Scooter in the Sticks

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

My Dead Vespa

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It happened today — pressed the starter on the Vespa but it would not start. First thought was an empty fuel tank but that couldn’t be true; I monitor fuel closely.

With Kissell Motorsports a mile away and pressure mounting to get back to work I made the call. Fifteen minutes later the scooter was on the back of a truck headed to the shop.

Good fortune had my friend Paul and his girlfriend Mary just down the road.

In a few minutes Paul was inspecting the Vespa and quickly found the spark plug lead had come off the plug. Worse, the end of the plug had come off and was lodge in the plug boot.

So the Vespa will get a new plug along with the 30K kilometer maintenance . I’ll be ready for winter.

I’m posting from my iPhone using an app I’ve never used before so I’m unsure where the picture of Paul and Mary will appear.

Paul is serious with his inspections.

Should have the Vespa back soon.

The Simple Night Ride

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The past two evenings I’ve found myself on the road at night and with it a renewed appreciation of riding.  Many riders tell me they don’t ride at night — too dangerous, too cold, or no fun.  I read in riding books about the misguided riders who venture forth at night, in the rain, or in cold weather. 
Make no mistake; the risk of riding at night is greater than it is during the day.
This evening I was sitting at the traffic light at the corner of Allen Street and Beaver Avenue in State College, Pennsylvania looking at the Christmas lights when I turned off the engine and pushed the Vespa up onto the sidewalk to make this picture.  And to look a bit longer at the lights.  Just long enough to be on my way before finding out that there is a law against having the scooter posing for pictures on the sidewalk.
Off into the night, a changing pattern of color and light as I made my way home, a visual treat that just doesn’t exist during the day.
The night before I rode to the grocery store for supplies — empty streets and a quiet parking lot.  The night air was crisp but not cold at 42F.  What struck me most was the tapestry of fragrances arise from the darkness offering an experience unique to the night.
Riding home through the smell of charred meat at the steakhouse and on past gasoline fumes from a busy island of gas pumps.  Passing through a tony section of State College my helmet filled with the acrid smell of coal — someone burning coal for some unfathomable reason in a neighborhood.  I remembered the same smell from childhood driving through less tony neighborhoods in Mckees Rocks and Coraopolis.
Passing into the sticks I was greeted by the unmistakable smell of fermenting liquid cow manure from a nearby dairy farm, the farmer no doubt adding or withdrawing from a lagoon and releasing a reminder of food production.
At some point I shuddered for a moment, just a bit of excitement from my senses being roused to life, realizing (again) at how powerful a ride can be.  Walking into the house, skin warm, eyes bright and a spring in my step I was sure a grin was painted on my face.  
All courtesy of a simple night ride.

Little Rides on a Fall Day

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Last Sunday morning arrived cool and foggy, the kind of day I relish as photographer and rider.  The falling leaves signal a change in days, a shortness of light and warmth and the arrival of the official Vespa riding season.

Just down the street I pull over to ponder the ride.  The painted white arrows echo the conversation in my head, the uncertainty of which direction I should go.  Eventually I decide to ride directly to my Sunday morning meeting with Gordon to talk photography and drink tea.  But until I get there, I savor the ride, no matter how ordinary or short.

Scooter riders become familiar with the liberal interpretation of parking rules, especially when applied to spaces beyond the reach of the four-wheeled world.  I’m not sure if it’s legal to park here but so far I’ve not attracted the interest of the local parking constabulary.  It is after all, a moped.

Vespa riders are badasses.  We sit in a dark corner of the room, back to the wall, and survey the world that’s ours to explore.  With tea cup in one hand and my Canon G9 (I seem to have lost it somewhere) in the other, I record the view at Saint’s Cafe on a Sunday morning.

The ride home under a clear morning sky offers a different experience.  After nearly dumping the Vespa on a steep drop from pavement to gravel caused by hasty decision to explore I stop to admire the landscape and admonish myself for being a careless rider.  I suppose it’s always good to look in the mirror and remind yourself of those inner weaknesses.

Later that day, the sun on the other side of the horizon, I ride back to town to an appointment.  Another little ride, another reminder of how satisfying even the little rides on a fall day can be.
No reason to wait for extreme adventures to enjoy the satisfaction of riding.

