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Decisions: The 1988 BMW R100 GS

April 14, 2011 by Scooter in the Sticks 21 Comments

A couple days after seeing my Consumption Therapy and Moto-Porn post Craig Kissell told me he would be taking a BMW R100 GS on trade and it would have my name on it should I want to buy it. It seemed as if the universe was conspiring to have me become an owner of a BMW. Who am I to argue with fate?

I took the afternoon off from work and despite the rain decided I would have to take the BMW (cover your ears Mr. Riepe) Airhead for a ride. It had already passed the visual test. All that was left was the road test.

After Kissell Motorsports mechanic Tom Christensen went over the bike and made sure it was ready for the road I left the Vespa and headed out in a light mist. The bike was, well, amazing. Started easily, idled perfectly, sounded amazing, and shifted with ease. Sales Manager Nate Mattern said the transmission had been rebuilt and the circlip and other issues corrected. You could tell it was ready to hit the road and ride for a long way. After some experimenting with the brakes and controls I stopped on Skytop Mountain to make a picture.

The two aluminum side cases were sturdy and functional — just like the rest of the motorcycle. I was completely impressed by the mechanical feel of the bike and the sense of purpose and capability. For a 1988 machine with 60K miles on it I would have thought I was riding a much newer motorcycle.

The BMW R100 GS is pretty. As a photographic subject I could make use of it on Scooter in the Sticks. It seemed like a natural partner for my Vespa and would lend itself to a new variety of riding. Or so I was trying to tell myself.

1988 BMW R100 GS bumblee motorcycle in church parking lot

Standing near this church I wondered how often I would fill those sidecases and take a long trip. Or how often I would make use of the power and capabilities of the motorcycle. Didn’t much like the answers I was coming up with.

On the highway the power of the big boxer engine is apparent. Even with the Metzler Enduro tires which were a tad too aggressive for a lot of pavement riding the bike was smooth and stable cruising at 70mph. And there was plenty of throttle left. If I had any concerns at all it would be the older brakes — disc up front and drum on the rear — I tested them on several high speed stops and while they worked well it’s definitely not the same as modern braking systems. It would not let this stand between me and the BMW though.

In dirt, mud and gravel the R100 GS was perfectly comfortable. The bike feels heavy compared to the Vespa and takes a bit more maneuvering to get around. It was about this point in the ride that I began to sense something wasn’t quite right. Not with the bike. There was something amiss in regard to my riding needs.

In a flood of recognition the following realities presented themselves:

1. I ride to explore, look around, and take pictures. This occurs at generally slow speeds, without destinations or geographical goals, and entails endless stopping and starting. From this point of reference the BMW seemed like far more motorcycle than I needed. And it is not nearly as functional in making quick stops, parking on the road in a manner than won’t cause problems.

2. The BMW would not be my first choice to ride to work. Man, I tried hard to rationalize around this one — imagining all the times I would ride it to work. I couldn’t. Bottom line — the Vespa is just too damn functional for my 8 mile commute.

3. Last disappointing realization — it would probably sit in the garage most of the time. This motorcycle is designed to travel. To ride. And ride far. Why else does it have a gigantic gas tank and all that luggage. Who was I kidding? My long rides are in the 200 – 300 mile range. That’s scooter territory. It would almost be embarrassing to this noble steed to limit it to such short jaunts.

With my head hung low and feeling sad (Irrationally I still want the bike) I ride back to Kissell Motorsports to tell Craig and Nate I am not going to be joining the ranks of motorcycle riders. The BMW R100 GS is up for grabs now but others were waiting on my decision so I’m not sure how long it will last. Better call fast if you need it!

1988 BMW R100 GS motorcycle with a Vespa GTS scooter

It could have been a classic pair. The temptation was strong but in the end I felt like Galadriel passing up the One Ring offered by Frodo. I passed the test and will now fade into the West.

There is always something positive that comes out of this events and this one was no exception. I learned something important — I am not a scooter rider by accident. I ride a Vespa because it is the right machine for me. And if there is any purchases to be make it would more likely be to trade the GTS on another Vespa when the time comes.

Woman making photos along road with a Vespa GTS scooter

On the way home I saw Kim making pictures. The Vespa is quiet and and I was able to stop and make this picture without her knowing I was there. When she turned around she made a picture.

