Exploring life on a Vespa, Royal Enfield Himalayan, Honda Trail 125, and a Kawasaki W650
Not every ride is in the sticks and regardless of planning or intent you never really know what you’ll discover. Riding joys can be found anytime, anywhere, and as Allen Funt of Candid Camera used to suggest — “…when you least expect it…”. Today, during an unremarkable ride through remarkably familiar ground, I learned I’m going to be a grandfather.
The same smile I get while riding is still stuck to my face…
Thin grey fog, one of many types from pea soup to frozen fog, each with their own character, every one whispers, calling me away from my appointed rounds. Diverted, delayed, distracted, I banked the Vespa from the pavement onto the gravel and into the fog. I can’t resist, in honesty I don’t desire to resist. In the dim mist a boy’s dreams of mystery, suspense and adventure come to life.
The little ride to work has a bit more bite, a little more grit.
Life on a Vespa is sweet. A ride in the fog is magnificent.
Just watch out single strands of fence wire strung across open gates…
As the day began to darken I stood in the driveway watching the sky as the dark clouds swept overhead, the grey descending like a thick blanket masking sharp edges of the world so only soft shapes and tones remained. “The light is nice right now,” emerged from my lips and intended for no one, just talking out loud to myself. The photographer inside was weighing possibilities, factoring time till dark, making a mental note of the tripod in the topcase of the scooter, struggling to decide if I should venture out to make some photographs. Part of me wanted to go inside to make a cup of tea and watch season 8 of Trailer Park Boys. Another part was trying to remind me that a photographer takes pictures, they don’t think about them or talk about them. Finally, thankfully, Kim, who was nearby in the garden said, “Go. Go take pictures. You never know what you’ll see.” That idea is at the heart of learning to see creatively.
Kim is right. She’s almost always right when it comes to the mental gymnastics I go through related to creative thought, inertia, and production. Sitting here now I know that she’s largely responsible for me being able to put more than a few words together in an intelligent manner. Without that influence I would still be a photographer, selling my expertise to the highest bidder with little ability to reflect or share what I was thinking, feeling or seeing.
There is no substitute for working if you want to improve your skill or output with a camera. If you want to make good pictures you have to be out there shooting. The more you shoot the better you’ll become. That may be oversimplifying things a bit but working, especially when you don’t want to or when you’ve convinced yourself there’s noting to see, those are the times that you need to step out.
A passing rainstorm swept away the heat and humidity leaving the evening at a cool 68F as the light escaped in the west. I didn’t see anything to shoot but I did get out on the road, on the Vespa, and let my spirit fly for a bit, let my eyes wander across the landscape should the piano picture appear (that’s the one you like enough to put in a frame and set on the piano. A technical term used by photographers over 50).
You’ll never know what you’ll see so it’s best to have a camera at hand and experience the world so you don’t miss the visual gifts that abound.
You never know what you’ll experience once to take to the road. Even the roads well traveled. Like peeling an onion, riding through the same places with an eye to the narrow gravel lane bearing off into the woods, or the cracked concrete street leading into a strange neighborhood, wandering deeper into the familiar can yield some unexpected treasure. Just as the Vespa floats through the world my thoughts can drift along at once in the present and the past as it conjures forgotten feelings and memories kindled into life by an unlooked-for sight. One those days a ride becomes a sentimental journey.
Last weekend I found myself riding deeper into places that I’ve passed a hundred times. I understand the notion “I’ve already ridden there,” but at the same time realize you never really have. By that I mean there is always something more to see right at your feet. I don’t have the time or opportunity to make epic rides. Most of the time I’m limited to what I can pack into an hour or two, or during a ride to work, an errand to the grocery store. And I’ve learned how to transform those into something more than they might seem to the casual observer. Absorbing what’s in front of me now, what’s revealed on the rides I take, are likely in line with what some consider an active alternative to the grand journey — slow travel. Slow travel is, for me, a focus on squeezing experience from the moment rather than collecting miles and sights. It’s not for everyone but I feel everyone can probably get something from the change in mindset.
The Vespa scooter is a perfect foil for my slow travel adventuring. With no interstate highways to burn up or great distances I consume I can wander at a pace that allows me to see wildflowers and listen to the trill of summer insects in the forest. There are a few sounds whose mental recall provide almost instant relief from the pain of a day — one is the rolling of waves on a shoreline, and the other the sound of crickets, katydids and cicadas in the forest. Each time I shut the engine off and wander along the road I have the chance to reinforce those memories. You never know when you’ll need them.
There is no right way to ride, no perfect machine, no ultimate journey. Every rider makes their own choices for their own reasons and it accounts for the wonderful diversity of experience that’s so obvious when riders get together to tell lies. There are times when I ride that I feel I’m in another world, alone, and with a blank canvas in front of me. I’ve ridden on this road along Spring Creek hundreds of times and still stop almost every time because there is still more to see. And the memories of living in this place are breathtaking at times as those experiences spin up together with the knowledge that the years of my life have slipped by so quickly and there is more that I want to see and do. It’s times like this that I find I’m on a sentimental journey.
During the ride I passed by the University Park Airport where the “Sentimental Journey” was parked, a B-17 Flying Fortress that had been flying over the valley for the past couple days. The WWII bomber was their as part of a visit by the Commemorative Air Force out of Arizona. Visitors were able to go inside the plane and if you had the cash you could go for a ride. When I was in college I used to work as a black and white printer in a darkroom. One of the full time guys had been a gunner on a B-17 and flew a number of missions out of England until his plane was shot down over France. I’ve not seen this fellow in many years but seeing the plane brought a rush of memories of his stories. Would never have anticipated them when I left in the morning.
My own sentimental journey…
The video below is from CAF Airbase Arizona provides a dramatic view of “Sentimental Journey”, a reminder of the airplane that played a big role in the war in Europe.
Usually a ride on the Vespa cures any ill, the acceleration into flight strips away concerns and distractions and transforms darkness into light — at least with the normal noise and chaos of living. Riding can trigger curiosity and change my whole outlook on life. Saturday morning found me on the road, dodging the raindrops, pushing the scooter onto he little narrow paths that crisscross the area, focusing on the challenges of dirt and gravel, mud and water.
Whenever my mind’s not right I slip off onto less traveled roads to explore and let my mind wander in new directions. Rain threatened all morning as I passed across the valley towards a series of chores. The drama of the landscape never fails to excite, even on these little rides.
Mount Nittany looms in the middle of Happy Valley, a familiar icon for the Penn State faithful. As a young geology student I learning it was an inverted, truncated geosyncline. Or something like that. It’s been 42 years since hearing those words so I could have mixed them up a bit.
Everything is so lush right now with the consistent rain we’ve had this summer. Little pathways wind through tunnels of foliage and provide endless opportunities to explore without needing to travel very far. The only complaint I have is it only takes a few moments for the Black Flies to find you. Those beasts get into your helmet and can drive you a little nuts.
A last stop in a wet, dank tunnel beneath Interstate 99 before surrendering to the necessities of the day. Looking at this picture I’m reminded again at how little riding I actually get done because I’m in a constant search for things to look at which for me means stopping. Some riders make 5o miles in an hour. More often than not I’ll only accomplish 10. Or less. Someone once referred to me as a dawdler though I thought it more accurate to be identified as a curious toddler.
No wonder a motorcycle doesn’t make much sense.