Got the Vespa running this afternoon and had to go for a ride.  That was sweet and in the weather I love.

The sad news — I think the fuel pump died miles from home.  Tomorrow the GTS gets trucked to Kissell Motorsports in State College, PA.  I’ve had enough — I just want to ride.

The familiar pattern, an errand, a chore, any chance to be on two wheels, moving, traveling, riding in the world.  The memory was almost dim until this evening the spell drifted like smoke on a calm night through mind and flesh.

Whispering.

Ride, ride, ride…

And suddenly the scooter is parked in the woods, the sun dying in the west, a simple pleasure of being pulsing through veins, heart beating with a swift lightness.

Riding again, a small scooter, a humble errand.

Remember how it feels, alone on the road, cares washed away revealing enchantment, a trance lined with bliss at just being alive?  The magic of riding — forgotten somehow.

The last remnants of winter, dark, gray, dirty with the heavy feelings of a world too long cut off from the light yet I feel impervious to it’s power.  I only want to ride, if only for a few minutes on a short, ordinary errand.

I remember the bewitchment, the alchemy of air and movement, sound and smell, images sweeping by like a fast stream in spring.

Almost home, a quick stop for a picture of the warm weather location of the Piston and Pints Moto Hang in warm weather.  For those nearby, there will be a Piston and Pints get together tomorrow — March 30 at 6pm at Legends — a lounge at the Penn Stater Conference Hotel in State College, PA.

A few miles on the road rewired my brain, introduced a heaping dose of thrill cut with desire and electricity. Side effects:  quickened heartbeat, easy smile, temporary reversal of the aging process.

Holy shit — I love to ride. I have to fix the Vespa…

The Vespa GTS 250ie still sits in the garage awaiting the rise of the Vespa mechanic.  Tools are ready, parts on hand, even a sign hailing service was acquired hoping to prod the mechanic into motion.  All reports indicate an unusually resistant strain of procrastination.  Theories are mixed to the cause and lasso everything from cold weather to indolence.  Regardless, scooter riding has ground to a halt along with a list of other creative and spiritual endeavors.

Still, some things continue on — more from coercion than desire.  These images, all made during the past week, markers along a narrow trail seeking a way out of a mental winter.

Junior insists on walks.  Walk is too tame, runs, wild reckless forays involving blaze orange rubber balls that whistle and sore throwing arms.  No excuses accepted and minor variations in schedule are met with snorts of frustration.  Repairing the Vespa?  Junior couldn’t care less.

Trudging to work to meet his needs is fine as long as the balls continue to fly.

Kim saw the doll first, captured it, resolved the strangeness with her camera as the totem reached out as if to make one last horrible shake of winter stupor, laughing and cursing the actions not taken by the man with the iPhone, the Vespa, darkroom, writing, photography and a dozen other paths thick with weeds and fast disintegrating beneath the sadness of winter.

Kim always sees things first.  And not just in regard to pictures.

Avoidance isn’t limited to the Vespa.  It’s locked cameras away and transformed the needed repairs to the darkroom into a mystical task of construction known only to long gone Druids or craftsman familiar to King Solomon.  With great effort and focus and days of meditation a few moments of photographic expression became possible with the iPhone using the Hipstamatic app, Tinto 1884 lens, D-Type Plate Film.

For a few moments I could pretend to be a photographer.

Two more rolls of black and white film through the Leica M6 and added to the growing collection of unprocessed images, quiet reminders of a road less traveled.

Under a bright blue sky and dreams of warm air a miracle occurred and prints were made.  An excited, agitated buzz of creative energy was quickly strangled by the harsh reality of returning snow.  Gordon Harkins captured this fleeting moment of hope.

A Walmart print.

After midnight, fiddling with Hipstamatic, watching Project Runway and the wild, driven antics of designers pursuing an idea. A dream.

I remember that feeling, that drive.  And I realize now, for no good or bad reason, at a pace all its own, things recede, there’s an ebb and flow to what the mind demands.  Last night I looked at the shop manual for the Vespa again, shaking my head at the simplicity of the repair that has kept me grounded all winter.  Over the weekend I looked at the sink and the minor nature of the repair.

Winter was for rest and reflection.  And with the coming of spring things will change and grow.  The Vespa will return to the road, the camera will fall into compulsive use and the world will be different.

Damn, I am having fun.  And I didn’t even know it.

Hot tea, a pen and small notebook provide company until friends arrive at Saint’s Cafe on Sunday morning.  Familiar rituals, touchstones, reminders along the road which makes up a life.  And until recently a ride on the Vespa played an important part.

The morning sun and blue sky was strong enough to have me thinking about sunglasses instead of the scattered snow showers predicted.  Last night the desire to ride was strong, insistent, whispering until I found myself on my daughter’s Yamaha Vino under a sliver of moon just before midnight.

Silent and waiting in the garage the Vespa still suffers from a simple mechanical failure.  Soon, soon I’ll make that repair.

Winter remains on the road in the form of gravel and grit, just part of the additional risk a rider must consider in cold weather.  Walking the dog before the ride an argument grew in my head between the rider experience in sub-freezing travel and a stranger who questioned the wisdom of riding a scooter at 19F.  With a mental hand gesture I left it behind and soon found myself on the road again if only for a short ride into town.

Saint’s Cafe on a frigid morning, a cold world outside well seen through freshly washed windows.

Something was different this morning, I felt a stranger to this frigid world.  The expected rush didn’t come, only the noise of the earlier mental arguments. Maybe it was just the cold but I felt oddly mortal standing on the gravel lane when I recalled a line from Robert Heinlein’s book Stranger in a Strange Land: “There is no safety this side of the grave.”

I need to remember that.