Scooter in the Sticks

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

2009 Triumph Bonneville: Heading West Just After Sunrise

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My friend Paul Ruby and I were on the road early with plans to ride west towards Clearfield to find a new place to for breakfast. I have begun to wonder how many riders make a ritual of riding to breakfast. Something like private pilots and the 200 dollar cheeseburger. A short stop at the Sunoco station on North Atherton Street where Paul could get gas for his motorcycle gave me a chance to admire the Triumph Bonneville. Again. In the light from the rising sun it just seemed to glimmer. Really. Well, I did do some interpretation in Photoshop but the bike does look good. I’ve dreamt about motorcycles that look like this. And so far it has lived up to my expectations.

The Bonneville is at home on the highway. Every bike or scooter I’ve ever ridden seems to have a riding sweet spot. A speed where the bike is completely relaxed, a mid-ground where you don’t notice you’re going slow and you don’t notice you’re going fast. For the Triumph it’s between 50 and 60mph. (In my decidedly non-scientific estimation). Riding my Vespa GTS250ie I find it right around 45mph. Your results may vary.
I pulled over just as we approached the top of Bald Eagle Ridge on Interstate 99. I made Paul back his motorcycle up so I could admire the unobstructed view of the road and sky. This motorcycle loves this kind of road.

Another stop for a picture along US322 as it begins to rise into the Allegheny Plateau. With the clouds passing over the hills and valleys this area looks as much like parts of Virginia and North Carolina as it does Pennsylvania. My thoughts travel momentarily to imagined rides on the Blue Ridge Parkway.

The weather has been unusually cool this summer and the feeling of fall hits me even though it’s July. When I left the house it was 59 degrees Fahrenheit and I was wearing my winter riding jacket with a liner. I love this kind of weather but it isn’t fondly embraced by riders who like to travel unencumbered by too much clothing.

My riding style generally consists of slow, slower and stop. Stop for pictures. Stop to look around and just breathe in the world. It took me awhile to tame the Triumph’s desire to go fast. While it does not have a huge engine it is entirely within it’s power to go fast. It’s deceptive and I had to keep a close eye on the speedometer to make sure the State Police would not want to take a closer look at the bike too.

If you want to see pictures on a ride you just have to go slow otherwise you will rush by all but the biggest landscape views. And by slow I mean 35mph. It’s easier at 25mph and easier yet at 15mph. With a little practice and experimentation with the gearbox I was able to find a photo speed sweet spot. I don’t ride that way all the time but some places call out for attention. So it’s nice to know how to make myself and the bike comfortable.

Paul pulled into a gas station in Coalport for fuel and a chance to show off his back stretching regimen. No matter how many times I witness the ritual something just seems wrong. If you ever run into Mr. Ruby as him to tell you about the time he was stretching his back in McDonalds with a pack of Boy Scouts present. Then you’ll understand.

Adding fuel to the Triumph is easy except for the trepidation of splashing gas on the mirror finish paint job. I was extremely careful but without knowing how much gas was in the tank or how much it would hold I went slow. At two gallons I stopped and replaced the shiny chrome gas cap without so much as a drop of gas to mar the finish. Have I said how pretty this black motorcycle is?
The search for food was not going well. Phillipsburg was a bust as was Oseeola Mills, Houtzdale, Madera and Irvona. By the time we stopped in Coalport my stomach was done riding. I was on autopilot to a known breakfast way station near Prince Gallitzin State Park in Flinton, Pennsylvania. Sir Barney’s.

Sir Barney’s has standard, reliable breakfast fare which is exactly what I needed. Eggs, bacon, potatoes, juice and toast. It’s like my riding security blanket. The only meal of the day I can count on to make me whole and not put me to sleep. Maybe that’s why I tend to ride in the morning.

Riding with a trusted riding partner like Paul has it’s advantages over riding alone. You get to experience things twice. Once through your eyes and once through someone else’s. While I was happy as a clam to have food he was concerned with the lack of interest the wait staff seemed to pay us. We got everything we needed but we didn’t get characters. There was nothing memorable about the people working there, no fodder for stories or humorous anecdotes. As Paul commented, “They’re 9 to 5ers.”.

Ours were the only motorcycles in the parking lot. The Triumph and Harley looked good out there. And I was glad to be able to keep my eye on things. I’m still a bit apprehensive with Craig Kissell’s generosity in loaning me motorcycles. I imagine a phone call…”I parked it right outside the diner. I was only there for 20 minutes. It’s a family place. I can’t imagine who took it….”

So I keep my eye on things. While I’m riding and when it’s parked. Maybe that’s why Kissell Motorsports trusts me with their motorcyle.

By the time I arrived at the home of my inlaws we had ridden 100 miles. The Triumph looked as good in their driveway as it did in mine. I think it would look good in anyone’s driveway. It’s just a cool, classic machine if your interests lean in that direction. As much as I would have liked to ride all day adult responsibilities beckon me home. Besides, there still was another 70 miles of riding ahead to help ease the pain…

I am completely comfortable with the Triumph Bonneville. The transition from scooter to motorcycle was effortless for me. Muscle memories of shifting motorcycles in the 1970s returned and I was at home astride this machine. I can’t say enough good things about the Triumph so I’ll just stop for now.
I have one more post on the Triumph reflecting on a short ride alone through the countryside. Look for that soon.

