Have you ever stood along the road and wondered where you were going? Or worse, why you even got on the scooter or motorcycle instead of staying at home. It’s a rare but unsettling mental space to dwell. A form of riding anxiety.
Not the sort related to thoughts on the inevitability of a crash or the fear that every car is about to make a left turn in front of you, but rather an intuitive anxiety that something’s not right.
A situation that’s best met head on by riding.
Cool air and an ominous sky sparked my fight or flight mechanism this morning as I rode toward the Allegheny plateau.
An uneasy feeling swelled in my gut this morning as I pushed the Vespa out of the garage. The kind I would get at the dentist just before a syringe of Novocaine was pushed into a nerve cluster, or the sinking sense of doom in a dream where I suddenly realize I forgot to ever go to my college chemistry class.
It’s not a good way to begin a ride.
I had no destination in mind and wondered why I was standing in the driveway.
The road is dangerous.
Every good rider knows this and takes actions to mitigate the risks — other vehicles, road surface irregularities, small and large mammals, physical detritus from careless drivers, weather and personal failures of judgment and technique.
Intelligent management can be applied, to some degree, to each of these potential problems. But sometimes, for me at least, another kind of risk appears that I can only label as something between heightened intuition and irrational paranoia. It’s between my ears and I can stop it from talking.
At the heart of riding anxiety are questions. About me, about what I believe to be true, about what I fear. It doesn’t happen often — perhaps three times in ten years — and each time a change in how I see the world. A quickened acceptance of the world of the road — the risk and danger along with the joy and bliss.
Miles of gravel and rock. Not the Vespa’s strong suit. A last minute decision brought me to this place. The last time I came through was twenty years ago. It was wild then and remains so today.
All morning intuition whispered something wasn’t right and grew with each passing mile. Two vehicles passed me in this empty place and both times I wondered if the drivers weren’t serial killers or worse. My eyes kept scanning the mirrors for their return while I made mental notes on off-road evasion techniques.
The trees and plants were burnt, spindly and drained. I was reminded of an area farther north ravaged by a tornado.
I was awake and aware.
Much of the area I rode through was laid waste by prescribed burns — efforts by the Pennsylvania Game Commission to enhance wildlife habitat and reduce risk of wildfires. The place looked desolate as if something bad happened here. My thoughts would provide fodder for horror novels if I were so inclined.
I rode on.
With the Vespa’s small wheels and limited suspension travel speeds are limited and even moderate speeds grow problematic with the sudden appearance of rocky stretches of roadbed. Riding in rough conditions on a Vespa requires a little extra physical work, careful attention to the brakes and a thoughtful approach to balance and handling.
If you want to stay upright.
Much of the ride was gloomy with the light levels low and the breeze creating odd sounds in the forest. I couldn’t help but think of the way the Blair Witch Project touched some frightened place in so many people where a rustle of leaves could trigger a pounding heart or ears would hear a faint moan in the woods.
I stopped, parked the scooter, removed my ear plugs and listened for ghosts.
Working with the camera on a tripod and fiddling with the radio controlled shutter trigger worked its magic over my imagination much in the same way it does with my fear of heights — put the camera in front of me and all fear vanishes. It’s what has allowed me to climb smokestacks and walk out along crane booms to make pictures — situations that would not be possible without the camera leading the way.
So a few pictures, a banana, and a drink of water, it dissolved the riding anxiety.
It’s been awhile (I think) since I’ve done much riding on gravel roads, particularly rough roads. A few times I wished for the winter or knobby tires. Or a dirt bike. The Vespa can manage the gravel but it’s a slow slog.
For me at least.
Every ride is different. It’s part of what brings me back to the road over and over again. And at some level I’m a different man each time. Or so I like to believe. On this ride I stepped into the gloom and let it wash over the scooter and I to see where it led. I didn’t know where I was going when I left but a journey unfolded as the miles moved by.
Riding down off the Allegheny Front I reached a paved road and headed north toward home and a stop at the Pump State Cafe to make a few notes and wonder about the morning.
The anxiety — maybe it was the approaching supermoon or the lunar eclipse. Perhaps the earth passed through an energy field that affected only myself and other sensitive people. Or maybe it was nothing more than what Ebenezer Scrooge suggested, “You may be an undigested bit of beef, a blot of mustard, a crumb of cheese, a fragment of underdone potato. There’s more of gravy than of grave about you, whatever you are!”
Riding anxiety? Bah, Humbug!
