After almost a week of having to take the Ford Ranger to work I was ready to ride. Friday evening I exchanged the dark Iridium Visor on my Fulmer helmet for the clear one paving the way for a pre-dawn departure. I rolled the Vespa GTS out of the garage at 5:30 AM to a clear, star filled sky with the temperature a mild 53° F. After so much hot weather I forgot what that means on two-wheels.

Riding along through the agricultural areas where cornfields and woodlots that grow right to the edge of the roads meant I would need to manage the risk of encountering Whitetail deer. Since it was still dark and the deer would be moving at this time of day the only real option would be to slow down. I hadn’t gotten three miles until I had to stop to put on another shirt. I made a big mistake not wearing my insulated First Gear Kilimanjaro IV jacket. I looked at the weather report and saw that the temperature would hit the low 70’s. That did happen but not until almost 1 PM. Three layers under the vented jacket kept me functional if not comfortable. The bigger problem was my hands that remained numb or near numb until almost noon. For the first 105 miles the temperature never got above 55° F.

I was on the road 20 minutes before I saw another vehicle. The solitude of riding is magnified on the road near dawn. I’ve not tired of watching the sky begin to brighten and change color during those minutes before the sun breaches the horizon.

I missed the actual sunrise while crossing Nittany Mountain near Rebersburg; the heavily forested area masking any direct light from the low sun. Riding along I could feel my spirits begin to soar and an electric thrill moves through me just because I am riding. I keep asking myself why I didn’t start riding again a long time ago.

I enter Sugar Valley and turn east into the sun right over the road. Almost 15 miles of shielding my eyes from the direct sun with my left hand relaxing only when the road was shielded by trees. Without doing so the shadows were jet black and who knows what would be waiting for me. I was grateful when I finally turned north and on towards Pine Creek Gorge.

At Waterville I had to stop and warm up my hands. Even though I was wearing windproof and insulated gloves they were not heavy enough to do the jog. I know better than to head out unprepared but I allowed myself to be lulled by the idea that it was summer.

About 20 minutes in the sun with a cup of hot chocolate cheered my spirits and thawed my hands enough to continue on towards my next mistake.

When I can’t ride I look at maps and imagine riding. My route this morning was to follow PA 44 to PA 414 along Pine Creek into Pennsylvania’s Grand Canyon – the Pine Creek Gorge. A mental mix-up of the map in my head has me follow PA 44 up onto the mountain top rather than remain along the creek and take me far West of my objective. To make matters worse the state has kindly tarred and chipped the road on top of the mountain treating me to almost 25 miles of gravel and 25 MPH speeds.

Thank god the scenery was enjoyable and I stopped often to look out across the many vistas.

When the road finally cleared my mind moved from managing the changing surface to my stomach and breakfast. A big banner proclaiming “BREAKFAST” on the front porch of the Carter Camp Lodge was all I needed to stop for food, water, and warmth.

I could not have found a better and more relaxed place to eat and the gentleman cooking my breakfast took an interest in the Vespa. Not enough to dissuade him from his BMW R90 though.

And it did not keep him from making one great hearty breakfast either. The Carter Camp Lodge will be on my list of stops next time I pass this way.

The Vespa and I are moving down the road again around 11AM. I’ve been on the road for over 5 hours and have gone 105 miles. I’ve stopped over a dozen times to take pictures, had breakfast, adjusted clothing, and traveled slowly for deer and gravel. So I suppose I’m not doing too badly.

I hit the famous US Route 6 at Galeton and decide it’s time to head home without back tracking to the canyon or seeing the sights. With another 120 miles ahead of me I crank the throttle and cruise along.

My plan was to head to Wellsboro and south on PA 287 and on home. Postcard weather and fine roads through some of the prettiest places in the state promised a fine ride until the scooter and my brain conspired against me. First I noticed the exhaust sounded louder than normal. A quick check of the infamous Vespa GTS exhaust system gasket confirmed that it was beginning to fail. Luckily I made it home before it blew out. The scooter is now with the dealer for a new gasket that is part of a manufacturer recall. During the trip home though I began to wonder if the kind of riding I have been doing is too much for the scooter, if I should really be riding something bigger, more powerful, more durable. All this while cruising along comfortably at 60 MPH on a machine that has proven to be nothing short of exceptional.

But my mind wanders to the fact that I didn’t pass a scooter all day or a motorcycle under 1000cc’s. Those thoughts pass quickly though as I absorb the scenery and amazing roads that I have to ride on.

Kim looks out for me. Yesterday morning around 5:30 AM she wakes me with the words “there’s fog outside”. No matter how sleepy I am those words don’t fail to awake the rider and photographer. So I left for work early just so I could ride (I wanted to say ramble but I feel that word is spoken for) a bit in the magic.

The fog was not of the ground level variety and instead hovered higher in the air where it filtered the light a bit. This photo was made along Bear Meadows Road in Rothrock State Forest.

Went on a long ride with my friend Paul Ruby. He has acquired a new to him Kawasaki Concours motorcycle as a replacement for his Suzuki DRZ400 SuperMoto. Pretty drastic change. I have not had time to write that up yet or go through all the pictures I made. Hopefully by the end of the week.

No fog this morning so I think it will be a straight ride to work. Even that is a fine time…

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.

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.