Scooter in the Sticks

Exploring life on a Vespa, Royal Enfield Himalayan, Honda Trail 125, and a Kawasaki W650

Numb Hands

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Looks like a nice morning but it’s cold.  Vespa instrument cluster blinking 31F at me.  Mix choosing the wrong winter riding gloves with a false estimate of the temperature (Weather.com iPhone app still set to Baltimore) and you have numb hands.

I should have gone back home to get a different pair but instead muttered the time honored expression, “I’ll be fine.”

And things would have been fine if I’d not stopped to take pictures.  A few minutes of bare flesh on a cold camera is enough to cause problems for me.  By the second stop I had to warm my hands on the headlight before continuing. Two more warming events would unfold before getting to Saint’s Cafe in State College, Pennsylvania.

A pleasant surprise to see another scooter parked across from Schlow Library, an unusual sighting for this kind of weather.  And it was nice to find the trip into town did not involve any ice or slippery stuff.  You always have to be on the lookout for the exceptions.

There was a downside for my fellow scooter traveler — there is no overnight parking on the street in State College and I guess that includes the motorcycle spaces.  Looks as if the parking people came by three times to say “Get out”.  Each of those pretty yellow envelopes costs $25 I hear.  That’s six months of gas money for a scooter.

Arriving early allowed for a few quiet moments to take nourishment, read a bit about Joe Paterno, and jot down some notes for this post.  Sunday morning has developed into a ritual.

Gordon arrived a little later with prints of pictures his dog Laika shot.  That thing hanging from his shirt is a camera that attaches to a dog’s collar.  Once activated it will take a picture every minute and can store up to 40 shots.  Very strange to imagine life from a dog’s point of view.

Paul arrived halfway through the morning with his new Fuji X100 camera in tow.  It looks a bit like a Leica but that’s where the comparison ends.  It’s all digital after that.  Nice camera though but not the kind of thing I would want to haul around on the Vespa.  It’s fixed wide-angle lens won’t allow for the creation of the heroic Vespa pictures I imagine.  Need that telephoto lens…

Leaving the cafe near noon saw the temperature rise five degrees and with no stopping for pictures on the way home the numb hands were history.

Moral of the story:  When riding in cold, make sure you have the right gloves.

5 Reasons Not to Ride a Motorcycle or Scooter in the Winter

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Vespa GTS scooter parked on snowy streetVespa Scooter and Snow

While this winter has been unseasonably mild it’s still cold when riding. A few weeks ago a ride into town was a bit dicey because of periodic remnants of snow and ice. It’s frustrating to show up at the motorcycle parking space and find it full of salty snow and slush.

It left me wondering about riding in winter and the questions I field about being out in the cold. I claim no wisdom, just a few observations on why you should store your machine for the winter.

1. You’ll reek havoc on your brain.

Riding in winter means you have to deploy your intellect to manage a range of complex assessments of self, skill, road, traffic, weather, destination, route and more. If you believe riding is about freedom and nothing else then it might be best to stay behind (or beneath) the wheel. That way you can sustain your fantasy and keep your brain relaxed.

2. You’ll damage your ego.

In cold weather you ride alone. Tribes of riders to face the elements don’t exist. No one will care, admire or recognize your presence on the road. Those that do will think you’re nuts or an idiot, or that you have no friends. Any thoughts of heroic deeds in facing the cold will have to be yours alone. If you need recognition it might be wise to keep your ego intact, stay at home, and clean and polish the bike.

3. Weaknesses will surface.

Winter riding will expose the limits of your physical and psychological tolerance for cold. We all have them but not everyone knows what they are. Discovering that you can’t hack riding at 55F may be too much to bear if you’ve dreamed of trips at the freezing mark. Regardless, whether at 50, 30 or -10 degrees, you’ll find your limits. Make sure you are ready for the knowledge.

4. Grit, grime, and road filth will make you cry.

You may try to convince people that you can’t ride because the stuff on the road creates too big a hazard to ride, reducing traction and making turns especially dangerous. In your heart you know it’s bullshit and you really just don’t want to get your machine dirty. Riding in winter, at least in areas that use salt and grit, will turn your motorcycle or scooter into a nasty thing.

5. You’ll question your sanity.

If you get onto the road in the cold, allow your machine to get dirty, feel your fingers and toes grow numb, and fight to keep your visor clear, at some point in the process you’ll stop and ask, “Why am I doing this?”.