The Hello Kitty Harley

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Nothing says Harley-Davidson like a Hello Kitty water bottle.  I spied this one on Paul Ruby’s Harley Crossbones and wondered how he missed the marketing messages that Harley has poured millions into — with much success I might add. I may have suggested a HOG member seeing it might confiscate his bike.

Now I wish I had held my tongue.  He must have been upset because he’s traded the Harley for a 2007 BMW K1200 GT.  Hello Kitty will be more at home there I guess.

Paul and I left early to ride to Altoona to pick up my father-in-law before riding on to a new breakfast spot. Light traffic, long lights, and the easy of parking the Vespa allow for some quick pictures like this one. 

Remember those cool tablets that they used to give out on the first day of school along with the giant green wooden pencils?  If you weren’t alive and in the first grade around 1960 forget I mentioned this.

Anyways, the Blank Book Company has been making school supplies, tablets, notebooks, etc, for over one hundred years.  This was their original building in Roaring Spring.  I can’t quite decide which is more unique — the architecture or the two Vespa scooters with the Harley.

Mamie’s in Martinsburg. While Paul checks the map to figure out where we are the cooks are preparing what was among the finest breakfast sandwiches I have ever devoured.  Devoured is the right verb.  I had a half steak and egg sandwich on homemade bread with grilled peppers and onions. 

I’m not a donut guy.  I’ll eat them but am not impressed.  At least not until I had one of Mamie’s donuts.  Fresh, warm, sugary.  This is the kind of donut that Homer Simpson would abandon his family for.

When I looked at the folder on my computer for images of this ride the donut was the last one even though we put another 65 miles on the odometer before reaching home.  The donut was the capstone experience for this ride.  Thank god I didn’t ride 1000 miles to find it.

Imagining a Ride to the 2011 BMW International Rally in Bloomsburg, Pennsylvania

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Last Saturday morning I was on the road early, just before sunrise.  Not early enough for my plan to ride to the Kutztown Family Diner to visit the MAC-PAC breakfasteers.  The alarm went off shortly before 4am so I would have enough time to make the 175 mile trip and get to the diner by 8, but as luck would have it I cursed the alarm and slept for another hour and a half.

Riding at dawn is satisfying on many levels not the least of which being empty roads.  The drunks are already home, in a ditch or in jail by this time and the crazy cagers aren’t up yet.  So with the road clear and some time to ride I decided to pay a visit to the Bloomsburg Fair Grounds — the site of the upcoming BMW International Rally.

I stopped in Spring Mills hoping to grab something to eat having left home without breakfast. The Fairlawn Store wasn’t open yet.  No food, no bait.

Many years ago, before the Vespa, during a time when I was more serious about riding a bicycle, I appeared at this same store on a Sunday morning to buy some snacks and something to drink.  A group of men were sitting on the front porch eying me balefully as I went into the store and made my purchases.  I thought they might have been bothered by the black Spandex riding shorts and unusual riding shoes I had on until I looked down and realized I had one of my wife’s shirts on — a beautiful black t shirt with cute pink kitties on the front.  From that time on I’ve become more careful of what I drape over my body.

Just east of Aaronsburg I came across the Amish equivalent of the abandoned car.  A back wheel fell off the wagon and it ground to a halt.  Instead of pulling the plates they just unhitched the horse and moved on.

One of the ugliest Amish wagons I’ve seen.

The road between State College and Lewisburg cuts through some beautiful farmland with great views of the countryside.  Riding is a pleasure.  This is PA Route 45 about a half mile west of Woodward, home of Camp Woodward, one of the biggest BMX, skateboarding, snowboarding and gymnastics camps in the East.  ESPN is often here to televise events like X Games.  Whatever that is.

The road promptly enters the 193 thousand acres of forest comprising the Bald Eagle State Forest.  I was beginning to feel warm when the temperature descended to 59 degrees under the trees.  This stretch of road often gives me the creeps though I’m not sure why.  It passes a place called Hairy Johns Picnic Area.  Seems Mr. Johns was accused of murdering his wife in the early 1800s — she was found hanging on a meat hook in the cellar.  I’ve not fully investigated the story but perhaps some of that energy is still floating around, enough for a sensitive Vespa rider to absorb.

