Scooter in the Sticks

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

My Vespa World

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Home from Cleveland and running Saturday morning errands on the Vespa. Thinking a lot of late about what I ride and why I ride. It was nice to be on the road this morning without that noise in my head.

It was only temporary. At Saint’s Cafe where I’m sitting now I began pouring more words into my BMW F650 GS review to get the noise cranked up again. And I saw the light–I can finish writing.

Now all I need to do is sort things out and transcribe into the computer (not ACK into the iPhone).

But until then I am going to run a few more wandering errands in my little Vespa world.

— Posted from my iPhone

A Lesson from a Dog (and Scooter)

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Junior. Patiently waiting for me to take his picture with my iPhone. Later, at home, I process the image further in the same device with PhotoForge. It reflects the soft and blurred vision experienced shortly after leaving bed, before breakfast, before shower, before really being ready to be in the world.

Patience is his lesson for me. An insistence that I examine my own measure of it. Something I find less of than I would have guessed. I’ve read a dog appears in your life when there is something for you to learn. I’m convinced it’s true. His simple requirements demand little more than my time but his lessons are tough. He forces me to make choices and they bring me face to face with my lack of patience. The lessons are not dissimilar from those taught by the Vespa.

New Year’s Day 2010. Morning. A quiet ride through the snowy countryside not far from home. Roads mostly clear with only patches of slippery surfaces. Unexpected slick spots require patience. To make choices. The road makes demands in the same manor Junior does. Can you accept this now?

I’m long past the simple lessons of patience while riding — those experiences with drivers on autopilot who raise my risk, of bullying horns at a traffic light when I hesitate a moment too long before moving. But alone, left to my own plans and schemes, there lies the challenge today. The Vespa instructs me and so does Junior.

I feel fortunate for two such demanding teachers.

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Giving Thanks

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If “thank you” is the only prayer you say, that will be enough.–Meister Eckhart

With Junior sleeping at my feet, the house quiet and no requirement to go to work today it’s easy to recall all the things I have to be thankful for. On those days not dedicated to giving thanks I find similar quiet moments while riding – small escapes from the chaos and noise that can fill the days when chasing chores and job and the responsibilities of living.

Riding the Vespa on winding roads past small, tree lined streams provides an opening to stop and release mental burdens and grasp the simple elegance of sight, sound and smell. I am often reminded of how fortunate I am to have what I have and do what I do.

These past weeks circumstance has kept me from riding as much as I would have liked. Writing, photography and riding have been supplanted with dog walks and training, new responsibilities at work, and a shrinking of daylight has led to fewer opportunities to ride forth into the landscape. When I finally did have a chance to take the Vespa for a ride I found myself stopping often and just standing along the road, taking in the world and saying to myself, “thank you”.

After years of dabbling in various forms of meditation and escape I would not have believed a scooter would be able to open the doors of perception that my Vespa has accomplished. In the most stressful and complicated moments it remains a powerful antidote and requires only moments to straighten out my head. Riding is a gift. The Vespa is the delivery vehicle.

I’ve been able to ride to work for most of the past week. Small detours in the commuting route seem inevitable, something I never do in the truck. Whatever I surrender in terms of creature comfort on the Vespa is repaid tenfold in other ways. I never find myself walking into my office saying “I wish I had driven the truck today”. Not even on the coldest days.

I live miles away to the right of the picture. I work miles away to the left. Standing in the open I can see how my life unfolds in a back and forth manner, commuting to and from home to work and back again. I’m not sure why but it is important for me to see this. It is invisible in the truck. There are only filtered views from the cage.

To all of you today — I hope you find the time to consider your own reasons to give thanks.

Small Riding Accomplishments

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Fall is my favorite riding season. Cooler temperatures coupled with light and color from a magic paint box make every curve in the road a visual feast. I can’t help those of you who live in the flatlands where the roads are all straight.

Riding has collided with responsibility. New work responsibilities, old work responsibilities, a new dog, and all the other things I need or want to do shred my days and burn hours at a startling rate. Long rides seem impossible. That’s why I’ve had to mentally regroup. There is much to gain in small rides.

On Saturday morning I had one hour to ride. Sixty minutes to embrace two-wheeled motion and see what would happen. As usual, the Vespa releases me from the weight of my thoughts and I’m in the flow of the ride. My focus shifts from things I have to do to what is happening right now, right in front of me. I move from my mind to my senses and the world gets brighter.

Stopped along the road taking in the tunnel of changing leaves I am grateful for a chance to be on the road.

Riding only 25 miles there is no shortage of places to see. I wandered into the woods at a place where Kim and I once found a Blood Root plant. Peering through the woods at the scooter I’m reminded of how little I stop when I am in the truck. The world exists only as destinations and I tend to ignore the journey from inside the cage.

I told a friend yesterday that I don’t like group rides because they don’t stop enough. I’m not happy with only food and bathroom breaks. I wonder at times if I would ride at all if the camera wasn’t involved.

On a stop to peer out along the valley I noticed a salamander crossing the road. I think this one is a Wehrle’s salamander. Crouching on the road with my camera on the macro setting I wondered whether this guy was going to bite me. Amazing what passes through a head. And equally amazing how much detail I miss because I’m not paying attention.

I arrived home rested and recharged from a short, small ride. I had forgotten how good they are. As I typed this post I’d been wondering if it is worth the trouble to gear up and ride into town to meet my friend Gordon (3 Prints Project). The temperature is in the 30s and it’s just a short distance.

Now that I remember my short little ride I am now going to head to the garage and fire up the Vespa.