The sun promised to shovel the driveway today — the perfect rationale to ride without clearing it myself. To be honest, the hurried departure was, in part, driven by a promise of fog though a scan of the mountains in to the north and the south showed no evidence of the magical mist. Rationalization aside, a short ride would soothe the soul. In a few miles the focus riding demands would lay waste to the noisy concerns in my head. And the moment the mental conversation dies down is when exhilaration and euphoria reach out to say hello.
Winter, snow and sub-freezing temperatures are like ghosts praying on fear. Once the shades are raised and the lights turned on it’s far less frightening than riders are led to believe. The snow had already vanished from the road leaving a few wet places and occasional mountains of gravel and grit. While not ideal conditions for the road surface when riding a scooter or motorcycle it is easily managed by anyone willing to make some adjustments.
No fog found anywhere on my travels today, just a fading white landscape slowly surrendering to spring — a transition exquisitely experienced on two wheels.
A stop at Gemelli Bakers for a warm loaf of french country bread and two fresh pretzels can only exaggerate the chimerical myth I build around riding. Through every turn, at every stop, some magic might take place. I ride with that in my heart, like a kid waiting for Santa Claus. A damn lucky place to be when the calendar says you’re in your sixth decade on the planet.
One more stop at the Pump Station in Boalsburg for a late breakfast before riding home. Winter is in the rear view mirror. Different riding days ahead.

















