Rain over Mount Nittany this morning, an iconic landscape associated with Penn State, as seen on my way to work this evening.  I could see the fog and rain passing over the mountain as I walked the dog this morning and planned to make a picture.  Gray skies and mist are good for riding and photography.

By the time I returned home this evening the rain had passed but the sky still held on to that fairyland feeling that often sweeps overhead with a change in weather.  The red light in the distance was the tail lights of a car or truck at the edge of the woods.  Not sure what they were doing back there but didn’t feel like finding out.

A quick picture and I was on my way, minutes from home, with three Mexi-Hots from Meyer Dairy Store.  When I was a student (in 1972) there was a place called Pop’s Mexi-Hots in State College, Pennsylvania selling the luscious little hot dogs with mustard, chili and onions.  Joe Meyer acquired the recipe when Pop went out of business and a faithful few still show up to have one now and again.

I could myself as one of the faithful.

Morning mental checklist — weather report — rain, might need van, lots of stuff to take to work, van makes sense.  Check, check, check and check.  All adds up to riding the Vespa.  Standing in the driveway with all my junk piled on the scooter I knew I was making the right decision.

Rides to work can be absolutely ordinary with the highlight of the trip at stop at Subway for a takeout breakfast.  Yet peering out the window this morning I knew I’d see the world differently had I arrived at this spot via a Honda van.

Self portrait.

And then the workday is over.  A stop on the way home, a path I’ve ridden hundreds of times, and always, regardless of weather or events of the day, an place with uncanny power to calm and recompose a swirl of jagged mental energy into a quiet symphony of nothingness.

And on towards home, a lingering look at a quiet place before the final ride of the day disappears in the darkness.  I was not alone here.  Just 50 yards to my right a man crouched in front of a minivan staring at a small fire in the road.   He didn’t look up and I didn’t intrude.

Perhaps he’d found his own version of ride, work, ride…

Saturday morning — bright, clean, a fresh world.  Riding familiar roads and seeing them for the first time.  Miles roll by as the clutter of hectic thought burns away leaving all things new.  No destination or plan, just the rush of wind in my helmet, a born again virgin rider in spirit. The ride assumes a rhythmic beat of sense and recognition, of movement and gravity, churning forward  and onward until all becomes a quiet meditation.

And in that moment another path appears — Vespa ready and rider willing, winding through a field, a stop and footed wander until there is nothing but a breath followed by another, and another, and another.

Hand pulling a camera from a jacket pocket, eyes sweeping across the horizon, building a memory, the camera at work for insurance lest noise and confusion overwhelm this remembered moment.

The Vespa across the landscape — the ride, the gift, the trembling joy of being alive.

I love to ride.

Morning, strong light, cool air, quiet walk.  Sunshine pours in and the energy level rises in response.  A fine way to begin another day on the earth. Poor Junior, sitting again, awaiting whatever happens with the small black box in my hand.  He would be more animated if it dispensed dog biscuits.

If sunlight adds energy then the sight of the scooter awaiting departure provides excitement, the kind that promises an electric flow through the body as the spine straightens and mouth tightens into a grin regardless of destination.

A few spare moments to chase the light at the end of the day, a brief distraction along a small stream in the mountains, a flicker of silver and sparkle that reminds of the small gifts found along a ride.  And with the slowly fading light comes that satisfied feeling that I’ve been part of something good, a life, a stumbling along a path like no other.

Just a short ride, some miles through the countryside and up along the graveled roads into Rothrock State Forest, the flush of pale green creeping towards a day when the forest is a sea of leaves.  A ride like so many others yet unlike any other in the sights, smells and thoughts burning along the way.

Unwound and free, relaxed and breathing easy — small gifts of a dog and a Vespa.