Scooter in the Sticks

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

The Toll of Winter Riding

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Have been meaning to share this picture of my dead centerstand.  It represents the harsh reality of riding in winter salt and slush.  The wintry mix must have accumulated inside the tube and slowly corroded and weakened the metal until the torque present when I put the machine on the stand eventually snapped the stand in half.

Just something to keep in mind if you are going to ride in wet winter weather.  You can’t keep a machine pristine.  Chrome, paint and other details of beauty quickly fade.  If you spend a lot of time rubbing your scooter or motorcycle with a soft cloth diaper don’t ride in the winter.

My two cents.

Too Cold to Ride, Too Old Not to Ride

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Coldest morning yet — 23F.  Frost and ice.  Perfect for riding to work.  And not.  The walk with Junior in the early morning sun felt great with only a hint of icy sharpness creeping into my hands and feet. Sunshine can generate a lot of denial in addition to warmth.

When I look in the mirror I still see a young man.  Decisions are driven by appraisals of ability and stamina that vanished a long time ago.  I become aware of who I am after three flights of stairs, or carrying a few 80 pound bags of concrete.  It’s that man who is approaching his sixth decade who finds it more difficult to pull on the gear and ride off in the cold.

The Vespa did leave the garage this morning and despite some initial doubt I was glad I rode off into the glow of falling maple leaves.  By this time the thermometer climbed to a comfortable 30F.

Concerns about the cold faded into searches for patches of ice and other frozen things like coffee, soda and various waste tossed from vehicles.

In the short time it took to make a photo of the scooter the leaves had begun to pile up.  In another week the landscape will almost look like winter.  Time is flying…

The nearby free motorcycle parking was full which surprised me on a cold day.  So I opted for a fine space along Allen Street with time on the meter.

I’m in town for lunch with Hannah.  She tells me about the Inaugural Pittsburgh EQT 10-miler she and her husband competed in. He finished in 1:04:33 (6:27 min/mile pace) – 78th overall out of just short of 4,000 runners and 7th in his division. She finished in 1:46:05 (10:36 min/mile pace) – which for her (she says) is pretty fantastic.  My feet burn and tingle as she talks about it.  My running days are over.

But it seems I can still ride in the cold.  For now.

Winter Riding Miscalculation

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Fourteen degrees and windy this morning when Junior and I made our way up the street to play ball.  It was one of those mornings when even a dog pauses to consider the weather. I carefully inspected the street surface trying to differentiate how much loose dry snow on top of bare pavement was blowing around versus more tricky ice and adhering snow.

While Junior periodically chased the ball and then hunkered down in the snow I collected pertinent data and made a few riding calculations.

1.  It’s cold.

2.  It’s really cold.

3.  It’s damn cold.

4.  The road is bad.

After careful consideration of all the facts I decided to drive the minivan into town for my 3 Prints Project meeting.

Or, 1+2+3+4=Honda Minivan.

As soon as I got on the main road I realized I had made a miscalculation. The roads weren’t bad.  Almost dry in fact.  Though it still was cold.  I was glad I miscalculated.

When I looked at this picture I thought Gordon appeared to be hesitant to face the music inside Saint’s Cafe.  He showed up with digital prints.  I showed up with no prints.  I can’t be sure if I even want to make anymore prints.  We’ve been discussing a show but it all just makes me tired.  And I still have to fix the mixing valve in the darkroom.

Another Sunday morning sans riding.  I’m hoping for warmer weather.  I’ve grown weary of the winter struggle.  At least for today.

Pushing Asphalt, Pushing Steel

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A morning ride several weeks ago — pushing, pushing through air, through space, pushing, gritting, standing, riding through the chill air, spine straight, neck extended, seeking, reaching, grasping for the day.  Now, then, tomorrow.  The Vespa pushes the asphalt, slicing through space towards a destination.

At 65mph at 35F the air feels cold.  The Vespa provides little protection without a windshield or hand guards.  With heated gloves at home I am having the naked riding experience.  Armored against the cold as best I can it’s always waiting, restlessly searching for an opening to make me uncomfortable.

Below an overpass on Interstate 99, boots scratching at frozen gravel, eyes scanning the lines of steel and concrete overhead, making a picture and postponing for a few moments having blood drained from my arm.  That’s my first destination — blood tests at the hospital.