Revisited: Zen and the Art of Motorcycle Maintenance

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How many riders have a copy of Robert Pirsig’s Zen and the Art of Motorcycle Maintenance on their bookshelf? How many more, like me, have struggled with the text, the philosophy, and failed to make it to the end of the book? The pages turn easily for me when Pirsig describes the ride, the road and the people he encounters. But I bog down in his discussions of the metaphysics of quality. And I wouldn’t finish despite thinking it was a great book. Until now. Until I happened upon Mark Richardson’s book Zen and Now.

It felt good to read that Richardson struggled with Pirsig’s book just like I did. Many attempts at it, a bit farther through and then bogging down. Zen and Now is Richardson’s excellent riding story and interpretation of Pirsig’s book. After I finished reading it I picked up Zen and the Art of Motorcycle Maintenance, read it from cover to cover, and got it. Knew what it meant and decided again what a great book it is.

Richardson decides to ride the same route, visit the same places as much as possible as Pirsig and his son did that summer in the summer of 1974. His book not only provides the kind of vicarious experience that a good writer and rider can produce it does an amazing job putting the Zen and the Art of Motorcycle Maintenance in a context that means something to my life and riding. Many riding books and stories push me as a reader to the sidelines as the author plays out the story on a stage. Richardson does something different. He brings me onto the stage and I feel as if I am part of the trip.

I don’t often recommend books but this one is special. Check out Richardson’s Web site for more information or click the Amazon link below to buy it. (If you do I may make my first 25 cents from Scooter in the Sticks!)


What Price Freedom?

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Independence Day.

I’m on the road going nowhere for no reason other than my own enjoyment. Despite the fuel sipping economy of the Vespa I know in the long run this probably isn’t a sustainable model. Someday it might not make sense to burn gasoline for recreation. Maybe.

On Independence Day I wondered if riding was an expression of freedom or merely a distraction from the real meaning. Military themes and observances are common here. A monument in remembrance of one of the first unit organized in the Continental Army. Maybe this has something to do with the meaning of Independence Day.

Tanks and other implements of war stand as silent reminders to the price paid for the landscape in which we can express our independence.  The price is hard to comprehend.

Markers stand among the gravestones in the older cemeteries indicating those citizens who served or fell in wars and conflicts throughout American history. When I think of July 4th I often imagine the battles so many endured or died in to gain and protect our independence. At times I feel I am not living up to my responsibility to protect it. It seems like there is a responsibility that comes with independence off the battlefield that makes demands everyday. It’s probably more than imagining I can do whatever I want.

Probably.

Riding stirs my thoughts and I wrestle with the meaning of Independence Day. As I write this I believe the meaning is clear. Freedom is change, or rather the courage to change. That was true in 1776 and remains so today. The world changes. Independence might be more a flow than a point. Maybe it mirrors what I like about riding — the journey is the important part and not the destination.

Here’s to all of you and best wishes for your own celebrations of Independence Day and hopes that it stays with you every day.

Deconstructing the Harley Image

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My friend Paul doesn’t always live up to my expectations of a Harley rider. There is no black leather or biker look – at least in my own image of what that is. There are times when he does live up to it though. At 7:45am on Saturday while I was getting the Vespa ready to ride into town to meet Paul I watched a rumbling Road King pass by the house, it’s rider in a black T-shirt, shaved head, no helmet, jeans, and black leather engineer boots. I’m standing in the driveway pulling on overpants and a windbreaker underneath my armored jacket being the sissy. The temperature was 67 degrees. Cold for me on a bike. Or scooter. But that was a Harley rider. Paul is like that too. He under-dresses in my opinion at times. Just not in a manner that fits my image of a Harley-Davidson rider. We stopped on the way out of town so he could add another layer. A red windbreaker. I found out yesterday that the jacket belonged to a woman he is dating. Just happened to be in the sidebag.

