Exploring life on a Vespa, Royal Enfield Himalayan, Honda Trail 125, and a Kawasaki W650
A morning ride several weeks ago — pushing, pushing through air, through space, pushing, gritting, standing, riding through the chill air, spine straight, neck extended, seeking, reaching, grasping for the day. Now, then, tomorrow. The Vespa pushes the asphalt, slicing through space towards a destination.
At 65mph at 35F the air feels cold. The Vespa provides little protection without a windshield or hand guards. With heated gloves at home I am having the naked riding experience. Armored against the cold as best I can it’s always waiting, restlessly searching for an opening to make me uncomfortable.
Below an overpass on Interstate 99, boots scratching at frozen gravel, eyes scanning the lines of steel and concrete overhead, making a picture and postponing for a few moments having blood drained from my arm. That’s my first destination — blood tests at the hospital.
Face raised towards the sun I stood for a long moment on a gravel lane leading from Mount Nittany Medical Center towards Beaver Stadium. An elastic bandage on my squeezed my left arm, holding in place a small square of gauze protecting a hole where a phlebotomist pushed a fine steel needle into a vein. Thick, dark red liquid filled one glass vial then another as I provided evidence for my doctor to manage my psoriatic arthritis, monitor the chemicals in my body used to counter an aggressive immune system that’s declared war on the body it’s supposed to protect.
I feel like I’m in the middle.
People gather at the statue of Joe Paterno leaving cards and flowers and other tokens of recognition. His legacy is still unfolding, his grand experiment unique and probably never to be repeated.
Anywhere.
Another stop at the library bearing the Paterno name. Not sure if any other large university had a coach who built a library. After picking up a book more errands lay ahead. The Vespa has proven itself over and over as a near perfect vehicle for my eclectic journeys.
Steam rises in small, turbulent swirls as I stare at the Starbucks on the table. Watching, looking, remembering lazy summer days laying on a grassy field as white, cotton candy clouds passed overhead. Alone with a cup of tea, a few moments to pause and think and just enjoy the moment.
Towards home, detoured once, twice, three times to extend the ride, expand the sights, and drink in the world. Even the short trips like these, filled with duty and task, can be exquisite. Fun. Free.
For me at least.
Gerbing is as good as their word — a brand new pair of leather, G3 heated gloves. My old ones failed and they replaced them. I’m a confirmed Gerbing rider. And when I got home from work tonight I had to try them out during a trip into town. While the Vespa was idling in the driveway I plugged the new gloves in and felt warmth almost instantly. Really warm. And the new gloves have heated palms.
I knew there would be some ice to experiment with nearby and I wanted to give the snow tires a little more testing in a controlled setting. I’m always interested in what the limits of equipment are to factor into my own limitations. As the temperature dropped to 27F I figured I better head into town.
You don’t see boots are cars very often around here. Finding one on a Yamaha Vino scooter must be a first. The fines for this rider have to be rough.
Walking down Beaver Avenue in State College, Pennsylvania I saw a poster of James Dean and Marilyn Monroe (I think) in the window of Uncle Eli’s. Couldn’t resist taking a picture but it’s the kind of vision I would expect on Twisted Roads rather than here.
I had been thinking about heated grips for the past few weeks while my dead electric gloves were in Tumwater. But I can say without reservation that these new Gerbing heated gloves work so well that I won’t be looking at anything else.
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.
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.