Scooter in the Sticks

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

Style and Serendipitous Riding

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There’s nothing unusual about heading to the convenience store for some chocolate to go with my late night cup of tea.  A short ride, nice night air, a satisfying experience.  Seeing my reflection in the front doors though had me asking what sort of rider I was.

Not long ago I watched a guy ride up on a big Victory touring bike.  The motorcycle sparkled and the black leather fringe hanging from the hand grips matched his dazzling leather riding suit.  Boots, helmet, gloves, everything was selected with care.  He could have stepped out of a catalog.

So here I am standing in front of the doors looking at my reflection. Unshaven, messed up hair.  Short, black and yellow Triumph vented riding jacket, unwashed since I bought it in 2006.  Hanging out from under is the shirt tail of the beat up red flannel shirt I was wearing all day while working in the garden.  My eyes look down past my filthy jeans to a pair of mud crusted boots.  Some riders dress like pirates, others don their Aerostich gear, while others assume the careful attire of a variety of riding styles.  Me on the other hand, I’ve completely dropped the ball.  A derelict has just ridden up on a Vespa.

Grabbed a couple Hershey bars while mincing through the store trying to minimize the amount of mud shedding from my boots. I’m not sure I’ve every seen a muddy, unkempt rider who wasn’t associated with a dirt bike.  Perhaps I lead a sheltered life.

And don’t ask why as the clock neared midnight I was still in such a sorry state.

The next morning all was well with the world. The sun was out and so was I — this time clean and in my traditional riding clothes.  A quick stop at the local quarry for a picture as I tried to figure out where to go and what to do.  Being Mother’s Day I couldn’t wander far being a good husband and son-in-law.

So breakfast is always a good choice.  Time to think.  A scrap of paper on the table had the words AAUW Used Booksale scribbled on it.  Perfect.  A serendipitous revelation. You never can have too many books right?

Arrived early on the second morning of the sale and didn’t expect to find any treasures.  Wrong as usual.  Found three gems for Kim to add to her Mother’s Day loot.  And a nice hardback edition of Joseph Conrad’s Heart of Darkness for my daughter.  She likes travel books.  What could be a better choice?

Later in the evening I had to ride into State College.  On the way down the sidewalk, camera in hand I’m shooting pictures, little sketches of whatever.  I decide to make a self portrait with the photography word in the window.  That’s me — photography.  Later, at home, looking at the images I see the motorcycle in the reflection.  Never saw it while making the picture. Serendipity at work.
Didn’t hear it either.  Someone better man up and get a loud exhaust.

 
On the way home riding towards Mt. Nittany, that iconic geological formation so intimately tied to Penn State.  Perfect evening with postcard light.  A fine way to end an unusal riding weekend.  I don’t want to write serendipitous again because it doesn’t sound nearly strong enough to bolster my ego, reputation or style.   And that’s a big part of riding.
Isn’t it??

The Resistant Rider

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My dog Junior watched with a forlorn look as I rolled the Vespa out of the garage.  The language barrier kept me from explaining I would only be gone a few hours, that there was work to do today that would keep me from riding longer, that I would be home soon to offer treats and tennis balls. Riding lust effectively inoculated me from any battered baby seal looks that Junior can muster.  I’m immune to canine manipulation.

The riding plan was loose, almost non-existent, a general direction and time constraint with plans to limit my stops for pictures.  Charlie6 of Redleg’s Rides inquired about the appearance of the Vespa GTS with the GIVI E370 topcase.  That request haunts some of these pictures.

From the moment I twisted the throttle I could feel a vague, mental discomfort about the road ahead.  Familiar, and not unlike what best-selling backpacking author Colin Fletcher describes as “Fletcheritis”, the anxiety a hiker feels before a big trip.

A recurring and scurvy condition (typically, a horrendous slump with variegated symptoms, uniformly exhausting and dire, or semi-dire) that oozes into existence at such moments of crisis.

And though I was only planning a trip of a few hours I could quickly tell my heart was elsewhere.  Too many thoughts in my head, too many stories swirling in my brain. 

A ride is a series of decision points, at least for me when it’s no longer a question of where to go but what to do.  A turn off into a field would offer a chance to consider the options.  The summer tires on the scooter are not nearly as good off the road as the winter tires I have been using for the past few months.  Made a note to be careful.

