A stop on the way to the grocery store to get milk.  Day fading and in a hurry —  the iPhone was the perfect tool to record the scene — launch the Instagram app, press the shutter button, done.

Looking at recent pictures has me wondering if I have the complete digital tool in my pocket. I wonder.

Often.

The morning dog walking ritual at times done half asleep.  I don’t want to drag a big camera along with me but there are moments I don’t want to forget so I use the iPhone.

Arguments of quality rattle through my brain as I point the iPhone at a subject — “Use a real camera fool, get the high res file, be professional…”

I tell myself I should use a better camera.  Give myself more pixels to work with but I don’t. And then I find myself somewhere special — the light, the forms, it’s all working and all I have is the iPhone.

The big digital SLR sits on a shelf as the Vespa rockets (poetic license) down the road and I accept a sacrifice in photographic quality using the iPhone compared to every other digital camera at my disposal. Still — the iPhone is easy, present, available — it makes pictures that otherwise would not exist.

A piece of chocolate cake at lunch with a friend; a quick photo with the camera phone before devouring everything short of licking the powdered sugar from the plate.  I think I understand my dog’s obsession with tennis balls better now. I’ve embarrassed to admit how many times I have looked at this image.  There’s something powerful at work in my head with cake.

Mental recrimination about the iPhone and what it means to be a real photographer and the programmed obsession with sharpness, resolution, resolution and megapixels. Bigger camera equals better pictures. Or so the myth goes.

Fog on the way to work as I cut across campus on a farm lane and I wanted to remind myself later how great it is to commute to work and all I have is the iPhone.

A recent discussion with a photographer friend had him outlining his quality concerns with a Canon 5D Mark III (no slouch of a camera in the DSLR realm) and his decision to move to a Pentax 645D medium format digital camera (huge files and a $10K pricetag for the body alone). He showed me 18×24 prints that seem impossibly detailed with color, tone and texture not normally discernable to the naked eye. My hand fingered the iPhone in my pocket as I tried to not drool on my shoes. Beautiful prints.

Kim in the garden — another fleeting moment that I want to backup my memory in a digital form — the light, the place, a piece of our lives without the mechanical intrusion of too much photographic gear.  I know I could use a little pocket camera but the iPhone allows me to shoot and process the final images in moments and send it on to Flickr, Twitter, Tumblr…

Early morning in State College.  Another digital snapshot using yet another filter in the Instagram collection.  I can’t remember what it’s called.

I really should buckle down and take this stuff more seriously and shoot with a real camera and methodically process the images. It echoes in my head over and over.

But I’m not that photographer. My nature and personality chafe at the tyranny of that kind of process and I’ve accepted I’ll never be comfortable in that creative landscape despite how much I admire that kind of work.

Horses wander onto the horizon on a pasture at Penn State.  Their lazy movements under a gray sky remind me of something I can’t quite put my finger on.  A fast capture on the iPhone and I can think about it later.  A digital post-it note.

Moments pass quickly in life and on the road and the fuss-free performance of the iPhone makes it possible to reach into the flow and snatch moments at will. I consider these images sketches — snapshots that reflect a creative freedom not possible when I’m enslaved by the tyranny of photographic law.

But that’s me.

A recent ride with Paul and Gordon began at my driveway.  Paul wandered up the street to watch the sunrise.  I know that feeling.  The iPhone makes it so easy to remember.

While the iPhone is not the complete tool for digital photography I’ve been impressed how valuable a tool it is for me while I’m on the road, out in the world, engaging a life.

I’ll write about the downside of the thing some other day…

Most serious riders know what Aerostich means — riding apparel for adventures beyond the fray of mere mortals.  Trips to the north and south poles, rides through minefields and other militarized landscapes.  Snow, ice, blizzards, rain storms, sand storms, locusts, fire and brimstone.

All that stuff.

And the machines associated with such gear are monstrous mechanical conveyances labeled with BMW, KTM, Yamaha, Honda and Harley to name a few.  Raw power trembling between two wheels.

Imagine my surprise at seeing a 2010 Vespa GTS 300 Super on the cover of the latest Aerostich catalog to arrive in the mail.  My eyes went to the RoadCrafter suit and I almost missed the Vespa hidden beneath the type on the cover.  But there it was — a Vespa on the cover of the Aerostich catalog.

