Scooter in the Sticks

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

Summer Dreams

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I pulled out of the driveway at 5:56AM with any hopes of seeing the sunrise in the sticks dashed by sunlight already licking the tops of the trees in the valley. Long summer days means I have to get up even earlier, probably around 4:30 AM judging by the time I need to actually get out the door. On the bright side I wouldn’t have to endure the 48° F temperature as long. After many weeks of warm and hot rides the cold was a shock to my delicate nature. I was on my way to meet up with my father-in-law Bob for a ride but had to stop after 50 miles to warm up. Hot chocolate was nice but better was being able to press my hands against matte black steel on the outside of the convenience store. It was hot from the morning sun even though the air temperature was only 51° F by that time. My hands warmed nicely as I stood facing the wall looking as if I was about to be arrested. None of this sounds a lot like a summer dream though.

I have been thinking a lot about motorcycles, scooters, and riding. How did I end up standing with cold numb hands early on a Saturday morning?

The Vespa in my garage isn’t a dream. It’s real. Summers as a kid were spent dreaming about girls, cars, and motorcycles. Not necessarily in that order. As I probe my mental history I have to believe the summer of 1963 planted the seeds of interest in motorcycles after seeing Steve McQueen racing around Germany in The Great Escape.

I watched that movie every chance I got when it would appear on television and still rent it occasionally now. The Cooler King’s motorcycle heroics and quiet, go-it-alone temperament appealed to me even then I suspect. Motorcycle as escape was never clearer than in that movie. We’ll ignore the fact that walking and rowing were more successful escape strategies.

In 1969 I received another potent dose of near mythic rides from the television series Then Came Bronson. Jim Bronson, played by Michael Parks, abandons his connection with the work world to find the meaning of his life by way of what I thought then was the coolest motorcycle ever—a Harley Sportster. The video linked below was the only one I couuld find on the net but it gives you an idea of what one facet of the show was like.

I was not overly enthralled with machine specifics even then but really affected by the idea of riding and adventure. For me it has always been about riding.

So here I am with a Vespa GTS 250ie. On the surface it doesn’t appear to match those old summer dreams. There is a motorcycle that does and is on my secret acquisition list for some day out in the future — the Triumph Scrambler. As a machine it fits the image of those programs.


But is the Vespa really out of line? I don’t think so. It affords me the freedom and opportunity to ride. To see the world and to explore what I am doing in it. And frankly speaking riding the Vespa is more challenging on many levels than any motorcycle I have had the opportunity to ride. In the end though it’s riding that’s the key for me.

Several times, almost like a scene from Then Came Bronson, I have been asked where I was headed on the Vespa. My response — “Oh, I don’t know…wherever I end up, I guess.”

And that’s the truth.

Vespa GTS 250ie Off-Pavement Riding Review

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While the Vespa GTS 250ie and I may look at home off the pavement at least one of us is not. This post is more a commentary on my riding skill than any inherent capacity or deficiency of the scooter. And it’s probably fair to say that the word Vespa is not often uttered in the company of words like Husqvarna, Dakar, KTM, Baja, and others synonymous with off-road racing and riding. A lot of things working against us.

Devils Elbow Road winds down from the Appalachian Plateau, a narrow, loosely packed gravel road with lots of washboard areas on the steeper sections. The Vespa feels like one or both of the tires could slip out at any moment as I proceed along the smoother sections at 25 MPH. I have to fight the urge to put my feet out as outriggers like I do in the snow. I keep telling myself to keep my head up and throttle even. The wheels still feel as if they are sliding around.

While trying not to picture the paint after a drop I throttle back to 20 MPH, which turns out to be a comfortable speed for me. I try hard to remember what my old Kawasaki dirt bike felt like on similar roads but my memory isn’t that sharp.

I tempt fate by throttling up for short periods or stop suddenly to gauge the traction the tires have in the gravel. None of this affords any additional riding confidence. I’m running the stock Sava tires and 3000 miles has squared the back one off making it a candidate for replacement. A more aggressive tread might help but I wonder how much of this riding I would actually be doing and why 20 MPH isn’t just fine. Then I picture a 40 mile stretch of this sort of gravel.

