Scooter in the Sticks

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

A Gerbing Heated Gloves Night

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Gerbing is as good as their word — a brand new pair of leather, G3 heated gloves.  My old ones failed and they replaced them.  I’m a confirmed Gerbing rider.  And when I got home from work tonight I had to try them out during a trip into town.  While the Vespa was idling in the driveway I plugged the new gloves in and felt warmth almost instantly.  Really warm.  And the new gloves have heated palms.

I knew there would be some ice to experiment with nearby and I wanted to give the snow tires a little more testing in a controlled setting.  I’m always interested in what the limits of equipment are to factor into my own limitations.  As the temperature dropped to 27F I figured I better head into town.

You don’t see boots are cars very often around here. Finding one on a Yamaha Vino scooter must be a first.  The fines for this rider have to be rough.

Walking down Beaver Avenue in State College, Pennsylvania I saw a poster of James Dean and Marilyn Monroe (I think) in the window of Uncle Eli’s.  Couldn’t resist taking a picture but it’s the kind of vision I would expect on Twisted Roads rather than here.

I had been thinking about heated grips for the past few weeks while my dead electric gloves were in Tumwater.  But I can say without reservation that these new Gerbing heated gloves work so well that I won’t be looking at anything else.

The Simple Night Ride

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The past two evenings I’ve found myself on the road at night and with it a renewed appreciation of riding.  Many riders tell me they don’t ride at night — too dangerous, too cold, or no fun.  I read in riding books about the misguided riders who venture forth at night, in the rain, or in cold weather. 
Make no mistake; the risk of riding at night is greater than it is during the day.
This evening I was sitting at the traffic light at the corner of Allen Street and Beaver Avenue in State College, Pennsylvania looking at the Christmas lights when I turned off the engine and pushed the Vespa up onto the sidewalk to make this picture.  And to look a bit longer at the lights.  Just long enough to be on my way before finding out that there is a law against having the scooter posing for pictures on the sidewalk.
Off into the night, a changing pattern of color and light as I made my way home, a visual treat that just doesn’t exist during the day.
The night before I rode to the grocery store for supplies — empty streets and a quiet parking lot.  The night air was crisp but not cold at 42F.  What struck me most was the tapestry of fragrances arise from the darkness offering an experience unique to the night.
Riding home through the smell of charred meat at the steakhouse and on past gasoline fumes from a busy island of gas pumps.  Passing through a tony section of State College my helmet filled with the acrid smell of coal — someone burning coal for some unfathomable reason in a neighborhood.  I remembered the same smell from childhood driving through less tony neighborhoods in Mckees Rocks and Coraopolis.
Passing into the sticks I was greeted by the unmistakable smell of fermenting liquid cow manure from a nearby dairy farm, the farmer no doubt adding or withdrawing from a lagoon and releasing a reminder of food production.
At some point I shuddered for a moment, just a bit of excitement from my senses being roused to life, realizing (again) at how powerful a ride can be.  Walking into the house, skin warm, eyes bright and a spring in my step I was sure a grin was painted on my face.  
All courtesy of a simple night ride.

Into the Night

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Junior knows when we’re on the last walk of the night. He has an uncanny sense of time and often knows what I’m going to do before I do. Standing under a moonlit sky at 1:30am we listen to crickets, cicadas, and katydids perform their summer symphony. He’s thinking biscuit and bed. I’m thinking it a good night for a ride.

The nice thing about being married to an artist is that a middle of the night ride falls within the limits of normal behavior. Kim’s only misgiving is that she can’t come along. If my employer is reading this please note I am on vacation this week.

Night stimulates varied responses among riders. For some (like me) it evokes a time of stillness and reflection. For others, it’s a time for terror of deer, drunks, and unfortunate interactions. I remember a book on motorcycle technique that admonished the reader to venture into the night only in an emergency and in dire, personal peril. I believe that. The heightened risk is real and I manage accordingly.

