Early in this season of cooler weather it’s easy to be tricked by the sun into believing it’s warm and pleasant outside. Just as it’s been for the past few months. It took a few hundred yards for me to realize I was cold and should have zipped the quilted liner into my Hi-Vis, lime green riding jacket. And long underwear would have brought personal comfort in line with the sun’s deception. Such is the challenge of cool weather riding.

Even though 52F isn’t really cold, dressing as if it’s summer creates a discomfort that whispers to subsequent rides. Like admonitions by doctors to treat pain early and not tough things out and allow the brain to build a pain cycle, the same holds true for riding in the cold. Stay war — early and often.

That’s my motto.

And I ignored it.

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Reminders of Days Long Past

The sad news of the death of Marty Balin, a founder of Jefferson Airplane, transported me to being a teenager in college, connecting to a new world of ideas and people to a soundtrack of Today by the Airplane.  That song is haunting to me and conjures emotions and experiences both pleasant and painful.

It plays in my head and stirs memories of a few years of a carefree existence with little responsibility.  Perhaps it will have a similar effect now and work some magic as I wander the backside of life.

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Passage of Time

I noticed 100 years had passed since Mr. Dickey died in the Argonne Forest in World War One.  The museum displays memorials to individuals, companies and divisions from the Civil War through the wars in Afghanistan and Iraq.  Walking here now, as the leaves begin to change and the world slowly decays, the familiar sense of autumn melancholy that visits me every year, was suddenly apparent.

All of it is just sad. The feelings haven’t stopped.  Neither have the wars.

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Room with a View

In the morning I sit in a wooden rocking chair, dog at my feet and write in a journal. Outside, students arrive at the school across the street, cars make their way to work, and the occasional dog walker rouses Junior to attention. My mind wanders from the words scribbled on journal pages to the people I see and back to the wandering world in my head.

I’ve carved a space to in our breezeway where I can read, meditate and write. Often it’s difficult, mind and body strain and pull toward mindless action. Mindless in the sense that I seldom realize what I’m doing or why I’m doing it unless I slow down a bit. Not unlike my experience on the road with the Vespa. Traveling too fast I miss a lot.

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Fog on the Landscape

Summer has melted away and I’m left wondering where it went. Judging from my faint presence here, I’ve done or accomplished nothing. I’ve learned to mistrust my judgements of myself. When pressured to make an accounting, often in response to that question while writing in my journal, I’ll see the discrepancy between what I tell myself and what actually transpired. Seems I have a refined talent to forget actions and adventures, large and small.

Still, there has been some odd disinterest of late in writing here on Scooter in the Sticks despite continued riding and generating photos and experiences. I can only attribute the phenomenon to the natural ebb and flow of my life.

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