Vespa GTS scooter under a heavy grey sky

*NOTE FROM KIM* Steve wants to believe this photo expresses my feelings about his machine which he described as “powerful and filled with machismo” but I am sorry to inform him: the dark feeling is related more to the experience of all of the cars and trucks bearing down on my ass while I was trying to make pictures of the weeping willows.

The last time I had seen Steve he was on his way to pick up a bumblebee. How peculiar? I figured the buzz didn’t last very long. That silver Vespa was already back on the side of the road and he was smiling in a way that seemed like relief inside his big shiny spacesuit.

Riding Out of Winter

March 20, 2011 by Scooter in the Sticks 13 Comments

With morning temperatures consistently near 40F and above the ride to work is effortless. The chore of putting on a lot of gear to insulate from the cold is in the rear view mirror. And the extra time allows me to take more leisurely and relaxing routes to work. The above picture was made on a lane crossing one of Penn State’s farms on Friday morning. Often the gates are closed when cattle or horses are put out to pasture.

Tremendous clouds and piercing light this morning demanded a slight detour to make a picture of Meyer’s farm outside of State College. When the weather is frigid I am far less likely to stop, especially in locations I have photographed before.

While this scene is pretty what you don’t see it the fresh manure I walked through to get the picture.

Worn brick and written admonishments contrast the usual bucolic landscapes I seem to be drawn to. Passed this scene on my way to meet a friend at Saint’s Cafe. Last time I photographed this place I was on a Triumph Bonneville. The Vespa looks fine here too.

Alleys are magical places. Whenever I have the chance to explore in towns and cities alleys are my first plan of attack. While Calder Alley in State College, Pennsylvania is pretty tame as alleys go, it still offers some interested colors and textures.

Notice how I am slowly digressing away from any direct riding references? The Vespa is the perfect foil in this area.

My friend Paul Ruby usually parks his motorcycle here. He thinks it belongs to him but I still belong to the school of who ever gets their first owns the space. Seem the American thing to do.

Another morning in Saint’s Cafe. Sitting at the table getting ready to write a few notes in my journal I could not help but notice the odd juxtaposition of characters. The beam of light on a red head of hair was just gravy in my book.

Paul Ruby.

I stole his space for nothing because he arrived in his 1962 Mercedes Sedan. Paul is a collector of machines and you never know what he might show up with. An old Vespa, Ferrari, Harley, or bicycle. A few weeks ago he stopped by my office at lunch time so I could take some pictures of his latest acquisition.

Now he has a Ducati 1198. This is a class of motorcycles outside my experience or desire. I’ve sat on them but my body cries out, “Please, no, don’t make me ride on this.”

So far I’ve ceded to my body’s wishes.

The weatherman says it will be almost 70 degrees tomorrow. I’m convinced winter has passed and my whole life as relaxed. As much as I enjoy riding year round I admit that this winter was tough. I’ll have to reflect awhile to discern the reasons. Something to think about on these nice, warm day rides…

The Humble Rider

January 9, 2011 by Scooter in the Sticks 28 Comments

Honda Ruckus in the City

I found myself creeping along the alley which runs through the center of State College to avoid the more aggressive traffic on College Avenue.

There’s nothing like a 50cc scooter to amplify your understanding of the road. Wondering whether the speedometer will 35mph or if a few less potato chips would make help top speeds, a ride on a little scooter seems to unfold in slow motion. On the Honda Ruckus I could feel the desire to move, to rush, to get somewhere faster, quicker, get through traffic, leave things behind me, get away, get out in front, do anything other than wait for the scooter to get me to my destination.

It’s humbling to be at the bottom of the motorized kingdom. Only pedestrians and non-competitive bicycle riders go slower. Even my Vespa GTS has an engine five times bigger. I’ve found new respect for the small scooter and moped riders I see around town. And for guys like Walter Muma from Michigan who rode his moped nearly 12 thousand miles to Alaska and back, I can barely image the patience he must possess.

Every rider should periodically ride one of these little machines. They demand an entirely different focus and behavior than almost every other two-wheeled machine. Slow speeds force a focus on traffic flow, drivers, routes, and personal behavior. Like pulling over to let everyone pass. Or waiting for really big openings in traffic to pull onto a highway.

