Scooter in the Sticks

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

A Pleasant Evening Ride

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Harley greeted me for the second time in two weeks when I rode up to a party yesterday evening.  I appreciate a dog who remembers who you are.

 

I rode to the Happy Valley Vineyard and Winery for a farewell party for the College of Ag Sciences associate dean for undergraduate education, Marcos Fernandez.  Vineyards are fine landscapes for people to gather.  And the Vespa looks good with the vines.

Heading home as the sun goes down I can’t pass up the chance to make another photograph.   I can’t say for sure but I probably would not stop a car to make the picture or appreciate the moment.  Riding brings a person closer to the world.  You feel it, smell it, become part of it.  A treasured part of rider.

One last stop before heading to the grocery store across town.  One last glimpse to the sky and clouds, the light changing colors over a swift sunset, a last quiet moment before joining the flow of traffic through the places of commerce.

A pleasant evening ride.  A pleasant way to unwind the day.

Seeking Out the Man

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Standing along US 322 in a soft drizzle, admiring the fog drift over Mount Nittany, letting my thoughts flow along without a care in the world when the steady, whining drone of some infernal contraption interrupted the zen moment.   Turning my head I caught a glimpse of what had to be a red, BMW K75 with a stocky rider astride the machine.  It took me a moment but it occurred to me that it just might be Jack Riepe on some wild, irrational ride in the rain.

In moments I was on the expressway and gaining ground on the BMW just a half mile ahead.  The rider exits and sweeps past a green light onto the road into State College that I watch turn red.  For a moment I consider running the light as Jessica by the Allman Brothers Band is playing in my head.  But I remember I want to take possession of my Honda minivan tonight.

Moving slowly through State College I make a logical search for the man in question and first stop at some of the downtown eateries.  Nothing.  Mist and smoke.

Not a soul at the local cigar and single malt establishment.  Standing in the alley I puzzle my predicament and move to the only other logical place.

After a tour around town and a stop at the only Irish Pub in town I decide I’ve been seeing ghosts, allowing my mind to play ethereal beings across my visor, riding wraiths and spectral devils on unholy machines.

Another day on a Vespa, riding to work, enjoying the road ahead.

Emerging from the Fog

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It’s hell to get old.  A familiar utterance from my father for as long as I can remember but until recently I didn’t fully appreciate it’s meaning.  Over the last two weeks I’ve worked through real and imagined ghosts of aging.
Stood for awhile in the studio today staring at the camera LCD wondering who this guy is. Self-portraits often reveal uncomfortable things.  They’re not for anyone who likes to avoid the truth. The recent ER visit may have been the wake up call but I hadn’t realized how far down the scale I might have fallen.
And just so you don’t think I spend my days at work taking pictures of myself I was working out photographic style issues for a new marketing campaign.  I was just a convenient test model.
Poor Junior. 
Opened my eyes on Sunday morning and peered out the window — fog.  No long walk on this morning.  Fleeting, vaporous, no time to spare when an enchanted landscape appears like Brigadoon emerging from the mist.  
Fast shower, dog out just long enough for morning responsibilities and I’m off on the Vespa seeking the quintessential magic image.  I’ve been chasing it for years. My blue butterfly.
Less than a mile from home I realize the fog has already moved off leaving just a gray calmness over the morning.  Abigail, the M4 Sherman tank in the picture, is similar to the ones in a photo album of my father’s recording his time in the United States Third Army in the 1940s.  I see his ghost when I look in the mirror and feel the biological clock ticking, reminding me that I have choices to make.
In the past two weeks I’ve lost 24 pounds.  Fueled by stress, medication and the flu it rendered my less than finely tuned body into what I can only describe as a frail, muddled organism.  A stoic denial of sodium in response to my blood pressure spikes I was so thorough that my arms and legs seemed to constantly be cramping.  Only some insistent advice from loved ones and friends was able to penetrate my hard head and adjust my diet.  The same hardheadedness that makes it possible for me to ride through the winter also makes it difficult to see the light shining.  
Sometimes.
I had to cancel my place in the MSF Experienced Rider Course.  I was weak and didn’t believe I could withstand the seven hours in the sun.  So much of me wanted to ignore all the data and go anyway.
 
Riding frequency declined for a number of reasons including the sudden necessity to replace our vehicles.  Bad, bad planning and requiring an amazing amount of time and effort.  So when I was able to ride it was mesmerizing.  Every possible good feeling and nerve end tingling greeted me.  It was good to be home.
Standing along Spring Creek and listening to the water sing almost made me cry.  I don’t know why I’ve been so lucky in life.  Or given so many chances to succeed.
 
Riding has a calming effect.  Or so I tell myself when I watch my blood pressure numbers decline to their normal levels.  The past week they have pumped steady between 110/65 and 125/75, the range they have been for the past 50 years.
As the early morning wanes I head back to town and cut across campus towards my weekly meeting at Saint’s Cafe.  The streets are empty as I ride beneath the last remaining elm tunnels. 
All the magic is gone when the sun is out.  Any chance of depicting Gordon as some sort of character out of a Harry Potter story is impossible in this light.  I’m thinking sodium at this point and what I can eat to give myself a bit of salt.
Mushroom and bell pepper quiche.  Vespa rider fare.  With much encouragement and advice I’ve moderated my stoic diet.  Weight loss has ceased and I feel good again.  The results from a battery of tests still linger in the future when I see my doctor later this week.  Until then I’ll continue to do what I’m doing.