I arrive in town as the bars are closing and people are on the sidewalk making final social decisions. With camera in hand I walk across the street to make a few pictures. Too lazy to retrieve the tripod I sit down against a parking meter and steady the camera against my knees for a half second exposure at a grain generating ISO.

Forgive my photographic indolence.

On campus the pervasive illumination keeps the night at bay and lends a theatrical feeling to the surroundings. Night is somewhere other than here.

Kneeling in the middle of the street behind a little tripod I struggle to make a picture of the Vespa and the moon. I police cruiser glides by watching me work. Law enforcement everywhere knows that photographers using tripods constitute the good guys. I thought he might question my Vespa parked on the sidewalk but he departed in search of more interesting miscreants.

It’s 2:30am as I ride out of town in search of a more suitable landscape to breath in the night. I’m transported into childhood as the scent of Queen Anne’s Lace growing along the road reminds me of playing army in the fields and woods of years ago.

Standing in a field of corn and soybeans the moon illuminates the controls of the camera. Everything is painted in a cool blue gray with deep shadows hiding any real detail. Fireflies and the taillights of an occasional passing car provide the only rich colors.

My interest in making pictures wanes quickly. A few lame attempts to use the flash and I’m done. Dew has formed on my helmet as the temperature drops. I sense a nearby skunk. In the distance a car engine moves over the road coming closer and bringing it’s bright light with it. When the car stops I wonder who’s behind the wheel – someone concerned for the safety of a man in a black and yellow riding jacket standing next to a Vespa? Or is it just someone looking for trouble and sees a scooter as an easy target?

The car slowly moves away and disappears over a hill. I’m left alone looking at the stars and thinking it gets no better than this.

The (non) Epic Journey

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On the way to work a few mornings ago. I find my adventure in small doses. As much imagined as real. A turn off the pavement to enjoy a mile of gravel, a view, the fragrance of honeysuckle floating on a moist morning fog. The Vespa is my license for (non) epic journeys.

Twilight has been calling strongly to the rider. There is so much to see. Everything is different. On a ride to pick up takeout food from Kelly’s Steak and Seafood I stopped to admire the changing light on this small white building. I have a collection of photographs of this structure but still I have not seen all its faces. Riding, the camera, and my Moleskine journal continue to work their magic on my brain.

It’s essential magic.

Out near midnight doing nothing in particular I stop to admire the moonlight paint the trees along the highway. The magic comes when I am processing the image and see rust behind the front wheel. I’ve observed many riders fastidiously (obsessively) cleaning and polishing their machines. I don’t remember washing any salt away this past year. My Google Tasks now includes some remedial and cosmetic service, hopefully in time before the International Association of Sparkling Chrome, Paint and Detailing Science arrives to revoke my Vespa ownership.

I recognize the heightened risk of riding at night. Common sense, extensive adjustments to managing the machine and the road, and a nod to the riding fairies are all part of the ritual. Thoughts of Bambi, the drunk, and the stray cinder block on the road sharpen attention to detail.

Solitude is rarefied at night. Even the most hectic places succumb to a sleepy state of quiet. Scrambling up the side of the hill to make the picture, looking out over the Vespa and the night sky, I could hear the Eagle’s Peaceful Easy Feeling play in my head.

Not too bad for a few (non) epic journeys.

Midnight Ride

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Leaving town this evening I felt the night calling. I love riding at night though seldom do it other than a quick errand. Books on riding technique and safety say no to the night. Still it calls. A half moon was already high in the sky and the air was just beginning to cool. But dinner and good sense sent me home.

Just before midnight Kim and I were in the garden watering plants. The moon was glowing through the bows of the fir trees and she commented on how nice it was outside. I couldn’t stand it any longer. I hadn’t put the Vespa away when I got home so it only took a moment to be on the road, the GTS’s bright, red instrument cluster warm like a fire as I began a short ride. I only needed a mile, maybe two, and I would be satisfied.

One last stop for a picture and then home, relaxed, content, awash in the magic of the night. How is it something so simple can be so luxurious?