Face raised towards the sun I stood for a long moment on a gravel lane leading from Mount Nittany Medical Center towards Beaver Stadium. An elastic bandage on my squeezed my left arm, holding in place a small square of gauze protecting a hole where a phlebotomist pushed a fine steel needle into a vein.  Thick, dark red liquid filled one glass vial then another as I provided evidence for my doctor to manage my psoriatic arthritis, monitor the chemicals in my body used to counter an aggressive immune system that’s declared war on the body it’s supposed to protect.

I feel like I’m in the middle.

People gather at the statue of Joe Paterno leaving cards and flowers and other tokens of recognition. His legacy is still unfolding, his grand experiment unique and probably never to be repeated.

Anywhere.

Another stop at the library bearing the Paterno name.  Not sure if any other large university had a coach who built a library.  After picking up a book more errands lay ahead.  The Vespa has proven itself over and over as a near perfect vehicle for my eclectic journeys.

Steam rises in small, turbulent swirls as I stare at the Starbucks on the table.  Watching, looking, remembering lazy summer days laying on a grassy field as white, cotton candy clouds passed overhead.  Alone with a cup of tea, a few moments to pause and think and just enjoy the moment.

Towards home, detoured once, twice, three times to extend the ride, expand the sights, and drink in the world.  Even the short trips like these, filled with duty and task, can be exquisite.  Fun.  Free.

For me at least.

One last stop at the Boalsburg Chocolate Company for a few confections to enjoy later with another cup of tea and then across the street to Bella di Vita, a small shop selling soap and other conveyances of fragrances. There’s always something there that Kim will love — this time a new Eau de toilette by Cote Bastides.
Seems an appropriate way to end a ride on an Italian Vespa.  I guess I won’t ever graduate to a Harley…

Head Full of Briars

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A groan of displeasure in response to the 8F displayed on my iPhone woke poor Junior.  That was a month ago but the memory is fresh.  Not because of any notable event during the ride to work.  It’s memorable because of the frustration and anger that can be generated in the preparation for riding in cold weather and how that can affect the ride itself.

The first cue that something was wrong appeared as I was pulling on my Tourmaster Overpants and I realized I had forgotten to put long underwear on.  At 8F you need them.  So a trip back upstairs, take off my boots and pants, pull on the polypropylene underwear, pants back on, socks, boots, and trudge downstairs.

When it’s really cold I use more layers.  On goes the sweater, then windbreaker, then jacket liner, and finally my First Gear Kilimanjaro IV riding jacket.  It’s a tight fit in the arms due to the thickness of all the layers.  Wrestling, squirming, pushing the jacket on I then have to struggle to get the armor back into place and then zip and button up the jacket.  After pulling on the ski mask I pick the helmet up off the radiator where I’ve been toasting it and put it on, then reach for my electric gloves toasting as well.

And then I utter a frustrated single word.  I forgot to put the wires inside the jacket.  Grumbling and reciting some well worn mantras I finally get the wires in place, gloves on and push the scooter out into the driveway.  Almost ready to leave I realize I don’t have my wallet, iPhone or keys which I took out of my pockets on the first pants change.

The toasty gloves and helmet are cold now.  I’ve not plugged in the gloves yet.  And I’ll realize shortly they aren’t working anyway.  And I realize I don’t have my camera.  I don’t ever ride without a camera.

So there the Vespa sits, in front of the house, nearly 20 minutes to get from the house to this position.  My head’s in an angry spin — it’s full of briars.

In a hurry to get to work I didn’t think to have breakfast or pack a lunch and was happy to stop at Subway to get both and warm my now frozen hands.  Stepping inside from 8F to 75F and high humidity meant — you know — instantly fogged and dripping glasses and helmet.

Then quiet, under-the-breath muttering and questioning the universe asking if I was wrong thinking riding was supposed to be fun.

Still managed to get to work early with one last look back at the scooter before heading to my office.  Or so I thought.  Once inside I realize my shoulder back is still in the topcase.  Back I go only to realize at the Vespa that the key is still in my riding pants — back in my office.

At this point my frustration is mixing with thoughts about a story I have to edit and a proposal I’m working on.  It’s just a damn ugly mental state, that head full of briars.

Eventually everything is as it should be but I realized not every trip is a magical mystery tour.  Some rides leave something to be desired. And often the challenge or frustration is worth pushing through.

Maybe that’s a good thing.