Scooter in the Sticks

Exploring life on a Vespa Scooter and Royal Enfield Himalayan motorcycle.

The Sartorialist

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I didn’t shoot this picture.  It appeared on the Sartorialist, a blog about fashion by Scott Schuman. Schuman is a photographer who writes and has a tremendous following in the fashion industry. Seen as one of the most influential men in fashion it’s no wonder considering he measures visitors to his blog each month in the millions.

New York Magazine had a great story about the Sartorialist, Schuman and his blogger wife, Garance Dore.

His photography attracted me, his ability to see, approach and document an aspect of life that he’s passionately connected to. Motorcycles and scooters make their way into his posts on ocassion and when I saw this one I thought it might be time to share.  One of my photographic goals is to make portraits of some of the riders I see on the road.  If I ever get around to doing it the Sartorialist will be something I try and emulate.

I admit feeling a bit ruffled and unkempt when I look at his photographs of people, found on the street, wearing what they wear. Not often making my way to Paris, New York or Milan, chances are you won’t see me appear on The Sartorialist any time soon.

Still, it’s worth a look.

Riding in the Gray and Grit

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Winter feels gray and gritty.  It shows on the soul and on the Vespa as the grime collects.  Piles of crushed limestone dot the landscape where road crews place material to add friction to the roads when it snows.  This morning on the way to work in the dim light I wondered where all the color went.

One stop to buy something to eat at lunchtime and make a picture of the local fuel depot.  I remember when I worked at an Arco station in high school with one gas island and two pumps.  We handed out Green Stamps, washed windshields and checked oil.  Can’t quite understand how that was possible when I look at these modern installations and the number of vehicles guzzling gas.

On cold days, even ones with no snow and no threat of snow the parking lot doesn’t have many two-wheeled commuters.  Just the intrepid Vespa riders braving the winter elements — on this day a balmy 35F. Despite the gloom one thing shines through — the grin engendered by the trip, the travel, the road.

Damn, I love it so.

The Senses of Riding

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A dog may not reflect a connection to riding to the casual observer, the connoisseur of mechanical marvel, or the unwashed masses who see riders as fools with a death wishes as they talk on their cellphones.  My dog Junior, like my Vespa, bring me into the world, cause me to move forward, at this time of year through resistance and doubt only to emerge at the other end of a trip with a profound sense of satisfaction.  Like a dog, eyes, ears, nose, they’re all turned on, alert and scanning the world.

The Vespa almost always comes after the dog.  Biology trumps engineering.

A ride to work, on an errand, or just an unplanned and aimless trip to no where in particular is much like he morning walk — senses attuned to the world, sights to see, and that feeling of motion, flying in this instance, but motion both figuratively and literally.  It’s a potent medicine.

And always there’s arrivals.  A place, a sight, a location.  In cold weather I relish in an almost unnatural way the heat and steam of a cup of tea as no other drink has ever provoked.  And again, the senses are focused keen like a sharp knife on every sound and motion, sight and smell.  All lost on the non-rider?  How would I know?

There are the grand sights and the small ones.  When riding to work or on little journies from one task to the next a person takes things as they come.  Standing at a coffee shop counter I spy the tulips across the room in the window.  I’m certain, had I arrived in the van, my mind would be elsewhere and I’d never have seen them.

Thank you ride.

My Own Private Insanity

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Riding in the winter is my own private insanity. I do it over and over again with the same results.

In more serious moments, like this evening, standing in the parking lot at work, looking at the darkening sky, wondering how dry the road would be, asking myself which route to take to minimize automotive pressure to rush and I’m left wondering (again) if I’m not being just a bit foolish.

This morning I almost left the Vespa in the garage; a quick look out the window revealed some dusting of snow from the previous night.  Walking through the driveway I realized how much ice might remain on untreated surfaces.  For those of you in warm climates read that surfaces without metal eating salt.

I don’t remember the decision making process.  The 29F temperature didn’t matter so I must have assumed (rightly) that the roads would be clear and remain so throughout the day.  What I didn’t count on was being at work late and riding home in the dark.

Mental calculations are quick in the cold — gear in place, road surface acceptable, traffic thinning, visibility good.  But there are things I forget. Aggravations at night, in the cold, with visor constantly fogging and the glare of headlights making it hard to assess the road ahead for deer, living or dead, chunks of firewood, on an unfortunate instance of ice, I asked myself again, “What the hell?”

With a smile.

The ride home was uneventful save for some beautiful instances of a landscape under a dying light.  And of course, there is always, every time, a rather potent feeling of accomplishment that doesn’t show itself in warm air.

Is it worth the trouble, discomfort and risk?  Maybe only in my own private insanity.

Suffering and Joy

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Sometimes, when desire meets reality, you come face to face with suffering.  Most recently it was unexpected physical discomfort related to the cold and my newly arthritic feet.  Out early yesterday with the temperature hovering around 20F should have been like a walk in the park.  Instead I was served a big bite of suffering.

Looking back I can see how my love of winter has decayed into a state of annoyed acceptance that it’s a fact of life in central Pennsylvania.  This first cold ride of the season really surprised me and has me wondering how much cold I can tolerate.  A question every year round rider wrestles with at some point.

After an hour I planted myself in Starbucks to hold a paper cup full of hot chocolate in my hands, let my feet warm, and scribble a few notes on index cards about the challenges ahead.  I wrote “Suffering” at the top of the first card intending to post under that title.  But things have a way of changing.

The iPhone vibrated on the table displaying an image of my friend Gordon.  He and his wife Val bought their 14 year old son a .22 rifle for Christmas, a Ruger 10/22.  Nice gun.  And since he had never shot a gun before he asked if I could go with them to the local shooting range and get them started.  I remember the .22 rifle my father got for me around the same age and the joy I found going out with him to plink away at tin cans.  
Funny how warm some of my memories are related to weapons.
Last time I fired a gun at this range was in the early 1970s when a serendipitous encounter with gun dealer led to firing thousands of round of ammunition via an array of automatic weapons.  My first experience with a Thompson sub machine gun, M16, UZI, and an Ingram MAC-10 with a suppressor.  I learned two things.  Automatic weapons are fun to shoot.  Loading magazines isn’t.  It’s an interesting story that I’ll share someday.
Gordon’s son wasn’t the only one surprised on Christmas morning.  Gordon’s wife Val gave him a pair of riding gloves and some scooter brochures.  The meaning is obvious.  More joy at Christmas.
Went riding again today with no suffering.  Suppose there is a yin and yang to it all.  Didn’t realize polar forces of opposite strength were at work in my riding life — the suffering and the joy.