I guess Vespa has reached the lofty heights of adventure — no longer condemned to the marketing goals of Piaggio of the stylish urban transport system.

The rider is Kristen Rosza and was photographed by Oz Lang, a San Francisco based photographer, during the recent Scooter Cannonball Run — a ride across the United States held every two years.

Maybe I need to finally order that Darien jacket I’m been thinking about…

Almost forgot to post these pictures from the last Piston and Pints gathering in Boalsburg, Pennsylvania.  Lots of motorcycles and riders showed up on a range of machines and with varied experience.  Has turned out to be a good place to listen to stories.

All true.

Dave Dix made his first appearance (I think) on his ’98 Ducati 748.  Dave still has me confused because I have him fixed in my head as a BMW GS rider.  So far he’s shown up with a Honda CRV, a scooter, and now a Ducati.

Maybe the BMW will appearance next time.

When I arrived and saw Ken Hull doing Harley repairs I thought he was instituting some new tradition by providing mechanical services at Pistons and Pints.

No.

He was fixing a defective fuel shutoff valve I think.  Or showing off his mechanical skills.  Or maybe both.

No repair is complete without adding rocket fuel to the tank.  I think he was pouring a 20 year-old single malt scotch into the tank.  Harleys are odd machines.  Turned out it was 100 octane aviation gas or rocket fuel.  He’s like most Harley riders and thinks those tired old engines actually require something stronger than kerosene to run.

Bruce made an early departure on his Kawasaki Versys.  Nice red bike shining in the strong evening sun.

Jeff runs the local automotive repair facility in Boalsburg but seems to find time to change the appearance of his ’81 Honda CX500 Deluxe.  It’s looking more and more like a cafe racer to me but what do I know.  I ride a Vespa.

Cool bike regardless.

John ( I think that’s his name) takes the award for the biggest bike at the event — a 2012 Yamaha XT1200Z Tenere.  Thing seems huge.  He has a folding ladder in the sidecase to facilitate mounting.  Not sure how he gets the ladder back in the case after he’s on the bike.

I have a soft spot for these kinds of giant machines — the big BMW Adventure, the KTMs, the Vespa GTS — they all seem inspired by John Deere or Kubota.  Real do anything go anywhere motorcycles.

The highlight of the evening for me was eavesdropping on a conversation revolving around how to explain to their significant others that they would be ditching their current rides in favor of a Vespa.

Serious business takes place at Piston and Pints.

I’m going to screw up two names here due to my incompetence with a pencil and paper coupled with neglect is asking for names.

Reta (?),  kneeling with the red shirt, is a motorcycle mechanic at Kissell Motorsports with a special affinity for anything Ducati.  He’s been at the last two get togethers and I’ve watched how people pick his brain for free advice.

I’m waiting for an attorney and rheumatologist to show up.

Dave came with his 2004 BMW R1150 RT.  Another fine entry from the Teutonic motorcycle manufacturer.  My father “worked” at a BMW plant after WWII.  I never quite figured out what the US Army was doing in the place in 1946.  Should have quizzed him while he was still around.

Craig Kissell and his wife came in motorcycle style when they pulled up in Triumph Bonneville with a sidecar.

John Dickison pulled up a few minutes later with his BMW with an elaborate Oxford sidecar.  I’ve piloted three different sidecar rigs with a brand new URAL being the latest.  They are definitely an acquired taste.

John has taken a big bite.

Kris (left) and Jim made their second appearance at Piston and Pints.  Kris is an MSF Rider Coach and I heard a few people muttering something about having to wear a helmet.  I didn’t get the impression Kris would preach to the unwashed crowd in attendance.  She was one of three who showed up ATGATT.

She should talk to Ken though.  He still believes he’s 17 and indestructible.  Don’t tell anyone this but during a conversation some months back Ken expressed his freedom from helmet or gloves or boots while riding his Harley.  Or something about freedom.  When the conversation turned to a Ducati he said he would wear a full helmet, riding suit, the works.  When I suggested his choices about gear had nothing to do with safety or freedom but were all about style he went to the quiet place men do when confronted with uncomfortable realities.

