Scooter in the Sticks

Exploring life on a Vespa, Royal Enfield Himalayan, Honda Trail 125, and a Kawasaki W650

The Pragmatic Rider

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On the way home the other night after signing the buyer agreement for a 2003 Honda Odyssey minivan.  I hear they are great for going to bingo and hauling free government cheese.  I’ll get back to everyone on that.  I am certain that a van won’t hamper my riding and probably not my ability to get from point A to point B in any way either.  But more intelligent people than I have suggested otherwise so I need to test their theories.
The weather has been chilly the past week.  One morning had me riding just below 50 degrees and today at 60.  I enjoy the brisk air.  And it makes for some big, clear skies.  I pretend I’m crossing Montana instead of riding home to make pasta.

Rain today but the thought of adding a minivan to the fleet helped me endure the moisture.  The Vespa and the FIT make a nicely colored duo.

Rain forecast for the morning.  Being a pragmatic rider I can sensibly and realistically manage my way to work.  And now that the vehicle stuff is almost done (pick up the Odyssey tomorrow afternoon) I will be able to focus again on finishing some new blog posts.  

Sunday Morning Ride: Roll 521

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I meet Gordon almost every Sunday morning at Saint’s Café to review our respective photographic lives for the week, to cajole or shame each other into further work, and to keep alive the dream of a creative life we heard rumored in graduate school. The 3 Prints Project (two rolls of film and three prints every week) began almost three years ago and has continued ever since with a few detours into digital and plenty of excuses for showing up without work.

On Friday I got an iPad2. Minutes after turning it on a strong desire to shoot film washed over me. The iPad may have been the digital straw that broke my analog back.

To be fair I like he iPad and acquired it to evaluate, test and monitor the release of the magazine I edit as an iPad edition. The measure of digital continues to grow in my life.

Friday afternoon the Leica is hanging around my neck, an extra roll of film in my pocket, and the world is revolving at a bit slower pace. Such seems to be the effect of shooting film.

Roll 521. I have to thank Matt Alofs of the 1PT4 photography blog for the idea of numbering by rolls. I have a mess of negatives and I have gone through many schemes of keeping track of them. Following his Flickr site I saw that he assigns roll numbers to sets of pictures. While I have no idea the meaning behind his numbers I thought it was a marvelously simple way for me to have a system that I could track.

The number 521 comes from the month and day I started using it. After that everything will just be sequential. I’m working on 522 now.

Matt has an amazing volume of black and white work that I have no idea how he finds time to produce. He documents the things he sees in life including ongoing portraits Kate (wife, partner, girlfriend, significant other?) in a manner that most partners would find withering. To shoot so much film is pretty amazing.  If I find out he is not scanning negatives I’ll be really depressed.

Gordon arrived with digital prints of images made with his camera phone and a couple others made with a digital SLR during his drive to work. I’d arrived with a single print and contact sheet from the one roll of film I managed to shoot.

We’ve sustained a level of output over the years generating a steady stream of personal work, questioning process and intent, criticizing, supporting and tending the fragile flame of creative expression amidst the daily grind of earning a living.

 
Morning. Mount Nittany in the fog. My camera has pointed this way many times. Photographing the same subject over and over reveals something about the subject and the photographer. For me, this is home.

The iPhone and Camera+ app continues to impress me. This shot was made using the Clarity effect.

Last night I developed a single roll of black and white film. A familiar ritual repeated thousands of times over the last 20 years in this particular darkroom. The iPhone is always handy and this time makes a recording of the path less traveled in photography.

Looking at the contact sheet I realize I see the world differently with the Leica. Different than I do using a digital camera. Not better or worse, just different.

The ride into town was quiet with almost no traffic on US 322. Sporadic fog continually changed the landscape allowing me to ride from magical place to illusion and beyond.

I have a great capacity to be sloppy, something that does not incur many benefits in a darkroom. Rushed to make this proof print of Junior so I would have something to show at Saint’s Café. Flat, lifeless, drab. No digital effects to save me, mask the deficiencies of the image. And strangely, I am enjoying the process.

Again.

My printing skills and general late night sloth betray the magic a silver print can possess. Maybe next time I’ll work harder.

 On towards town and a brief stop to exchange stories with a small herd of Penn State quarter horses.

On through the fields, fog beginning to lift and reveal a gray day with threats of rain. The Vespa is indifferent and moves on and on and on.

After Gordon and I exhausted comments and ideas we parted company and I headed home on a slightly longer route. Climbing to the top of a hill along the road I was offered the opportunity to photograph these two motorcycles speeding in the opposite direction. Everything looks insignificant from this altitude. A reminder of how careful I need to be on the road.

At Café Lemont, a spur of the moment stop for tea and a Neiman Marcus cookie (love these things), I pull up next to a 2002 BMW R1200 GS. If the Vespa is ready to riding in and around town the BMW looks ready to ride in and around North America. Inside the owner pretty much confirms that assessment.

His name is Mark and he tells me he’s getting ready to ride to Nova Scotia and then on to Labrador. I ask if he’s ridden in Alaska (he has) and he tells me that he and his wife have ridden in Europe a couple times through Edelweiss Tours.

I mask any jealously and envy.

We talk for awhile, shake hands and go our separate ways. On the way home I think about what it might be like to ride for weeks on end or travel to some exotic location. Rounding a bend covered with gravel my attention returns to the road and I grow satisfied with the adventures I create within a 200-mile radius of State College. It’s what I can manage now with work and family. And I love the riding.

Not far from home I pass a barn with a horse gazing out the window. I went past and continued on for several hundred yards before I couldn’t get the image out of my head and made a quick U-turn to make a picture. Would never have done it on that big BMW K1600 GTL. Just saying.

And I’m still working on those reviews.

For now I’m just glad to get out and ride a little, make a few pictures, and spend some more time in the darkroom.

Vespa in the Rain

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Sunday morning in a slow rain, meandering over familiar roads on my way to meet a friend in town.  I’ve stopped in this same place many times to gaze towards Mount Nittany, watch the landscape swallow up the road in an easy turn.  Twisting my boots into the pavement checking the traction, evaluating how much oil and scum was washed off through the night, gauge how far I could push the Vespa while riding though I never push very far.  Still, it’s comforting to know what to expect.

Made this image with the iPhone camera using the Camera+ app.  Processed the image in the HDR mode.  I continue to be pleasantly surprised at the technical and creative range of these devices.  Feel bad now that I dropped in on the pavement.  No damage save for another scuff mark.  Saw a student in town last week busily texting on an iPhone with a shattered front.  Didn’t seem to slow them down.

The rain slowed to a mist as I threaded my way through the alleys and streets of State College, my destination arriving too soon, the ride ending before I was ready.  Humes Alley is a favorite backdrop, old brick, hand lettered signs.  About as close as I come to an urban environment on any regular basis.

Prime parking for Saint’s Cafe — just twenty yards to the front door and never any charge.  At least not until the Borough decides to give me a ticket.  Or tow the scooter away.  So far Kelly Alley is my first parking choice.

Rainy days are for laying in bed or on the couch, reading a book, watching television, or indulging in some other sort of horizontal enterprise.  On the way home while making this picture I decided to pursue the bed despite how much I love the light on this kind of day. 

One last picture before home.  The monochrome nature of things in the rain almost prods me on to ride farther. 

Almost.  But there are naps to take and other things to do. 

That’s how to make good use of a rainy Sunday.

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…