Scooter in the Sticks

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

Attitude Adjustment

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I needed a long ride to adjust my poor attitude and outlook on life. Some things were chewing on me all week and I was seeing the glass as half-empty. That probably doesn’t happen to many people. I haven’t wanted to write, photograph, or do a whole lot of anything.

Just a few miles from home I was already bemoaning the quality of light I had to ride in. Clear skies and a morning temperature of 59 F were almost too much to bear. With no fog or interesting light any photography would simply be a futile exercise.

My mental complaining was so loud that I almost missed the Burma Shave signs along the road and then not even wanting to stop. My head was a long list of expectations and requirements necessary for a good ride.

Chiding myself for not getting on the road earlier I almost miss the fact that I have the road and the world almost to myself at 8AM on Saturday morning.

I had decided to ride into the anthracite coal region of Pennsylvania, an area that I have not explored to any great degree. Moving east along State Route 192 towards Lewisburg I started to see other riders – single riders, small groups, Harleys, sportbikes, helmets, no helmets. The whole mix. I’m sort of irate though because a group of Harley riders don’t return my wave. I’m reviewing the rationale to imitate bikers by growing long hair, big beards, and even bigger guts. I’m wrestling with the intelligence of the doo rag and T-shirt as protection. I know they are all laughing at me for the protective gear I’m wearing. So loud this discussion is that I almost miss a group of mules relaxing along the road.

They work on an Amish farm pulling plows, hay rakes, and whatever else the farmer asks of them. As we watch each other I hear the approach of a loud pipes save lives bike. A chopper this time, another selfish, self-centered bastard, no helmet, lots of leather, looking like someone from ZZ Top. As my brain starts turning again his hand reaches out in a big wave in front of an even bigger smile. My frustration fades away. I’m wrong about the Harley riders. Just my own twisted thinking. During the remainder of the day some riders wave and some don’t. Simple as that. The problem is my attitude.

On across the West Branch of the Susquehanna River towards Catawissa where I will turn south into the Anthracite Basin. Along the way I pass and turn around to look at the Sodom School.

What can I say other than I doubt you will find any districts clamoring for this name today.

At Catawissa I cross the main branch of the Susquehanna and follow rambling route 42 through agricultural communities like Queen City and Numidia. Numidia is not much more than a few houses at a crossroads but it does have a drag strip. The road climbs out of the valley and into the Appalachian Mountains. The contrast is startling as almost all evidence of human intervention, save for the road, disappears.

The fragrance of pine and wet forest floors fills the air. I stopped to take a picture as the road prepares to ascend Big Mountain. This experience is only temporary though because soon I will enter the disaster known as Centralia, Pennsylvania.

Centralia is almost a modern day ghost town. Seventy years ago an underground coal seam started to burn and led to the near extinction of the town. Six houses remain a new municipal building, and a cemetery that seems to magically resist the movement of the fire.

Even the highway was abandoned as the fire burned through the pavement. On a sunny day it doesn’t look like much but when it is cold and overcast smoke and steam rises from holes in the earth.

Trees and brush volunteering to grow ignite and burn. The ground is hot in places. If you want to read more about Centralia go HERE.

The temperature had risen into the 80’s and I was ready to head home. There are a variety of routes but I am still telling myself how bad the light is, how pointless photography is. I choose the shortest route, time and distance, two hours and about 90 miles.

New little shopping centers drain the life out of the small towns already struggling from the decline in coal production. People embrace the shiny newness of chain store enterprises that promise no surprises or challenges – just everyday low prices. The Wendy’s and McDonalds forcing the mom and pop diners into oblivion.

I stop at the Coney Island Lunch in Shamokin. This place has been around for decades but judging by the look of the place its days are numbered. Another place all used up and tossed aside in favor of the bright lights of McDonalds. Or not.

The Vespa GTS 250ie has been performing flawlessly since I bought it and this ride is no different. I cruises easily with traffic at 65 MPH when necessary and even handled the uneven pavement resulting from the asphalt removal process that leaves the road surface a wavy mess of deep scars.

I finally put my concern about light aside when I stopped to view the huge cloud formations. You don’t see those in the fog. The glass is half-full and rising. At 145 miles the attitude adjustment is complete.

I’m able to ride in silence the remaining 40 miles home with one short stop to mourn the closing of Stover’s Market in Aaronsburg. This old small town market was sort of the hub of activity in town. It was common to see Amish buggies hitched outside next to the cars and trucks of patrons. Those days are gone now.

