Scooter in the Sticks

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

Habits of Industry

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I read it on the inside of a bottle cap.

“A man who gives his children habits of industry provides for them better than by giving them a fortune.” Richard Whatley

My parents gave me those gifts but I’m not sure I took them. Hard work over a long time has been my habit but on closer inspection they have mostly been labors of love. A habit of industry would have me playing the piano and guitar, speaking German and Italian, and the grass would be mowed, trim painted and the garden weed free. Those aren’t labors of love.

Reading Doug Klassen’s post Someday Might Slip By on Forty Years on Two Wheels about blogging, riding, not riding, and generally how time slips by if you aren’t careful with it made the bottle cap wisdom leap out as a reminder from above. Good thing I was riding a bit and paying attention.

I have been struggling for years to develop better habits of industry and not just live on inspiration to move me to action. I don’t want to have to be in the mood to work. If I wait for the mood to hit me to paint the trim around the house it just won’t happen.

I’m sitting at Barnes and Noble writing this just finishing up the dessert course. The Vespa is sitting right outside the window and I can watch people stop for a quick peek. I took the long way to get here considering I hadn’t planned to ride this way.

Stopped in town to look at the old fire escape on the Odd Fellows Hall. I have photographed it a number of times and I don’t seem to tire of looking at it. And I never have been able to figure out exactly what the Independent Order of Odd Fellows actually does. Even a look at their Web site didn’t help.

Riding through Lemont I stopped to look at the restored grain elevator and coal storage bins.

The Granary is one of those beautiful architectural gems than don’t often manage to get saved or restored.

Found another farm lane disappearing up along a cornfield that I couldn’t resist.

Getting more and more comfortable off the pavement. At the top of the hill was another view I’ve not seen before. I suspect there are many more.

I think I am almost ready to practice a habit of industry and mow the grass. Or wash the car. Both are unsavory tasks that don’t ever really need done do they?

Hell, I suppose its all part of growing up.

The Plumber’s Ride

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Before I get to things plumbing I should explain the dearth of substance this past week. I have simply been enthralled with new responsibilities at work that are as enjoyable as riding. For that I feel quite fortunate.

On to the Plumber’s Ride.

I don’t think toilet fill valves are made as well as they once were. At least the ones I buy around here. They seem more like cheap plastic toys than anything designed for service in something as important as a toilet. I’m worried they might fail during installation and surprised if they last a year.

Like every home repair project I undertake I never have the right tools or parts. What was once a source of annoyance is now another opportunity to ride. And I am hard pressed to come up with any ride for any reason that I don’t jump to take. On this evening I’m the plumber heading out to buy a new fill valve.

The road is an endless opportunity of choices. I choose to ride directly to the store to by a valve but can’t resist a quick look at a stone quarry. The sun is heading towards the horizon and the Vespa looks pretty nice against all the limestone.

It only takes a moment to get another valve and I really did intend to ride directly home but some of the choices on the road are seductive. A choice appears as a narrow, rocky trail disappearing up a hill through the trees.

I tell myself the scooter can go up the trail. There might be something interesting up there. This trail is a remnant of an old farm lane. Over rock, root and rut I make my way through the woods and into a hidden hay field, freshly cut, that looks out over a view of the valley I have not seen before. A little gift of a riding choice.

I would never make the choice in my car or truck. Little explorations like this just aren’t generally in character for most drivers myself included. The terrain and near absence of a clear path would exclude most motorcycles as well. I don’t think many Harley, Goldwing, or other big bike riders are going to find promise here. These little adventures are made for a Vespa.

I already know the Vespa GTS250ie will embrace any highway in Pennsylvania if necessary. I’m slowly learning that it will also allow me to traverse other avenues as well. Nice fringe benefit to plumbing work.

Rear Tire Update

At 3245 miles I had the rear tire changed. It was worn smooth through the middle. I had the local Vespa dealer mount a new Pirelli GTS24 on the rear. It has a wide, sport bike look to it and the ride home was noticeably smoother than I had with the worn Sava it replaced. I am not an aggressive rider so I can’t really gauge or appreciate the full capabilities of tires. I just like having plenty of quality rubber underneath me.

Three thousand miles from now I will order two Kenda K761 tires following the advice of Gary Charpentier of Rush Hour Rambling. The more aggressive tread of the Kenda tires should serve well into the winter and for any off-road adventures.

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.