Into the mist, a morning fog, nothing but a promise of an epic ride. Or so I think as my body and mind slowly come to life as they vanquish sleep. It had been raining hard for two days and now all that’s left is the dregs of dissipated clouds, moisture, and the sense that the world had changed.
It’s amazing what rain can do.
Riding in fog is a luscious visual experience. But it’s also demanding for the simple reason that it’s harder to see and be seen by other drivers, drivers who often seem undeterred by the lack of visibility. Climbing over the mountains at 45mph I had to watch carefully ahead for deer on their way to breakfast, and for vehicles approaching from behind. And these tasks are made more difficult by the mist that relentlessly paints my helmet visor with thousands of water droplets.
Still, I move on, riding into the mist.
A turn, another turn, and then onto the gravel and I seem deep in a forest primeval, thick with the scent of earth and water. It’s still, not a breadth of wind, the only sounds come from my Vespa, morning birdsong, and the chatter in my head.
This is the first ride of the season on gravel, wet gravel that offers a challenge to the street tires now on the scooter.
A wandering life, at least for a little while, the spirit soars beneath the tree cover, beneath the gray heavens. Being alone on the road offers space to think about life and the myriad problems and challenges — personal, professional, and those part of being a citizen of the world. No problem is too large or too insignificant to pass through my head, at least until sufficient miles have passed beneath me to render everything unimportant save for what I’m seeing, what I’m feeling in the hand grips, what my brain is asking me to evaluate to keep the Vespa upright.
And on I ride through the forest.
Riding under the watchful eye of the Rhododendron flowers I’m reminded of how little I actually see save for those things that stand out brightly. Spending a few moments walking in the woods I see Indian Pipes, and mushrooms, moss and ferns, and trees and leaves beyond my ability to recognize. I’ve been walking and riding in these forests over forty years and I’m just beginning to see what’s here.
The Rhododendron is easy.
Ferns grow lush amidst the threads of water running everywhere after the rainstorms of the past few days. The ground is like a sodden sponge and my boots sink deep as I walk through the low areas for a picture. In places the road has been washed clean of gravel exposing hard rock outcrops or gullies in the sandy soils of the mountain.
Once acclimated to the gravel roads I become more comfortable on the scooter. With eyes up and ahead and a light touch on the handlebar I can ride much faster as body and Vespa become one.
But I don’t need to ride faster; I’ve become a tourist again admiring the sights.
Part of the thrill of riding in mist and fog is that your imagination can, if you let it, sweep you away and deliver you into a magical place mostly inhabited by children. I’m glad I can still, even if only for a short time, let my imagination take control. There are watchers in the mist, voices and ghosts, and I’m no longer in central Pennsylvania but have arrived somewhere larger, more exotic, more dangerous.
I’m an explorer and adventurer pushing onward into the unknown.
After a few days of heavy rain there’s a lot of debris shed from trees that a rider has to negotiate. Most is readily visible, some is still falling, and some are hidden in dips and around turns, waiting to trip up the inattentive rider. Riding a scooter, or riding a motorcycle in fog is a challenge that demands constant attention lest you find an unwelcome outcome.
Into the open, a glimpse of the sky, a sudden brightness and the imagination melts away and I realize my hands, arms and back are sore from the extra work and attention of 25 miles on gravel. When you’re moving and working it’s easy to get lost in a trance.
One of the first things I noticed is that my glasses were covered in fine drops of moisture which contributed to the additional fog shrouding my vision. With a little work I could find a dry t-shirt to clean them off before continuing the ride.
Back into the mist, from one dream to the next, ever moving, ever changing, ever wondering what’s ahead. For a moment I thought I saw a black bear loping in the woods, and sometime later I was doing mental mathematics again concerning lifespan and years left on the road.
The Bureau of Forestry had dumped a lot of new gravel on this stretch of road which was about to descend down the mountain making riding and braking a challenge for a scooter with an automatic transmission. Little engine braking power available making it important to manage both brakes carefully so I wouldn’t end up on the ground in the loose gravel.
I’ve been here many times before but this is the first time. I can’t fathom how that works, how each time I pass through here everything is different and new. The road winds through a tunnel of trees and I recognize nothing.
Something new, post-heart attack awareness, I wonder where I am should I need to call for help. I wonder if I have cell coverage or remember the name of this road. Could I offer GPS coordinates from my phone or provide a 911 operator enough information to find me in time should my heart fail. And as fast as these thoughts pass through my head they vanish. And all that matters is I’m riding.
Emerging from the forest I ride upwards, the road rising toward the ridge top, submerging me into the fog and mist, rain and growing brightness as the world begins to change as the sun works to burn away the magic of the morning. It doesn’t matter though, the mist has worked on me and I’m changed, if only for a short time.
Riding a Vespa scooter in the mist and fog, riding a motorcycle in fog, it can change you.
What about you — does riding in the fog change you?