Maybe I just imagined that.  But I digress.

Kris arrived on this orange 2009 BMW K1300S.

Jim came on this fine looking 2005 Triumph Tiger 955.

John Dickison and Ken Hull.  I think John has ridden around the world a couple times now.  Or at least has done some high mileage riding, Saddle Sore 1000, stuff like that.  His wife Tracy is an MSF Rider Coach but hasn’t taken a bite out of the sidecar apple yet.  She’s still on a BMW though.

The only other scooter was Paul Ruby’s ’65 Vespa All State.  Weird to hear a two-stroke motor with all the motorcycles.

So keep in mind, 1st and 3rd Tuesdays of the month from 5 to 8pm.  Always room for more bikes and scooters.

A ritual — the Vespa sits in the driveway waiting for a turn of the key, a depression of the starter button, a push off the center stand and rolling on towards town.  Each Sunday morning, or nearly every occurrence not shrouded in snow, ice or personal sloth.

In the miles that follow a refinement of thought and purpose usually overcomes any concern related to yesterday or tomorrow.  For this time on the road I’m clear.

An emptiness permeates State College, Pennsylvania on a Sunday morning.  One reality among many, each rider or person bring their own interpretation.  By the time the Vespa rolls up Calder Alley I imagine my brain pumping serotonin into my system, blood vessels dialating causing vision and hearing to sharpen.  I see everything, miss nothing as if I’m reaping the benefits of some deep meditation.

The Sunday morning Vespa ride.

The world is reduced to a few simple elements of experience and the weight of concern and experience melt as if by magic.  In a few miles.  I’ve learned to get to this place quickly, feel the release, sense the smile spread out from within until I’m sure I’m glowing.

And all before that cup of tea.  How fortunate to find such a practice.

Riding.

The teazle have bloomed and their bare seed heads remain, a sure sign that the best part of summer is in the rear view mirror.  They trigger a melancholy akin to those Sunday nights as a kid when the closing credits of Bonanza rolled and I knew the weekend was over.  Not sure why I feel that way about summer since the crisp air of fall and winter are my preferred riding climate.

Last week I rode north under gray skies to nowhere in particular, just needed the soul soothing effect that riding can deliver.

Didn’t take long before lightly traveled pavement turned into empty gravel as I ascended Beech Creek Mountain Road onto the Allegheny Plateau and Sproul State Forest.  The Kenda tires I have on the Vespa are fine on the highway but leave much to be desired on dirt and gravel.  Making mental and physical adjustments to the new road surface is a form of riding meditation as I watched my speed increase and ability to manage sudden changes in road composition.

Stopping to make a picture, pulling the foam plugs from my ears, I recognize the trilling symphony of late summer as thousands of cicadas perform — more reminders of time sweeping past intensified by a sense of existential emptiness.

Or so I convince myself.

Choices.

Small roads become dirt tracks.  There always seems to be an alternative route especially when you’re not really concerned with where you end up.  The biggest risk is traveling miles only to find a gate closed.  A problem in a cage.  Not so much with a scooter unless you’re unlucky enough to run into one of the rare rangers who have to patrol hundreds of square miles of forest.

I stop sometimes for the oddest reasons.  Here because I’m convinced I’ll find a rattlesnake in the ferns.  And to eat a few crackers and drink some water.

I saw no snakes.

It started to rain at this stop, the sky dark and thick with moisture and with the temperature hovering around 70F I didn’t relish the idea of riding wet.  Fears were unfounded though and there were never more than a few light showers lasting only minutes.

A lot of riders passing through central Pennsylvania never get to experience the potential of the small, anonymous state roads as they cling to more familiar routes like US 6.  You can’t ride as fast on a lot of these roads and the likelihood of deer and other mammals is greater, and there are no places for food or fuel, but I believe there is a mystical experience in these places that the more adventurous rider can find.

Seventy miles from home, along the west branch of the Susquehanna River I decide it’s time to go home.  Not every ride can be a long ride but it’s often enough to get out and let the noise and chaos flow from your head and let the world rush over you.

And let those melancholy feelings about life sweeping by become a calmer, soft drift like a river in summer.