We planned to ride from State College to Belleville for breakfast via the scenic route over Pine Grove Mountain. Paul was on his new Harley Crossbones that he bought on eBay. That’s not how a person should come to Harley is it? Shouldn’t there be some sort of ritual involving beer and blood or something? I guess I am remembering the brother of my best friend growing up back in the 1960s outside of Pittsburgh. He dropped out of high school, got himself a girlfriend to impregnate, kept a chopper in his dingy apartment, got arrested for trying to buy morphine (again) at a local pharmacy with a fake prescription and generally involved himself in a slow but steady decline. He’s in a nursing home now at age 60 after some acquaintances pitched him down some stairs for some breach in etiquette. Perhaps my vision of the Harley has been perverted. Maybe I have attitude. I still like some of them though. The lingering effects of Then Came Bronson perhaps.
Saturday morning was lovely with temperatures hovering just under 70 degrees. We stopped a few times to make pictures but I generally am not motivated photographically when the sun is out and the skies are blue. Paul took charge since he was in the lead. Whenever he pulled over to shoot something I pulled out the camera and snapped a shot. Like the one above just outside McAlevey’s Fort.
The lake at Greenwood Furnace State Park reflects the serenity of the day. The road was as peaceful as that picture looks disturbed only by the rumble of my Vespa and Paul’s Harley.
We stopped at the Belleville Livestock Auction facility to see if the little diner there was open for breakfast. It wasn’t but I had the opportunity to photograph Paul in a heroic pose more in keeping with part of my Harley vision. Something better aligned with the Marlboro image too.
But then he goes and wrecks it by saying; “Take my picture with straw on my head.” I oblige but what the hell is that all about? Isn’t he afraid his Crossbones will be repossessed?
On to Dairyland in Reedsville for breakfast. I make the obligatory photo of my Vespa in front of the big cow. I feel like a tourist. Everyone is watching me. I imagine them thinking “how cool is that fellow…”
Breakfast is good. The standard scrambled eggs, home fries and toast for me. I passed on the bacon for some stupid reason I regret now. But it was fine. While dining a fellow who saw our cameras stopped to suggest we might want to photograph an Amish barn raising about 5 miles down the valley. I’m thinking he’s setting us up; it’s a trap where our machines will be appropriated. Another Amish criminal sting operation. That’s where my head is.
Paul doesn’t take his Harley ownership lightly. He keeps the machine sparkling and he displays the requisite number of skulls on his clothing. But something still feels off to me.
Sure enough there actually was a barn raising. From the safe distance of the road I make a few pictures. Paul on the other hand rides his Harley down the farm lane and right up to the barn to talk with the Amish workers. He’s fearless that way. I suppose that’s why he’s on a Harley and I’m on a Vespa.
While he learns about post and beam construction I talk with the milk cans. Actually I thought this sort of operation was illegal now in Pennsylvania. In days gone by the bulk milk trucks would pick these things up and take them to the milk plant. But as I understand things the milk has to remain refrigerated from farm to plant. Maybe these are just for decoration.

It was a fine morning ride. Sixty miles or so for breakfast and a barn raising. A good day and a good ride with a friend. Even if he doesn’t fit my vision of a Harley rider.

More Solitude in the Sticks

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Alexander Pope, 1688-1744.
ODE ON SOLITUDE
Happy the man, whose wish and care
A few paternal acres bound,
In his own ground.
Whose herds with milk, whose fields with bread,
Whose flocks supply him with attire,
Whose trees in summer yield him shade,
In winter fire.
Blest, who can unconcern’dly find
Hours, days, and years slide soft away,
In health of body, peace of mind,
Quiet by day,
Sound sleep by night; study and ease,
Together mixt; sweet recreation;
And innocence, which most does please
With meditation.
Thus let me live, unseen, unknown,
Thus unlamented let me die,
Steal from the world, and not a stone
Tell where I lie.

Solitude has much been on my mind of late and I suppose has been reflected to some degree in the photographs I make. I believe there is a measure of psychology available through the pictures one makes. I came across the poem by Alexander Pope and was struck by the simplicity I seek through solitude and by extension through riding.

An early breakfast in Bellefonte at the Café on the Park, a favorite, offered a quiet place to eat and read the paper before going to work. While I have no herds or fields supplying me with milk and bread I imagine the café as just a few simple steps away. A lot of years have passed since Pope wrote his poem.
I sat at the counter, something I seldom do. Looking at the place I found it more like an old general store than a restaurant. It has it’s own unique charm and I’m glad I found it.
The ride yesterday morning was cold enough that I had to stop to put the liner in my First Gear Kilimanjaro IV riding jacket to be comfortable. At 64 degrees I’m a wuss. Looking at the Vespa parked between Interstate 99 passing overhead I’m reminded of how small and insignificant the scooter is on the road. I left with a renewed sense of rider responsibility.
I learned what benthic invertebrates are while photographing two scientists working in Spring Creek. This big gravel lot used to be the site of the McCoy Dam near Milesburg, Pennsylvania before it was torn out a few years ago to allow Spring Creek to return to it’s natural flow. The two women at the van were pulling on their waders to begin sampling in the creek which flows on the right. They’ve been studying how the ecosystems restore themselves after a big disturbance like the removal of a dam. As a value-added educational feature of Scooter in the Sticks I’ll let you research the meaning of benthic invertebrates. (grin)

Quiet by day,

On roads like this there is ample supply of quiet both for the ear and the eye. It surprises me at times how I continue to be drawn to these places.
At the end of the day at the southern end of the valley I found myself in another quiet place. Visually at least. While making this photograph a large truck full of liquid manure pulled in to begin spreading it’s nutrient goodness on an open field behind me. Something I’ve learned is you don’t want to cross paths with a working manure truck.

While the day was full of work it also provided more lessons in solitude. I know many riders abhor being alone on the road choosing travel to pig roasts and poker runs and the socialization that follows. Maybe I’ll learn to appreciate those events someday. For now I still find value in the sweet recreation of solitude on the road.