I thought of my father this morning while riding through the dense green of Bald Eagle State Forest. He would have been 87 today had years of hard work in mines, steel mills and cigarettes not claimed his lungs and life eleven years ago.  As a boy he and my mother would take me to places like this on picnics or to just walk — a reflection of my mother growing up in the Alps in a “walking” family.

Riding a Vespa scooter through the empty places in central Pennsylvania affords space to let the mind wander, entertain dreams and fantasies, and face the pressing questions of the moment.  And there’s the quiet thrill of flying along on two-wheels, the sense that my spirit is expanding beyond the body and I feel connected to the world.  At those moments I’m painfully aware of the brief but magnificent opportunity life really is.

I remain enthralled with the Vespa — form and function.  On two lane roads, my route of choice, it performs as well as any motorcycle at legal speeds and can exceed them by 20mph — fast enough for any responsible rider.

My father would never have approved of my riding.  All pleadings and schemes to acquire go-karts and mini-bikes, motorcycles and BB guns were repeatedly rejected.  Perhaps being an only child played into my parents strategy.  His feelings about motorcycles were clear — they were dangerous and unnecessary toys and nothing more.  Only fools and people with issues had them.

I do have issues.

The road seems long.  A camera lens can exaggerate perspective to trick the viewer.  The mind can do the same thing as a lens, distort reality.  Where I once believed the road is long, now I’m not so sure.  I’ve always known that distance isn’t a requirement of a rich ride on the scooter.  Same holds true of life.  How many miles traveled is less important that the quality of those miles.

I saw many Amish buggies on the road this morning but resisted the urge to make a clever image of that archaic method of transportation with the Vespa.  The Amish endure enough peeping from the English.

A Harley-Davidson motorcycle rumbled past me while I made this picture and I watched them carve through these turns.  For the next 12 miles the road twisted and turned through hairpin turns and provided plenty of gravel strewn bends to keep things interesting.

My dad drove like I ride — slow and with few concerns for others on the road save for common courtesy.  If he were a rider I like to think he would be on a Vespa and wave to other riders regardless of their riding choice.

With 70 miles of winding road behind me the scooter needed a drink and so did I.  My new diet has kept me out of many of the greasy haunts I would have patronized.  Now is fuel, a few glugs of water from a bottle, and a banana or apple.  No more hearty bacon breakfast choices.

Who knows where the road will lead.  Circumstance and choice guide routes and outcomes.  I often don’t really know why I end up at the places I do.

Often little gravel byways and path dry up or are gated closed.  The Vespa isn’t something I want to tear through the brush to continue on with an exploration.

My father was neither an explorer or traveler.  When he taught me to hunt we were always on familiar territory.  I didn’t inherit that trait from him and instead have my mother’s travel instincts — to move on from place to place and not worry about the outcome.  It explains many of our travels in Europe without destination or hotel arrangements.

We did just fine.

Some roads feel like tunnels slowly drawing me into something but I’m not sure what.  The Vespa was fine but I felt tentative.  And that’s ok sometimes.

Not sure where things will lead.  It’s good to have a vantage point to see ahead, if only for a a short distance.  So I’ll keep going and see where I end up and take advantage of the brief but magnificent opportunity afforded by life.