Standing at a mental crossroad — one direction leads on to the secret nirvana of winter riding. The other to self doubt, disappointment, excuses and internal arguments that seek to soften the thoughts of failure. Stay at home and protect your sanity.

The Gathering Gloom

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Dying light, the gathering gloom descending on the ride home from work.  Cold enough that my hands chill quickly when I handle the Canon G9 camera without gloves.  I can’t quite get the camera to do what I want it to do with those thick winter Tourmaster gloves.

Stay just a bit late at work and the light disappears quickly, especially on an overcast day.  Riding is bright.  I find unexpected satisfaction in cutting through the grayness on a cold evening.  Riding is an affirmation of living.  It is a reminder of breath and sight and feeling.  It’s so far from being behind the wheel I can’t begin to describe the experience.

One last stop on the way home to scramble up the concrete beneath the overpass.  Standing with the camera I wonder if a passing police car will think “terrorist” as I photograph in my bumblebee riding suit.  More likely “idiot”.

When I think of injuring myself during riding more often those thoughts arise as I am finding places to shoot a picture.

And on down the through the gathering gloom to home and hearth and a cup of tea.  Or two.

Riding in the Gray and Grit

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Winter feels gray and gritty.  It shows on the soul and on the Vespa as the grime collects.  Piles of crushed limestone dot the landscape where road crews place material to add friction to the roads when it snows.  This morning on the way to work in the dim light I wondered where all the color went.

One stop to buy something to eat at lunchtime and make a picture of the local fuel depot.  I remember when I worked at an Arco station in high school with one gas island and two pumps.  We handed out Green Stamps, washed windshields and checked oil.  Can’t quite understand how that was possible when I look at these modern installations and the number of vehicles guzzling gas.

On cold days, even ones with no snow and no threat of snow the parking lot doesn’t have many two-wheeled commuters.  Just the intrepid Vespa riders braving the winter elements — on this day a balmy 35F. Despite the gloom one thing shines through — the grin engendered by the trip, the travel, the road.

Damn, I love it so.

Waiting for Junior

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Junior knew this vet visit was different. I could see it in his eyes — a nervous scanning of the office, maybe noticing the place was empty at the end of the day. Maybe he could feel the small injury that resulted from his exuberant reaction to my arrival at doggy daycare when he banged his head against something as he strained to communicate, “Daddy’s here!”. Sedation and stitches were in his future.

So I wait.

Waiting for Junior.

I picture him coming through the door, wobbly from drugs, drunken on shaky legs wondering if he’ll be able to jump into his crate in the back of the van or if I’ll have to heft his 81 pounds like a sack of potatoes. It’s been 30 minutes — the vet said it wouldn’t take long to fix him, close the cut in his face just below his right eye.

On the counter is a picture of a man hugging a yellow lab. I know that look. I’m reminded of the intense, shimmering lives led by dogs that seem to sparkle past in an instant. I’ve had a lot of dogs.

Waiting for Junior.

A stuffed dog perched amidst pamphlets for pet insurance and memorial services provide no comfort. It’s dark outside. Just a little injury, a small mishap in a dog’s life. Still, I miss my boy.

The dark side of imagination works through unlikely scenarios. Still, sedation is never a minor activity. Or so I believe sitting alone in the waiting room.

Waiting for Junior.

A technician emerges, smiles, and tells me they’re almost done. The room brightens and I see Junior running through green fields leaping toward an orange rubber ball. I imagine giving him dinner later — letting him lick the dregs of milk and cereal in the morning.

Waiting.

Waiting for Junior.

A large inflatable tick hangs from the ceiling over a display of healthy pet treats. The technician who took Junior steps into view, stops, and softly speaks, “Come on Junior. That’s a good boy.”
Junior walks slowly, struggling to keep his legs under him, moving uncertainly. His eyes find me and his gait increases as he heads home. His body touches my leg and he melts onto the floor, tired, disoriented, relaxed. I know everything will be ok. I am reminded again of the place dogs have lived in me.

Later I hear his breathing, soft and regular, at my feet. I read on his discharge papers, “Junior was a very good patient today”.

He slept well, worn low by the day.

In the morning I took a close look at his injury. Small, almost insignificant. And I almost wonder why I was so nervous.

My dog Junior.

Scooter in the Sticks

Exploring life on a Vespa, Royal Enfield Himalayan, Honda Trail 125, and a Kawasaki W650

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