It doesn’t take long before you cross into Union County and the wide valleys leading through Hartleton, Mifflinburg and on to Lewisburg.  If you come this way on Route 45 make sure you slow down in Hartleton.  They have an ambitious speed trap running that I think funds their schools, water system and sewage plant.  And an educational fund that sends all their kids to college and provides, room, board and a fast car.

I stopped for a gratuitous picture of the Vespa and a vanishing railroad track.  I can’t remember why but I think these kinds of pictures make it possible for someone to get out of bed and ride on an old motorcycle or something.

I’m always glad to help when I can.

Crossing the river at Catawissa takes you through some beautiful roads running along the creek with lush moss covered rock outcrops.  If I had time I could stay here with the camera all day.

Arriving at the 2011 BMW International Rally site in Bloomsburg was anticlimactic.  The place was dead and looked pretty ordinary in the hazy light.  But add thousands of motorcycles and it will probably have a completely different feel.

For those of you thinking of going it runs from Thursday, July 21 through Sunday, July 24.  And the ride from State College to Bloomsburg is an easy ride.  Easy pretty much from anywhere in Pennsylvania.  Or the United States.

I didn’t linger.  It was Father’s Day and I wanted to get home and see if Kim got me a new motorcycle or something.  And my daughter was going to take me out for tea and cookies.  (That sounds kind of weird.)  The scooter was running well and I headed back through some winding country roads until picking up US 11 in Danville.

An Apology to a Band of Harley Riders

I’m usually a rather quiet, sedate rider and keep to myself.  But there are times when I find myself caught up in a surge of deviling energy.  This was one of those mornings.

I was standing along the road shooting a picture of something when a group of about 15 Harley riders roared by on full dress motorcycles and a bunch of near-chopper type machines.  Each without helmets and a general collection of gloveless hands, leather and t-shirts, the common fashion statements that one associates with this riding subculture.

I got back on the scooter and headed down the road in their direction.  They weren’t traveling very fast and after a few miles I joined the group, hanging back a couple car lengths as we all headed towards Northumberland.

And then a fascinating thing happened.  The rider at the back of the pack saw me and began a series of hand gestures that were passed forward to the leader of the pack.  In moments the pack sped up to put some distance between their mighty throng and my Vespa.

The devil whispered in my ear and I rolled on the throttle.  The Harleys moved faster, 60, 65, 70, 75mph but I was still riding along as if I were a member of the group.  They probably didn’t know that another mile per hour of speed would have left me behind as I had reached the limit of the Vespa.

I have to apologize for intruding in their fantasy and possibly ruining their day.  There are days when I can be a bit assholish.  I have no business taunting anyone on the road regardless of how harmless I think it is.

They eventually slowed and turned into a parking lot of a breakfast establishment as I went by.  Talking later with a Harley riding friend I suggested they were either talking about what a jerk that scooter rider was OR how fast that Vespa could go.

He assured me that it was the former.

Across the Susquehanna River and on towards home. Once the sun gets higher the temperature hovers near 80.  For a moment a swim sounds like a good idea.

After a short break to look around the riverbank and make a few pictures I plot a route home including one more break for gas and a bite to eat.  While sitting on the sidewalk in the shade of a trash can at the Sheetz in Mifflinburg a BMW R1200 GS rides up.  I talk with the rider and he’s planning to attend the rally in July.  I ask if he’s going to ride in the big GS event, ride over those log piles and through the water.  He looks and me and smiles, looks over at the Vespa, grins, and tells me, “It’s a new motorcycle.”

We didn’t say anything else, both nodding and doing that thing guys are so good at — leaving a conversation with incomplete information.  He headed east and I west towards a nap.

Five miles from home I stop to make a picture of the round barn near Centre Hall, one of the few left anywhere.  I heard a Harley coming towards me and wondered if I could fit it into the frame as it went by.  By dumb luck everything fit.  It’s a challenge to do considering the shutter lag on a point and shoot camera.

Home, a nap, tea and cookies, and lounging around like a lazy bum with Kim’s complete approval.  Ah if Father’s Day couldn’t come twice a week every week.  Junior on the other hand was not pleased that I left early without his usual four mile walk.  He was at me every moment trying to get some action.  Or at least a portrait for his website.  So he and I strolled out to the garden and I made this picture.

While he was nosing around for chipmunks I raced into the house and leaped onto the couch with him hot on my tail.  If he could talk I’m sure he would have said something like, “You’re one lazy bastard.”

And that’s a good thing.