Author Thomas Wolfe wrote in his novel You Can’t Go Home Again, “I have to see a thing a thousand times before I see it once.” I understand the idea.

Over the years I’ve made thousands of pictures of my wife, dog, Vespa and the landscapes I frequent — a relentless, obsessive pursuit that many don’t understand while others dismiss as some irrational action of one of those “creative people”.

For years I’ve been venturing out on Sunday mornings, often riding the same routes looking at the same scenes. And I still see something new every trip, feel something a bit different, experience reality in a slightly altered manner.  So I keep riding and making pictures.

And Junior feels left out, wondering what attraction that silver contraption holds.  I remind him that I make a lot of pictures of him as well, thousands in fact, and still I haven’t seen him well.

A ride up Calder Alley in State College, Pennsylvania last Sunday morning.  New stories playing out, everything a bit different — special in its own way.

Riding across a valley I’ve traversed for forty years and I still find places I’ve not seen.  A short walk to the top of a weed covered promontory where I can survey this new place, take in the the sight, this time for the first time, another 999 visits to go before I see it.

Riding the Vespa, a means to an end, a part of a thousand journeys.  I keep trying to see these places and I’m not done yet.

So I’ll keep the camera handy and keep riding.

Rain over Mount Nittany this morning, an iconic landscape associated with Penn State, as seen on my way to work this evening.  I could see the fog and rain passing over the mountain as I walked the dog this morning and planned to make a picture.  Gray skies and mist are good for riding and photography.

By the time I returned home this evening the rain had passed but the sky still held on to that fairyland feeling that often sweeps overhead with a change in weather.  The red light in the distance was the tail lights of a car or truck at the edge of the woods.  Not sure what they were doing back there but didn’t feel like finding out.

A quick picture and I was on my way, minutes from home, with three Mexi-Hots from Meyer Dairy Store.  When I was a student (in 1972) there was a place called Pop’s Mexi-Hots in State College, Pennsylvania selling the luscious little hot dogs with mustard, chili and onions.  Joe Meyer acquired the recipe when Pop went out of business and a faithful few still show up to have one now and again.

I could myself as one of the faithful.

Morning mental checklist — weather report — rain, might need van, lots of stuff to take to work, van makes sense.  Check, check, check and check.  All adds up to riding the Vespa.  Standing in the driveway with all my junk piled on the scooter I knew I was making the right decision.

Rides to work can be absolutely ordinary with the highlight of the trip at stop at Subway for a takeout breakfast.  Yet peering out the window this morning I knew I’d see the world differently had I arrived at this spot via a Honda van.

Self portrait.

And then the workday is over.  A stop on the way home, a path I’ve ridden hundreds of times, and always, regardless of weather or events of the day, an place with uncanny power to calm and recompose a swirl of jagged mental energy into a quiet symphony of nothingness.

And on towards home, a lingering look at a quiet place before the final ride of the day disappears in the darkness.  I was not alone here.  Just 50 yards to my right a man crouched in front of a minivan staring at a small fire in the road.   He didn’t look up and I didn’t intrude.

Perhaps he’d found his own version of ride, work, ride…

Saturday morning — bright, clean, a fresh world.  Riding familiar roads and seeing them for the first time.  Miles roll by as the clutter of hectic thought burns away leaving all things new.  No destination or plan, just the rush of wind in my helmet, a born again virgin rider in spirit. The ride assumes a rhythmic beat of sense and recognition, of movement and gravity, churning forward  and onward until all becomes a quiet meditation.

And in that moment another path appears — Vespa ready and rider willing, winding through a field, a stop and footed wander until there is nothing but a breath followed by another, and another, and another.

Hand pulling a camera from a jacket pocket, eyes sweeping across the horizon, building a memory, the camera at work for insurance lest noise and confusion overwhelm this remembered moment.

The Vespa across the landscape — the ride, the gift, the trembling joy of being alive.

I love to ride.