The Pennsylvania Bureau of Forestry is big on crushed limestone road surfaces. Sometimes they feel unstable when I walk on them so I guess I should be happy with the progress the Vespa and I are making. At one point the road is just packed clay and dirt and I am able to easily move at 40 MPH making me wonder how well a KLR would perform on the loose and at times deep gravel. (Gary, this is your cue.)

The jury is still out on the Vespa’s off-road capability. I can say it’s not and off-road racer in it’s stock setup and judging by it’s performance on the washboard surfaces I would not want to challenge the suspension on anything rough at speeds beyond a crawl. But I was able to travel and get where I was going. At a leisurely pace it will go all day. Perhaps with a bit more practice the Vespa (or me) will become a reasonable traveler off the pavement.

Attitude Adjustment

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I needed a long ride to adjust my poor attitude and outlook on life. Some things were chewing on me all week and I was seeing the glass as half-empty. That probably doesn’t happen to many people. I haven’t wanted to write, photograph, or do a whole lot of anything.

Just a few miles from home I was already bemoaning the quality of light I had to ride in. Clear skies and a morning temperature of 59 F were almost too much to bear. With no fog or interesting light any photography would simply be a futile exercise.

My mental complaining was so loud that I almost missed the Burma Shave signs along the road and then not even wanting to stop. My head was a long list of expectations and requirements necessary for a good ride.

Chiding myself for not getting on the road earlier I almost miss the fact that I have the road and the world almost to myself at 8AM on Saturday morning.

I had decided to ride into the anthracite coal region of Pennsylvania, an area that I have not explored to any great degree. Moving east along State Route 192 towards Lewisburg I started to see other riders – single riders, small groups, Harleys, sportbikes, helmets, no helmets. The whole mix. I’m sort of irate though because a group of Harley riders don’t return my wave. I’m reviewing the rationale to imitate bikers by growing long hair, big beards, and even bigger guts. I’m wrestling with the intelligence of the doo rag and T-shirt as protection. I know they are all laughing at me for the protective gear I’m wearing. So loud this discussion is that I almost miss a group of mules relaxing along the road.

They work on an Amish farm pulling plows, hay rakes, and whatever else the farmer asks of them. As we watch each other I hear the approach of a loud pipes save lives bike. A chopper this time, another selfish, self-centered bastard, no helmet, lots of leather, looking like someone from ZZ Top. As my brain starts turning again his hand reaches out in a big wave in front of an even bigger smile. My frustration fades away. I’m wrong about the Harley riders. Just my own twisted thinking. During the remainder of the day some riders wave and some don’t. Simple as that. The problem is my attitude.

On across the West Branch of the Susquehanna River towards Catawissa where I will turn south into the Anthracite Basin. Along the way I pass and turn around to look at the Sodom School.

What can I say other than I doubt you will find any districts clamoring for this name today.

At Catawissa I cross the main branch of the Susquehanna and follow rambling route 42 through agricultural communities like Queen City and Numidia. Numidia is not much more than a few houses at a crossroads but it does have a drag strip. The road climbs out of the valley and into the Appalachian Mountains. The contrast is startling as almost all evidence of human intervention, save for the road, disappears.

The fragrance of pine and wet forest floors fills the air. I stopped to take a picture as the road prepares to ascend Big Mountain. This experience is only temporary though because soon I will enter the disaster known as Centralia, Pennsylvania.

Centralia is almost a modern day ghost town. Seventy years ago an underground coal seam started to burn and led to the near extinction of the town. Six houses remain a new municipal building, and a cemetery that seems to magically resist the movement of the fire.

Even the highway was abandoned as the fire burned through the pavement. On a sunny day it doesn’t look like much but when it is cold and overcast smoke and steam rises from holes in the earth.

Trees and brush volunteering to grow ignite and burn. The ground is hot in places. If you want to read more about Centralia go HERE.

The temperature had risen into the 80’s and I was ready to head home. There are a variety of routes but I am still telling myself how bad the light is, how pointless photography is. I choose the shortest route, time and distance, two hours and about 90 miles.

