through unlikely scenarios. Still, sedation is never a minor activity. Or so I believe sitting alone in the waiting room.

Waiting for Junior.

A technician emerges, smiles, and tells me they’re almost done. The room brightens and I see Junior running through green fields leaping toward an orange rubber ball. I imagine giving him dinner later — letting him lick the dregs of milk and cereal in the morning.

Waiting.

Waiting for Junior.

A large inflatable tick hangs from the ceiling over a display of healthy pet treats. The technician who took Junior steps into view, stops, and softly speaks, “Come on Junior. That’s a good boy.”
Junior walks slowly, struggling to keep his legs under him, moving uncertainly. His eyes find me and his gait increases as he heads home. His body touches my leg and he melts onto the floor, tired, disoriented, relaxed. I know everything will be ok. I am reminded again of the place dogs have lived in me.

Later I hear his breathing, soft and regular, at my feet. I read on his discharge papers, “Junior was a very good patient today”.

He slept well, worn low by the day.

In the morning I took a close look at his injury. Small, almost insignificant. And I almost wonder why I was so nervous.

My dog Junior.

Riding and Aging

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My daughter sent me a link to this video about a woman who at 101 is still driving her Packard.  Surely the inference is that I should set my goals to still be riding at 101.

It’s funny how varied people’s ideas of old age can be.  Mine can change with the weather, the creaks and aches, or with the memories that surface at any given moment.  Right now, as I write this, I’m a young buck ready to take on the world.