Scooter in the Sticks

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

Hurtling Toward the Boneyard

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A 2001 Kawasaki W650 motorcycle parked along a wooded road in early autumn.
Riding the W650 in early autumn.

Reminders of My Physical Reality

For the past couple months I’ve been physically feeling a little worse than normal. Whatever normal is now as I ride the downward slope towards the boneyard. Psoriatic arthritis visits more frequently with painfully stiff joints and fiery reminders that all is not well in this body. And a request by my rheumatologist to taper the drug used to control things to make sure I’ve not gone into remission and no longer need the cancer med used to suppress my immune system.

I’m not in remission.

And some recent chest pressure and pain has a stress echo test in my immediate future to determine if things have worsened since my heart attack back in 2015. The only evidence that I’m not hurtling toward the boneyard is the miraculous eye surgery that removed my cataracts. It transformed me and my near-sighted existence into a far-sighted man who no longer has to fuss with glasses in the motorcycle helmet. And I have great night vision.

I acknowledge I have an expiration date in a way I didn’t when I was younger. And it has made each day special regardless of whatever joy or crap I face. Riding is an even more exquisite experiences. An unexpected result of hurtling toward the boneyard.

I had two goals when I rolled out on the Kawasaki W650 — explore an area whose roads were unfamiliar, and have breakfast at a cafe I’ve not visited in a few years. Perfect excuses to ride on a crisp morning in autumn.

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How Far is Too Far for Breakfast?

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Four motorcycle riders along posing for a group picture.
A “Romeo” group (Retired Old Men Eating Out) Andy is still working. Photo by Paul Ruby

Group Photo

I look at this photograph with gratitude for having friends to share the journey. On motorcycles and scooters and in life. And for me at least the expression on my face says a lot. I didn’t realize my face was adorned with a big, dumb, grin.

The four of us left home this morning to ride to breakfast, a predictable rhythm in my life, and a pleasure to be willing and able to embrace it. When I was thinking about a ride one of the questions that emerged is how far is too far to ride for breakfast?

The first order of business was identifying a place to have breakfast. Reading comments on a recent obituary for a farmer I once met indicated he frequented the Cottage Restaurant in Lamar, Pennsylvania. I figured if it was so highlighted it might be worth a look. The route to the restaurant was simple. No maps needed. It was just 27 miles away on a route I’ve ridden or driven dozens of times. The bigger challenge was the ride home. It would be a bore to return the way we came so I began to look at Google Maps to look for alternative routes and roads I had never visited. With every cow path in Pennsylvania now paved the choices seem endless.

It didn’t take long to determine a route and memorize it for the following day. I don’t carry maps anymore and the only GPS I generally use is meat-based. The ride home would consume about 135 miles.

Most of my life has been led in relative isolation and solitude. I didn’t make friends easy and I was loathe to reach out to others to do anything unless it was a dire emergency. Scooters and motorcycles have enhanced my ability to reach out to others, often strangers, and make friends. And not just related to riding but in other aspects of my life as well. An unlooked for gift of riding.

Dave said he would ride to breakfast. Paul would too. And Andy, the non-retired member of the group said he would come as well. All I told them is it would be a long ride and we would be back in about five hours.

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In Sickness and in Health

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View of a hospital at sunset
View at the end of the day while waiting for the elevator.

A post-surgical view

My wife and I have been married for over thirty years. The youth and energy that drove our lives when we began changes and fades over time. And a recent spine surgery that my wife underwent reminds me of the marriage vows I swore so many years ago.

…in sickness and in health…

That surgery reminded not only of vows, but triggered gratitude for health insurance and acceptance of the reality that I wouldn’t be riding for a while. For the last two weeks of July and through the end of August my scooters and motorcycles were idle as I focused on support and care.

And as healing progresses I’ve been able to begin to ride a little. Short trips, errands mostly, and the experience recharges my physical, mental, and emotional batteries.

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Friendship Follows Interests: Riding and Photography

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A black & white photograph of two men in a mirror.
A familiar state of being.

Making Friends

A young man I know complains how hard it is to meet people. To make friends. For me, friendships have all developed from common interests. Years ago it was hiking and backpacking. Then photography, and now riding. I’d like to tell that young man he is unlikely to find friends at bars, playing video games, dabbling in crypto, and placing bets with Draft Kings. I won’t offer advice unless he specifically asks for it.

My friend Paul recently gave me a photograph he made of the two of us at a local diner. It immediately struck a chord — that’s my friend Paul, always making photos, always sharing a ride.

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Learning Via Boneheaded Moves

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A 2001 Kawasaki W650 on a motorcycle trailer.
Evidence of a boneheaded move.

A Chain of Unfortunate Coincidence

My poor Kawasaki W650, tied down to the ambulance on its way to Bestline Powersports for surgery. Many thanks to my friend Dave for driving the bus.

How awful it is to be saddled with an aging man as a riding partner. A guy who can strike a blow to the motorcycle twice in a week. The first a careless drop onto the driveway. And now something worse and more expensive to fix. It’s obvious that there are a few lessons to be learned.

The day started at 6 AM so there was time to ready myself and the motorcycle for a long ride to breakfast. I was trying to speed things up before departure by multitasking. I was never good at it, worse now, but still I forge ahead and start all the plates spinning. It’s never good to feel rushed by the clock. Decision making becomes muddy and choices questionable.

I push the bike out to the driveway and then get the dogs breakfast. Everything is beginning to hum. I attach the battery operated air pump to the front tire and then move it to the back while I rush inside to put on my riding boots. I pull the choke on the bike and start it up, letting it warm while I put on my Merlin jacket. Back inside to make sure the dogs have water and the windows and doors are closed and locked. Back to the bike, push the choke in and listen to the engine purr. Pull the front door shut, put on my helmet and gloves and am ready to go. I’ll be on time. Barely. But I have beaten the clock.

I’m thrilled at the ride to come as I back the bike towards the street. And suddenly I feel a pressure. “Is the chain jammed?” I think. And suddenly it’s free. Strange but I’m late as I continue backing up. I’m not sure what came first, the recognition in my brain of what I did or the lump in the pit of my stomach.

Do you know what I did???

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