Another stop, another picture, and I surrender the riding plans and decide on breakfast instead.  I can ride another day.

Parked across the street from the Cafe on the Park in Bellefonte, Pennsylvania, a familar breakfast stop. By this time my stomach has taken control from my brain and I’m nothing more than an automaton.

Only one biker in the place.  One of those bikers, the kind that have nothing in common with me.  And wear clothes with far more words on them than I’m comfortable with.  I have a black T-shirt on with the word “NO” in white letters across the chest.  It’s a work related thing.

Bacon, the candy of meat.  Breakfast erases just about any concern I have.  The only way this could have been better is if I was eating it after 120 run that was just the first of four riding legs before needing to be home at 4pm.  But that will have to wait for another day when I’m not suffering from psuedoriding relucto wimpism.

After renewing membership in the clean plate club I made plans to ride to the local farmers market to visit a tame animal the owner of the cafe described.  Seemed appropriate to visit a petting zoo since I didn’t appear too thrilled with riding.

In the park beyond the Vespa a group of Tai Chi practioners moved in slow motion.  For a moment the Vespa seemed overly powerful.  Just for a moment and then it returned to it’s utilitarian state.

This is Bentley, a 17 year old American Bison and his owner indicated he is tame, that she raised him by hand from two days old.  I inquired on the life span of a bison and was told he cold live for 40 years.  Since the owner was at the farmer’s market selling bison steaks and roasts I wondered to myself about his longevity until she interjected that Bentley isn’t worried.  He won’t end up on the table.

She shared another interesting factoid — the American Bison is the only land mammal that never gets cancer.  Did not know that.

Bought a sirloin steak and headed for home.  All plans for a nice long ride evaporated in a cloud of mental resistance.  Oh well, I had to go to work anyways…

Favorite Vespa Rides

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After years of riding, writing and taking pictures it’s easy to loose track of individual rides.  I went through Scooter in the Sticks and picked out some of my favorite or more memorable experiences.  They aren’t Vespa reviews or anything like that.  Just reflections of the kind of experiences I have had.
I didn’t include any winter rides on the Vespa or motorcycle rides.   These are the rides that any Vespa owner could undertake without concern for rain, snow or ice. 

In my estimation riding is a little miracle accessible on a daily basis.  Hard to describe if you’ve never ridden before.  And if you have you probably have a collection of your own favorites.

A pre-dawn ride from State College, Pennsylvania to Pittsburgh to explore the landscape of my youth. A day of exploring and 320 miles of scooter adventure.

Heading south through Maryland and West Virginia for a pleasant 258 mile ride.

An overnight trip with my friend Paul through the Wilds of Pennsylvania.

A couple hundred miles of Vespa riding will change a person’s outlook.  Riding east towards Centralia and the Coney Island Lunch.

Solitary riding through the empty parts of Pennsylvania with a camera and desire to explore.

Relaxing on a Vespa LX150 through north central Pennsylvania.

A riding response to being characterized by another blogger as a curious toddler.

A picture story of a Vespa ride through the sticks.

Embracing the special riding qualities of a Vespa that make the world a little more exciting.

Top Ten Reasons Why There Are No Motorcycles on the Road

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Last Thursday evening I rode into State College, Pennsylvania.  The sky was clear with a few wispy clouds made pink by the lowering sun and the temperature was hovering near 50F.  Perfect conditions for riding after a miserable winter.  Here’s the scene at the motorcycle parking spaces across from Schlow Library — three Vespa scooters.  So far this year the motorcycle riders are scarce to non-existent.  As I was riding home I knew there had to be a reason.  Maybe a helpful motorcycle rider can indicate the right choice.
10. Earth Day is approaching and I want to do my part for fuel conservation by staying off the road.
9. My Roadcrafter suit is at the dry cleaners.
8. Didn’t want to risk a breakdown and miss The Office because my Tivo is on the fritz.
7. I just hate waving to all those scooters on the road.
6. Fifty degrees is too cold to dress like a pirate.
5. The battery is dead on my GPS.
4. My wife says I’m not allowed to go out.
3. My husband whines like a little baby whenever I go for a ride in the evening.
2. I thought only scooters were allowed on the road until June 1.
1. Fifty degrees???  Are you nuts???
Maybe there are other reasons.  But I know as soon as the temperature hits 70F motorcycles appear like flies.
And just so you don’t think all scooter riders are tough or something.  I saw this Honda Ruckus at work yesterday with a rain coat.  Isn’t it just wrong to cover your machine when it’s not at home?  I think the BMW MOA rescinds membership rights if someone does that with a BMW.