New little shopping centers drain the life out of the small towns already struggling from the decline in coal production. People embrace the shiny newness of chain store enterprises that promise no surprises or challenges – just everyday low prices. The Wendy’s and McDonalds forcing the mom and pop diners into oblivion.

I stop at the Coney Island Lunch in Shamokin. This place has been around for decades but judging by the look of the place its days are numbered. Another place all used up and tossed aside in favor of the bright lights of McDonalds. Or not.

The Vespa GTS 250ie has been performing flawlessly since I bought it and this ride is no different. I cruises easily with traffic at 65 MPH when necessary and even handled the uneven pavement resulting from the asphalt removal process that leaves the road surface a wavy mess of deep scars.

I finally put my concern about light aside when I stopped to view the huge cloud formations. You don’t see those in the fog. The glass is half-full and rising. At 145 miles the attitude adjustment is complete.

I’m able to ride in silence the remaining 40 miles home with one short stop to mourn the closing of Stover’s Market in Aaronsburg. This old small town market was sort of the hub of activity in town. It was common to see Amish buggies hitched outside next to the cars and trucks of patrons. Those days are gone now.

I arrived home different than when I left. It’s one of the reasons I ride, this unexpected tendency towards transformation. Not to mention the fun of it all.

Postcard from the Sticks

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I’ve been riding more than writing lately but wanted to take a moment to send this reminder of the little reasons that make a ride on the weekend something special. Those clouds reminded me of the ones I used to lay in the grass and watch pass overhead imagining all sorts of fantastic tales.

Forty years later I still feel the urge to look up.

Modifying the Ride to Work (and Home)

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Every ride to and from work opens the door to a little adventure.

I’m fortunate my direct commute to my office is just 6 miles. And now when I arrive there are often two other Vespa scooters, sometimes three others plus a Yamaha Vino. But I digress…

Several variations in route can easily extend the commute to 10 or 15 minutes and even then it is not much of a hardship in time or miles. I chalk it up as a fringe benefit of living in the sticks.

But even in this situation complacency can set in and the rider becomes routine. With that thought in mind last week I made an abrupt turn away from by planned route to see what the unknown would bring.

It brought my first water crossing.

The Vespa GTS isn’t in many people’s mind (anyone’s actually?) an off-road vehicle and I will be the first to stand up and testify to it’s less that comfortable feel on loose surfaces like gravel, sand, or just loose dirt. But that doesn’t mean it won’t navigate those surfaces, it just means going a lot slower than I remember being able to travel on a dirt bike.

I turned off the road onto a farm lane I had seen before but hadn’t really paid much attention to where it went. There are a lot of them around and many have various passive or active warnings to stay away. This one was just a gravel and dirt lane disappearing through a line of trees in the distance.

When I arrived at the small pool of water and stream passing in front of me I decided to get off the scooter and look before dropping the GTS into water deeper than it might want to handle. Didn’t want to be sucking water into the drive belt case. The water was about 6 inches deep but the bottom appeared to be muddy. I crossed on the right side of the picture in about 4 inches of water with a solid bottom. Nothing for a dirt bike but a first for the GTS.

In celebration I speeded away along the tree line and field but almost tanked as the ruts in the road deepened and the scooter started to lurch around. I stood up on the floorboards and let off the throttle a bit until things were a bit more comfortable.

The road sort of transformed into two tracks in high weeds. Pushing on up a hill through denser grass I passed a big groundhog hole that easily would have swallowed the front tire of the Vespa causing who knows what. That’s when I figured I met my limit on this particular road and turned around to head for home.

This last picture was taken a few mornings ago while scouting for pictures for work on the way to work. I wandered through a sheep farm and then across a bridge into a field of even higher grass that a tractor recently traveled through to cut hay. The grass was up to the bars and I started thinking groundhogs again.

Little variations in route wake me up. They freshen the ride. And they don’t cost much. I keep thinking about riders who navigate urban landscapes and wonder what the comparable variations might be. With more roads I am certain there are alternatives, if even for a few miles. I suppose it is a matter of willingness to accept there may be alternatives, time, and patience.