As the days shorten it’s more and more common to arrive at work under a gray autumn sky.  Leaves are falling and probably already past the peak for those engaged in regional leaf peeping.  I’ve been so busy of late that my riding is limited to getting back and forth to the office and any writing or photography is connected there as well.

For a lot of riders the change in season brings an end to their riding.  For me, I’m content knowing that my favorite riding times are just beginning.  Visually the landscape is stimulating and the brisk temperatures rattle me from the lethargy of summer.  I’m reminded of a dog I used to have and how he would come alive in winter from a brief dip into a cold mountain stream.

All I need is a few miles on the Vespa.

I have a ton of stuff to post and share.  Just need to find the time…

No ride begins, Vespa or otherwise, until Junior has his pound of flesh — some sort of walk, ball tossing/throwing/shoulder-destroying session.  He’s passionate about life and expects no less from me.

Was an odd morning as weather moved quickly through the valley providing an assorted palette of color and light in which to exist.  And ride.

Mt. Nittany, the familiar iconic ridge know to Penn Staters around the world, sits in the middle of Happy Valley and along one of my often used routes to town or campus.  I’ve been looking at a variation of this view for over 40 years now.  Where has the time gone?

State College, Pennsylvania is quiet on Sunday morning with the streets noticeably empty.  Riding, prowling the well worn byways in the area remain a satisfying action for me, mind wandering, eyes drinking in the color and texture of this little world.  I’ve always wandered like this with a camera.  The Vespa merely expanded my range.

During the week these motorcycle spaces are often full of the day riders, those individuals who venture out during the warm hours, the busy times.  On Sunday morning only the churchgoers, feral cats, and sober riders inhabit the world.  Or so it seems.

 Home again, home again, jiggity-jig.  Only I didn’t buy a fat pig.  Just a fine, uneventful, meditative series of moments on the Vespa.  Hard to explain to some why this ritual is important.  Popular myth presents riding as either a dangerous act or outlaw activity.  Or worse.  But on another Vespa morning I just don’t care..

Often questioned or criticized by motorcycle riders for venturing out on the highway on what some consider less than adequate power.  After considering all the alternatives I decided on a classical Roman approach to bridge the gap — a Vespa chariot rig akin to those breathtaking scenes I remember from Ben-Hur as a kid.

This picture was made by my friend Gordon Harkins just before I picked up the reins to ride a few more miles at breakneck speed through Moshannon State Forest.

A more conventional portrait of Gordon and I along the road.  He has about 300 miles or so on his spanking new Vespa GTS 300 Super.  I’ll be posting soon on what it took for him to become a Vespa rider especially since he looks more at home on the set of Sons of Anarchy than anything I can imagine for a scooter…

An email alert from Scootin’ Old Skool, a blog by author Orin O’Neill, titled Happy Equinox got me wondering about the way I feel this time of year.  On the ride home this evening I could feel winter in the distance, the shortened days triggering some circadian rhythm imprinted in my brain from a thousand generations of really needing to get things in order before the sun favored brothers in the southern hemisphere.

The clouds over Mt. Nittany, the iconic geographic feature that separates Penns Valley from Nittany Valley and Penn State University.  Standing along the road I could feel the cool air creep into my joints, move into my lungs and trigger a biological reaction that left me feeling wary and alone.

Or so I convinced myself.  Migratory birds sense it.  So do squirrels and chipmunks and other animals scurrying to prepare for winter.  Why not me?

Riding creates an intimate relationship with the weather in the fall.  Changes in light, temperature, and wind direction require nimble and ongoing adjustments in a manner not generally needed in warm weather.  Fog is more common this time of year and soon the leaves will transform the landscape into a palette of warm color.  I wonder if the visual stimulation triggers another ancient series of chemical events in my brain leaving me with prehistoric feelings no longer requiring a survival action.

Perhaps it accounts for the unsettled feelings, a mere endocrine response to some genetic programming that kept ancestors alive when mammoths roamed here.

Fall brings big skies.  Dramatic skies.  Natural reminders of things to come.

I’ve already donned more serious riding gear and I can feel myself steel against the elements on cold mornings.  I’m ready.  A flush of life sweeps through my body as I look towards the heavens.  It’s a fine time to ride…