Riding and the Curious Toddler

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Of all the names ascribed to me Curious Toddler might be the best. Or at least I’ve convinced myself of this after a long weekend. Stacy Bolty, author of Bolty.net for some reason chose me to bookend a wide range of riders as a curious toddler. Cool – my 15 minutes of fame promised by Warhol. He never said it would be a heroic or magnificent 15 minutes.

Curious Toddler. Curious.

By the end of the first evening I was talking to myself and standing in front of the mirror flexing my biceps. At least until I remembered being called Weenie Arms Williams in second grade. Pouring through websites for BMW, Ducati, Triumph and Ducati and commenting out loud, “I could ride that. Oh yeah, that one too, piece of cake.” And on and on until it occurs to me that I might need to renew my subscription to Guns and Ammo. I let it lapse in ninth grade.

Part of the evening is spent dusting off the free weight set in the basement. Hairballs from the last three dogs we’ve owned encase them under a workbench. Back in the living room I busy myself designing appropriate tattoos that utilize flames, lightning bolts, and mythical creatures. By bedtime Kim is stroking my hand and whispering, “You’re my man…”

Curious. Is that a polite way of saying odd? Or weird, strange, eccentric? The mind plays tricks with the ego. And toddler. Does that make me an infant, a big baby, or is it code for infantile? Or stupid. By midnight I’m standing outside with Junior peering up at the heavens asking, “Why?”

And the answer strikes deep inside – I am a curious toddler.


Ice water sparkles in a red plastic glass, a welcome hydration after several hours on the road. The narrow, white Formica counter top flecked with gold transports me back to dinner with my mom and dad at Danny’s Restaurant on Neville Island fifty years earlier where I marveled at the riches spread out before me.

Diner 22 just outside Alexandria, Pennsylvania on US 22, a stop for breakfast and a chance for my toes to warm. No riders here. None seen anywhere during the morning – the chill air still keeping most motorcycles and scooters at home. A few old men sit to my right lapping up chicken parmesan, the daily lunch special — $6.25. Overhead is a sign, “J-EET-YET”. Soon my predictable plate of scrambled eggs, bacon, potatoes, and toast will make the answer yes.

That meal is probably more dangerous than anything I encounter on the road.

I work methodically through my breakfast presented neatly on a heavy white plate. Taped to the glass door on the refrigerator in front of me is a hand-lettered sign on peach colored paper announcing fresh baked cinnamon rolls for $1.75. The crisp bacon looses flavor as I contemplate the snaps on my Tourmaster Overpants. A cinnamon roll sitting close to the door whispers my name just as a harmonica begins to wail on the overhead speakers. The waitress crashes two of the red plastic glasses into the ice chest. The Vespa keys are lying on the counter. I look up and catch her eye. It’s over, I’ve lost. I close my mouth tightly for fear drool might escape.

Defying reason I stand up and pay my bill and escape without the unnecessary weight of a cinnamon roll.

The ride started hours earlier as I explained to Junior that any long walk would have to wait until I got home. The sight of fog on the mountain coupled with a strong desire to ride the Vespa overcame the dog’s insistent suggestions of taking a ride in the truck to all his favorite destinations.

Traveling towards weather makes route choices easier. The temperature display indicated 35F as I rolled out of the driveway towards Rothrock State Forest and a maze of dirt and gravel roads. Eight miles from home and I’ve already stopped six times to take pictures. Curious Toddler comes to mind as I wander around the roadside looking for treasure. It begins to seem an appropriate title.

I can’t help being swept away by the gloomy landscape, as if walking through a Charlotte Bronte landscape.

Climbing towards the top of Thickhead Mountain, another stop, more wandering around, searching for a rock for the garden. Winter hasn’t been harsh on the road. Gravel still mostly in place and very little mud to deal with.