I arrived home different than when I left. It’s one of the reasons I ride, this unexpected tendency towards transformation. Not to mention the fun of it all.

Modifying the Ride to Work (and Home)

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Every ride to and from work opens the door to a little adventure.

I’m fortunate my direct commute to my office is just 6 miles. And now when I arrive there are often two other Vespa scooters, sometimes three others plus a Yamaha Vino. But I digress…

Several variations in route can easily extend the commute to 10 or 15 minutes and even then it is not much of a hardship in time or miles. I chalk it up as a fringe benefit of living in the sticks.

But even in this situation complacency can set in and the rider becomes routine. With that thought in mind last week I made an abrupt turn away from by planned route to see what the unknown would bring.

It brought my first water crossing.

The Vespa GTS isn’t in many people’s mind (anyone’s actually?) an off-road vehicle and I will be the first to stand up and testify to it’s less that comfortable feel on loose surfaces like gravel, sand, or just loose dirt. But that doesn’t mean it won’t navigate those surfaces, it just means going a lot slower than I remember being able to travel on a dirt bike.

I turned off the road onto a farm lane I had seen before but hadn’t really paid much attention to where it went. There are a lot of them around and many have various passive or active warnings to stay away. This one was just a gravel and dirt lane disappearing through a line of trees in the distance.

When I arrived at the small pool of water and stream passing in front of me I decided to get off the scooter and look before dropping the GTS into water deeper than it might want to handle. Didn’t want to be sucking water into the drive belt case. The water was about 6 inches deep but the bottom appeared to be muddy. I crossed on the right side of the picture in about 4 inches of water with a solid bottom. Nothing for a dirt bike but a first for the GTS.

In celebration I speeded away along the tree line and field but almost tanked as the ruts in the road deepened and the scooter started to lurch around. I stood up on the floorboards and let off the throttle a bit until things were a bit more comfortable.

The road sort of transformed into two tracks in high weeds. Pushing on up a hill through denser grass I passed a big groundhog hole that easily would have swallowed the front tire of the Vespa causing who knows what. That’s when I figured I met my limit on this particular road and turned around to head for home.

This last picture was taken a few mornings ago while scouting for pictures for work on the way to work. I wandered through a sheep farm and then across a bridge into a field of even higher grass that a tractor recently traveled through to cut hay. The grass was up to the bars and I started thinking groundhogs again.

Little variations in route wake me up. They freshen the ride. And they don’t cost much. I keep thinking about riders who navigate urban landscapes and wonder what the comparable variations might be. With more roads I am certain there are alternatives, if even for a few miles. I suppose it is a matter of willingness to accept there may be alternatives, time, and patience.

Sometimes a Vespa Isn’t Enough

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First let me apologize for the fuzziness of this self-portrait. I think the excitement of the moment may have gotten to me as I sat the camera on the trunk of the car rather than use a tripod.

Yes, it’s a new Ducati Superbike 1098. Six-speed, 1099cc, 160 horsepower, 381-pound example of engineering excellence not to speak of my favorite yellow color. There is not a bit of chrome on this motorcycle and everything is machined and manufactured to the highest standards right down to the exotic rear axle. No matter what your personal riding preference is it is hard to not be impressed by the machine. But more of the new Ducati in a moment.

Rewind to earlier in the day.

Since my first days of Vespa ownership I have fielded a lot of questions about safety and specifically a lot about the relative safety of a vehicle that many assume to be underpowered for any travel on the road. They have an idea that unless you have a lot of horsepower you just won’t be able to get out of all those dangerous situations you come across while on the highway.

Seeing beasts like this John Deere whatever the hell it is (I think it is a spray vehicle but not sure what the exact application is) is the sort of thing that gets lodged in a driver’s subconscious and drawn forth when making the motorcycle safety and power arguments. I was standing in a cornfield when this little fellow went by and it seemed more Triceratops than Tyrannosaurus Rex. Just a big ambling brute interested in nothing more than plants.

But lets get back to the new Ducati. If any of you regular readers think I abandoned the Vespa GTS 250ie shame on you. You should know me better than that by now. This baby was less than one hour new and belongs to my friend Paul Ruby who just traded his Harley Davidson Fatboy for it.

Paul has being weighing this move for a while. Looking at it I can tell than he is enthralled by the pure mechanical excellence. Paul loves machines. And he tells me now that he has one of every Italian vehicle — a Ferrari, a vintage Vespa, and now a Ducati. Car, scooter, motorcycle. I asked about a Fiat truck and didn’t bring up airplanes or boats. Either way it is an impressive mechanical collection.