The Road Less Traveled

For the first couple days I took the roads less traveled. Aside from a super slippery seat on the Ruckus I found myself liking it more and more. As one of the machines in the Kissell Motorsports pre-owned category I found myself thinking about writing a check for $1200 and taking it home.

Ruckus in the Alley

For rides around Boalsburg, through the streets and alleys to the post office or the Boalsburg Chocolate Company, what could be better.

Ruckus Year Round?

As the temperatures descended in the 20s I began missing my heated gloves. I didn’t do any research on the capacity of the Ruckus to support electrics. Watching the kids play ice hockey in the cold I was remembered a time when I was impervious to the cold.

A Little Tank

The Honda Ruckus is a little tank. I was surprise how solid it felt after first thinking of it as a glorified minibike, one of those WRENs from my youth. That would be the 1960s for me when I used to lay on my bed in my room with a copy of Boy’s Life dreaming of selling stationary from the Cheerful Card Company to earn enough money for a minibike, air rifle, and X-ray glasses.

The Ruckus has big, almost knobby tires, and they didn’t slip once as I began “riding through the woods.”

I rode through a lot of familiar territory with a 10-mile radius of home and found the little scooter up for anything as long as I was willing to accept such slow speeds. I’m certain the experience with the Ruckus has sharpened by riding wits. I’ve never thought mastering the machine was nearly as important as mastering my mind on the road and the scooter forces the issue. I know my place in the roadway kingdom. Easy to forget on a motorcycle that can propel a rider far ahead of the four-wheeled world.

Cutting through a field used mainly by dog walkers and kids taking a shortcut home from school I stopped to look at Mount Nittany, the iconic hill that Penn Staters pay allegiance and provides the namesake for the Nittany Lions. As a platform for exploring the Ruckus is great. And it is so unassuming that no one paid it any attention.

If you need people to look at you while riding cross this one off your list.

Here I am, 56 years old, and finally I have my minibike. At least for a few days. And it was as fun as I always thought it would be. Why didn’t my parents let me get one?

I like the looks of the Ruckus. It has the same rugged ugliness of a Jeep. And I bet it will go more places. If you have the time.

On the way back to Kissell’s to pick up my Vespa I stopped to photograph the little beast in front of the big mural along Calder Alley. It reflects the spirit that is ignited by this machine. Or any other small scooter I suspect.

I believe spending a riding life on big motorcycles leaves a rider incomplete. That little kid inside us doesn’t really connect with horsepower. It wants something else. Standing outside the window with the BMW S1000 RR looking out the window I was glad I had the chance to tool around on a Ruckus.

A Mini Adventure — Camping with a Vespa

December 12, 2010 by Scooter in the Sticks 37 Comments

Please forgive the manifesto length of this post and too many pictures with it. I just needed to post this story and move on.

Pine Creek is one of the most beautiful streams in Pennsylvania. Riding through a late fall day I could feel a flame of excitement at witnessing the fading light and knowing I was riding on into the evening and my first overnight camping trip after over 30,000 miles of Vespa riding.

My friend Paul Ruby has been suggestion overnight foolishness for years including suggestions that we ride to New Mexico, the Adirondacks, and God knows where else. When I finally said yes to a humble camping trip I was ready for a little adventure.

Our plan was to ride north towards Wellsboro, Pennsylvania, and find a place to camp. The touring luggage on Paul’s Kawasaki Concours included a big cardboard box to hold his tent and other camping essentials all neatly strapped to the rear rack. I was sporting a new MotoFizz bag, one size larger than my previous one, and way too big for the little rack on the back of the Vespa. Neither of us would be confused as either overly concerned with style or as seasoned moto-campers.

Paul’s helmet sparkled in the shafts of light that burned randomly through the narrow valley carved out by eons of erosion courtesy of Pine Creek. I suppose it could have been some sort of spiritual illumination bursting forth from within, or maybe there is a Gort thing going on. (See The Day the Earth Stood Still) I’m still here and I saw no flying saucers.

Cedar Run is a small village along Pine Creek. Across the street from the General Store is the Inn at Cedar Run, a reliable place to eat and sleep. I was thinking of a hot meal and warm bed when Paul made the picture. With no suggestion from him of spending a luxurious night at the Inn we rode out of town and continued north.