Despite the greater risk of riding in fog I am mesmerized by how things look. It’s hard not to give up riding and just make pictures. And there are no bad pictures when fog is involved.

The road and landscape merge to form a continuous picture that compels me to stop despite oaths to ride onward and allow the passing scenes to fade into memory.

Fog.

Standing in the road I see possibility, recall memories from youth, scenes of Barnabas Collins or passages from Edgar Allen Poe. Twelve miles now and I’ve stopped nine times to make pictures. Riding has become incidental, a means to another end. I am the Curious Toddler.

Proceeding down the mountain reveals a shortcoming of a scooter with an automatic transmission. A constant velocity transmission (CVT) for engineers or the mechanically minded. What this means is there is little engine braking available. Roll off the throttle, the RPMS drop and before you know it you’re freewheeling at increasing speed. Braking requires a sensitive touch and complete understanding of what is about to happen when the throttle is twisted. Applying power suddenly engages the powertrain and, depending on speed and road surface, can yield a sudden lurch as the transmission is engaged. On snow it can be a catastrophe. On loose gravel or mud it’s a wait and see thing. Motorcycle riders have it much easier with their endless features and capabilities.

Lichen covered rocks in a woodland setting. Gleaning ideas for a Japanese garden installation. Distant, almost insignificant in the photo, the Ves pa asks if I want to ride. At times I feel it deserves a better home. I keep promising to leave the camera and iPhone at home and just ride, explore on the road and not on foot. An attempt to rein in the Curious Toddler.

If you find yourself wandering in a similar environment make a note – those damp rocks are slippery. Crashing down on your head slippery.

 Earthly magnetism. I’m drawn to the edge of landscapes where one place ends and another begins – a canyon rim, seashore, overlook. Places to peer into infinity. Places found on rides. The road surface here is mostly sand and clay, damp, and prone to make the tires track sideways as times. The Heidenau winter tires perform well in this environment.

White pines suffocate the road. Descending towards pavement and civilization I stop to make a few photographs. The scent of pine and decaying needles fill the air. It’s hard to see more than 50 yards in any direction. Even the sky is cut off from view. I can begin to appreciate the terrible challenge European settlers had when they traversed these mountains in the early 1700s.

A few miles further; more toddling, more curiosity in play. Lost in a dark wood, the big bad wolf can’t be far off.

The moment the front wheel touches pavement I swear an oath that’s I’ll not stop for another picture until after breakfast. A twist of the throttle, I begin humming Sugar Mountain, the landscape sweeps by in an endless series of images. This is the freedom of riding.

Jane Stewart was born not long after the American Revolution and now rests with her husband James near Saulsburg, Pennsylvania. Each time I visit a cemetery I leave with a renewed sense of time and a reminder to make use of it.

The old graveyard and church stand in disrepair. Decaying forms of wrought iron fence and gates offer ideas for home. Kim and I both embrace the subtle grace of things being overtaken by nature. A quiet growl beneath my riding jacket reminds me of my mission.

On long smooth roads the Vespa is completely at home and can run all day at whatever legal speed I choose. Or some illegal ones as well. Roads lead south to Maryland, Virginia and beyond. Or north through New York and New England. When anyone asks about a scooter make sure you remind them that you can travel as far and wide as your time and resources allow.

What is it about train tracks vanishing into the horizon that’s so alluring? I stood here a long time before leaving. Not a care in the world; just the Vespa and the road. Everything else burned away.

Breakfast at Diner 22 marks the beginning of the end of my ride as I turn towards home.

The open landscape along PA Route 453 near Water Street. Thirty more miles until I’m home, relaxed, smiling, a curious toddler.

Another track leads off through a farm field that I have to explore. I’m tired and don’t fully pursue the opportunity.

The Vespa is silent as I pull in the driveway. Junior doesn’t wake and I walk up to the window to see Kim working in her studio. It’s good to be home.

Junior soon demands some action himself and we take a walk to the park where he and Buddy chase tennis balls.

Thinking about the ride later as I worked on this post I understand more fully the meaning of being a curious toddler. It fits, it works, and I think I will have a T-shirt made…