I want to ride. A lot. And I question the utility of the Ducati with the most uncomfortable seat I have ever had the pleasure of sitting on and a riding position that reminds me more of the prostate examination position and discomfort than anything to do with a motorcycle. But that’s just me. And the Ducati is still, despite that, a work of art.

He plans to make long rides on this thing. No topcase or sidebags available for this. At least not that I can imagine. There is storage space behind the rear seat. It’s large enough for the screwdriver Ducati provides as a toolkit and you could fit a toothbrush and small box of raisins too.

This weekend perhaps Paul and I will ride around together. Two guys on some of Italy’s finest examples of engineering.

Congratulations Paul on your new Ducati!

Morning Consciousness

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Thank Kim for these pictures being made. Once again she notifies me at 5 AM that there’s fog in the sticks.

This morning the fog is varied and patchy. I’ve been becoming so attuned to the landscape and making photographs that the ride is becoming almost invisible. If you have a desire to slow down then a may help. The route I travel this morning would normally run between 35 and 55 MPH. I’m moving at 15 to 35MPH and stopping a lot. It takes over an hour to cover the first 15 miles.

But how can I pass scenes like this tree lined, fog shrouded passageway?

When I do stop I pull both earplugs out so I am aware of any traffic appearing out of nowhere. Amazingly I saw only one vehicle in the first hour. Does everyone realize what they’re missing at this time of day?

Farther along, about 25 miles from home I cruise through a gap in Bald Eagle Mountain that almost looks alpine.

As I start to look around with the camera I realize I could spend a lot of time here but my stomach is growling loud enough to send me on my way. A few quick pictures and I am on my way to breakfast.

The Cool Beans Cafe in Bellefonte is one of several possible breakfast stops. With town still largely asleep I can park right out front and have my choice of locations that I decide will be one of the small tables out front.

After a bit of waffling over what to have I decide to go simple — a bagel and a cup of hot chocolate. I was surprised at the artistry involved especially with the hot chocolate. It was almost a meal in itself.

It pays to be conscious early some days.

Memorial Day Ride

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Almost a week has passed since I started this post. Sometimes it takes awhile to arrest the thoughts on paper.

The following was written on the morning of May 28, 2007.

Cool Morning. Fog. At Whipple Dam State Park, birdsong and the sound of water pouring over the spillway fills the air. Aside from an old man chasing geese off the beach on the other side of the lake I have the place to myself.

The road to the park winds over Tussey Mountain, through the woods and along Standing Stone Creek. The first hint of sunlight pushes through the fog causing some of the trees to glow.

I’ve been reading “A Sense of the World” by Jason Roberts. It’s the story of James Holman, British Royal Navy officer, Knight of Windsor, and adventurer. What makes his story unique is that he undertook a circumnavigation of the world by land and sea in the early 1800’s after becoming blind and fighting debilitating pain. Whenever I find myself concerned with the minor extremes I face while riding I will recall Holman’s winter trip across Siberia in a horse drawn sledge.

A breakfast of cheese and Melba toast, nuts, raisins, and a fresh orange seems a perfect counter to the familiar hearty breakfast of bacon and eggs I usually eat on a ride. A bullfrog croaks agreement just a few yards away. A family of geese visit hoping for a handout. I politely decline not wanting to reinforce bad behavior — theirs or mine.

The man chasing geese arrives on my side of the lake to continue his geese chasing and other activities to ready the park for the day. We talk for a while and he tells me he has recently retired from park service at age 86. Looking at him I would have guessed 75 tops. His secret is a daily glass of vinegar.

The conversation turns briefly to Memorial Day and he tells me his son was a Marine and died in 1968. We both are quiet for a while.

I feel grateful. Not just to have the opportunity to sit here but for the life and opportunity I have. On Memorial Day I need to remember is comes with a cost.

End of Entry.

A cost. That’s where I stopped writing. I kept thinking about the cost for the rest of the week.

Later that day I walked through the Pennsylvania Military Museum grounds and looked at the monuments signifying places like Antietam, Gettysburg, Meuse-Argonne, Normandy, and Ardennes-Alsace. Names carved in granite, row after row, memories of lives lost far from home, reminders of the solemn cost of my own gratitude.

I’m not sure what I think of the celebrations wrapped around Memorial Day. In town we have carnivals, car shows, craft festivals, music and food. Perhaps a fitting memorial is the existence of celebrations.

Pie contest on Main Street.

Old firetruck at Car Show

Another Memorial Day has passed but the reminders linger.