The road passes through picturesque landscapes and non-existent traffic. We stop to make pictures where the road rises up above the creek. Paul spends some time with the camera and I just stand in the road, watching, taking in the place and the moment. I realize that I’ve never ridden with anyone but Paul save for a few hours one afternoon with a scooter rally. And rides with Paul are rare. In this moment I understand why I guard my aloneness on the road. It is the foundation on which my interest in riding is built.

Paul Ruby with his Canon 5D Mark II, Tioga County, Pennsylvania. We first met because of a shared interest in large format photography. He rekindled my dormant interest in riding and sold his Vespa ET4 to my father-in-law. I think this qualifies him as some sort of reinenasance man.

An unexpected work of art in the Penn Wells Hotel in Wellsboro, Pennsylvania. It was almost dark when we pitched our tents at the Stony Ridge Campground about 15 miles southwest of town and I fully expected to have a snack and go to sleep. Paul had other ideas. Tired, cold, and deer wary I followed through the darkness to a hot meal at the hotel. Dinner was uneventful as was the ride back to camp. Talk around a campfire until weariness won out and we retired to our respective tents.

Light streams through clouds at dawn. The tent’s mesh window unzips to allow for a picture before slithering back inside the sleeping bag to avoid the 40F predawn air. Years of sleeping in a comfortable bed has rendered the ground into a natural form of concrete. The Thermarest backpacking pad can’t abate the torture and thoughts of the Cedar Run Inn ease the aches as I slip back into sleep.

No one camps in Pennsylvania in late September, at least not here. There’s only one other pair of campers using the 240 odd campsites. There’s solitude in the off-season. After Paul makes a cup of coffee we decide on the Wellsboro Diner for breakfast. But not before I make a rash decision.

Our campsite was on the far side of a small stream accessed by riding across a small wooden footbridge. Anxious for eggs and bacon I suggest we just ride through the stream. Paul, not wanting to splash mud on his shiny Kawasaki, says he’ll cross the bridge and take a picture of me coming through the stream. Fine idea.

You probably already know large tires have a distinct advantage over smaller ones when negotiating obstacles. Though the stream looks shallow and tame the moment my front tire hit the water I knew I miscalculated. The streambed was composed of softball sized, rounded, algae covered stones that immediately caused the front tire of the Vespa to bump and lurch and nearly come to a stop as the back tire spun on the slippery rocks. I’m thinking of the camera and not wanting to post a picture of the scooter and I lying in a puddle.

Keeping my head I carefully manipulated the throttle while moving my weight as necessary and crossed the mighty water hazard. I’ll think twice before doing this again. On a motorcycle I wouldn’t have blinked.

MEMO TO SELF: Look before you leap.

Downtown Wellsboro, just across the street from the diner. It’s a familiar destination for riders traversing Pennsylvania via US 6. As the warm weather evaporates so do the riders.

Breakfast was relaxed and hearty, just what I needed after a less than comfortable night on the ground.

My frequent stops to make pictures would frustrate most riders. Paul seems impervious as I photograph the Vespa along US 6. If inclined a person could ride another 3000 miles on US to California. I often think of Kerouac’s contemplation of this road as that long red line in his book On the Road.

This is the photograph of the Vespa along US 6.

A stuffed black bear is enough to have me make a U turn in Galeton. A conversation in the taxidermy should was a reminder why one should always speak and behave well in the world – you never know who you might run into.

After browsing the specimens of deer, fox, turkey, and elk in the shop I found Paul had engaged the proprietor in the engineering marvels of radio-controlled cars with squirrels at the wheel.

The taxidermist, Mr. Hartley, and I talked a bit about riding and he told me about his son’s motorcycle. As the conversation progressed and he provided more details I kept thinking, “I know this motorcycle.” Turns out his son is my chiropractor. The radio-controlled car is a Christmas present for his grandson.

Just before Coudersport we leave US 6 for the more relaxed riding on PA44, a small road that winds its was through some of the most beautiful parts of Pennsylvania. Every so often I point the camera at something other than the Vespa and ask Paul to turn around and ride through a nice stretch of road so I can make a picture. Rain threatened on and off through the day. As the sky darkened a few drops of rain appeared on the camera. Thankfully it never got worse.