Heavy skies were forming in the west when I departed Saint’s and by the time I got to Lemont I felt it wise to stop for a few minutes at the cafe and let the storm pass.  And a good excuse for tea and a cookie.  My first in a long time.
A cool breeze blows across the porch, delicate ringing from small bell chimes fills the air as every suggestion of the heat from just a few minutes earlier is washed away.  As the first drops of rain begin to fall I know I could stand here all day.

In minutes a steady, hard rain makes me smile that I’ve made a good decision.  Similar decisions loom down the road in regard to diet, stress and exercise.  What, me worry?

My father used to tell me I reminded him of Alfred E. Neuman.  Must have been the ears.

The rain passes and I make my way towards home.  The road stretches ahead and I don’t know what’s around the bend.  I can guess but mostly it’s paying attention to what happens next.  For now I’m ok.  Or so it seems.  

The business of living is moving along.  A new Honda Fit Sport has replaced our old VW Jetta.  My Ford Ranger will make it’s debut on eBay later this week with a Honda Odyssey van taking it’s spot in the driveway.

I’ve had no aspiration to be a minivan driver but years of all season Vespa riding has tempered me for the task ahead.

And my apologies for all of you still waiting for me to post my review of the BMW K1600 GTL.  And to make matters more daunting I also have to write reviews of the Ducati Diavel that Craig Kissell and I took a ride on.  The Ducati Multistrada and a second time out on the BMW 1200 RT.

Plodding wins the race.  Look for more soon.

And thank you to everyone for your kind regards and support.  I do appreciate it.

Doubt, Foreboding and the Solitary Adventurer

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Yesterday evening I took a little ride around the valley inspecting the landscape after a thunderstorm had rolled through.  Hardly an adventure compared to those souls who venture forth on long journeys lasting days and weeks through unknown places.

A recent post on Shreve Stockton’s (author of The Daily Coyote and Honeyrock Dawn) Vespa Vagabond blog discussed the challenges for riders who announce plans for adventures to friends and family and the ensuing resistance, doubt and anxiety it can arouse.  Her post titled An Interview of Sorts answers questions from a woman planning a trip across the United States on her Vespa.  It’s worth reading, especially for riders who’ve not ridden alone or gone on longer trips.

Stockton writes of her own solo cross country journey on her Vespa ET4, details, route planning, Vespa performance and such.  The most interesting part for me was when she described how those plans were received by the people you hope will support you in life.  She touches on fear of the unknown and the perceived danger that lies over the next hill.  Stockton responds to real concerns about personal safety and disaster in the following manner: “As for the true, valid, compassionate concern ~ my answer to this (to others and to myself) is that “the bad things” could happen anywhere.”

I think there is some freedom in those words for everyone worried about what might happen if they venture beyond their own backyard.

It’s an I wish I could speak from a place of vast experience crisscrossing the country on my Vespa about how I put aside misgivings and apprehensions about venturing forth alone on the road.  Unfortunately such is not the case.  My solitary adventuring has all taken place within a 200 mile radius of home and within a 24 hour period.

Perhaps someday time and circumstance will allow me my own big adventure.

Vespa in the Rain

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Sunday morning in a slow rain, meandering over familiar roads on my way to meet a friend in town.  I’ve stopped in this same place many times to gaze towards Mount Nittany, watch the landscape swallow up the road in an easy turn.  Twisting my boots into the pavement checking the traction, evaluating how much oil and scum was washed off through the night, gauge how far I could push the Vespa while riding though I never push very far.  Still, it’s comforting to know what to expect.

Made this image with the iPhone camera using the Camera+ app.  Processed the image in the HDR mode.  I continue to be pleasantly surprised at the technical and creative range of these devices.  Feel bad now that I dropped in on the pavement.  No damage save for another scuff mark.  Saw a student in town last week busily texting on an iPhone with a shattered front.  Didn’t seem to slow them down.

The rain slowed to a mist as I threaded my way through the alleys and streets of State College, my destination arriving too soon, the ride ending before I was ready.  Humes Alley is a favorite backdrop, old brick, hand lettered signs.  About as close as I come to an urban environment on any regular basis.

Prime parking for Saint’s Cafe — just twenty yards to the front door and never any charge.  At least not until the Borough decides to give me a ticket.  Or tow the scooter away.  So far Kelly Alley is my first parking choice.

Rainy days are for laying in bed or on the couch, reading a book, watching television, or indulging in some other sort of horizontal enterprise.  On the way home while making this picture I decided to pursue the bed despite how much I love the light on this kind of day. 

One last picture before home.  The monochrome nature of things in the rain almost prods me on to ride farther. 

Almost.  But there are naps to take and other things to do. 

That’s how to make good use of a rainy Sunday.