Potter County is a riding paradise. So many ribbons of road, so much to see.

Stopped at another vista with some iconic white pines I begin calculating distances in my head to someplace interesting to eat. The result was a discouraging 60 miles.

If my stomach was complaining Paul’s back joined the chorus. No, he’s not communing with the earth, just stretching his back. No matter how many times I’ve seen this maneuver it never fails to elicit a chuckle. I’ll have to ask his girlfriend what she thinks of it.

Looking at this picture makes me want to grab my gear and go for a ride. The path winding down the mountain near Hyner State Park is one of the prettiest scenes I’ve witnessed this year.

Crossing the West Branch of the Susquehanna River Paul pulls ahead and rides toward lunch in Lock Haven. Cruising at 60mph I watch the Kawasaki pass a sting of cars behind a truck. I grumble to myself but seeing the road clear I grab what throttle is left and manage to pass the cars and catch up to Paul. The Vespa is quick for a small scooter but its passing power at these speeds reminds me of my 1970 VW Beetle.

Lunch. Waiting for our order to arrive I photographed the reflections in the vintage metal walls of the restaurant.

Texas Restaurant has been around a long time and a great place to eat if the objects of desire are hot dogs or burgers.

As we had lunch that melancholy feeling arrived signaling the end of the trip. You know, that Sunday evening feeling you had as a kid when you realize the weekend is over and you have to go to school in the morning.

Paul and I had ridden nearly 300 miles. We said our goodbyes since most likely we would not stop again before going our separate ways. Last legs of trips bother me whether on the scooter, in the car, or on a plane. They signal the inevitable end of a trip. Or maybe the last leg is so familiar that I’m just bored by the thought of it.

On the street in Lock Haven I was able to push those thoughts from my mind and relish the memories of a Vespa camping trip.

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Renewing a Dead Battery

October 27, 2010 by Scooter in the Sticks 12 Comments

Have you ever misplaced your car in a parking garage?

Last Tuesday evening I wandered through five floors before realizing I left my truck at the loading dock when I returned from an assignment around noon. With the flashers on. After five hours the battery wasn’t interested in starting the engine.

But that’s not the kind of battery I’m talking about. Creative batteries are the focus right now. Where the Vespa usually provides a reliable source of positive energy the last few weeks have found it coming up short. Rides to work on gray mornings have not worked their usual magic.

Crashing waves and 500 miles of space between my office and me usually have a powerful influence on creative energy but like the Vespa I found myself wrestling with my expectations – work, photography, writing and photography. At times I can hear myself whining.

A Yamaha Vino in suspended animation along Shore Road in Ogunquit.

Mental preoccupation has been active enough at times that I find myself choosing to leave the scooter in mothballs on some days rather than ride when I know I won’t be able to focus as well as I should on two wheels. Couple that with work requiring four wheels and things get messy.

Sitting along the shore for my last breakfast before returning home I wondered what direction Scooter in the Sticks should/would take. To this point it has been a meandering work not until the rides I love so much.

Maybe I’m thinking too much and riding too little.

Watching Kim use her camera in the fading light reminded me of how resistant I can be to situations I judge inadequate for photography. Or riding. Or pretty much anything. I wish I could work with a camera as freely as she can.

More piling on of expectations.

It’s raining hard in this picture made on Old Orchard Beach just south of Portland. My pants were soaked from rain running off my Gortex jacket. Kim is collecting shells washed up by a storm. My little digital camera gets soaked despite my best efforts to keep it safe inside a plastic bag. It’s good photography weather.

On the way back to the inn I stop to photograph the railway that passes just east of Kennebunkport. At home I discover Amtrak runs on these rails and if I was so inclined I could take a train from my house to Maine. An adventure for another day perhaps. For now, looking at these tracks makes me wonder what the future holds.

It will hold more riding, writing and pictures. Stops like this one to admire the changing leaves. Those might not always be the best method of renewing dead creative batteries but it probably can’t hurt. And typing these last few words makes me think the green light on the charger has just started blinking.

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Honda Ruckus in the City

The Road Less Traveled

Ruckus in the Alley

Ruckus Year Round?

A Little Tank

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