Scooter in the Sticks

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

Pushing Asphalt, Pushing Steel

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A morning ride several weeks ago — pushing, pushing through air, through space, pushing, gritting, standing, riding through the chill air, spine straight, neck extended, seeking, reaching, grasping for the day.  Now, then, tomorrow.  The Vespa pushes the asphalt, slicing through space towards a destination.

At 65mph at 35F the air feels cold.  The Vespa provides little protection without a windshield or hand guards.  With heated gloves at home I am having the naked riding experience.  Armored against the cold as best I can it’s always waiting, restlessly searching for an opening to make me uncomfortable.

Below an overpass on Interstate 99, boots scratching at frozen gravel, eyes scanning the lines of steel and concrete overhead, making a picture and postponing for a few moments having blood drained from my arm.  That’s my first destination — blood tests at the hospital.

Face raised towards the sun I stood for a long moment on a gravel lane leading from Mount Nittany Medical Center towards Beaver Stadium. An elastic bandage on my squeezed my left arm, holding in place a small square of gauze protecting a hole where a phlebotomist pushed a fine steel needle into a vein.  Thick, dark red liquid filled one glass vial then another as I provided evidence for my doctor to manage my psoriatic arthritis, monitor the chemicals in my body used to counter an aggressive immune system that’s declared war on the body it’s supposed to protect.

I feel like I’m in the middle.

People gather at the statue of Joe Paterno leaving cards and flowers and other tokens of recognition. His legacy is still unfolding, his grand experiment unique and probably never to be repeated.

Anywhere.

Another stop at the library bearing the Paterno name.  Not sure if any other large university had a coach who built a library.  After picking up a book more errands lay ahead.  The Vespa has proven itself over and over as a near perfect vehicle for my eclectic journeys.

Steam rises in small, turbulent swirls as I stare at the Starbucks on the table.  Watching, looking, remembering lazy summer days laying on a grassy field as white, cotton candy clouds passed overhead.  Alone with a cup of tea, a few moments to pause and think and just enjoy the moment.

Towards home, detoured once, twice, three times to extend the ride, expand the sights, and drink in the world.  Even the short trips like these, filled with duty and task, can be exquisite.  Fun.  Free.

For me at least.

One last stop at the Boalsburg Chocolate Company for a few confections to enjoy later with another cup of tea and then across the street to Bella di Vita, a small shop selling soap and other conveyances of fragrances. There’s always something there that Kim will love — this time a new Eau de toilette by Cote Bastides.
Seems an appropriate way to end a ride on an Italian Vespa.  I guess I won’t ever graduate to a Harley…

Head Full of Briars

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A groan of displeasure in response to the 8F displayed on my iPhone woke poor Junior.  That was a month ago but the memory is fresh.  Not because of any notable event during the ride to work.  It’s memorable because of the frustration and anger that can be generated in the preparation for riding in cold weather and how that can affect the ride itself.

The first cue that something was wrong appeared as I was pulling on my Tourmaster Overpants and I realized I had forgotten to put long underwear on.  At 8F you need them.  So a trip back upstairs, take off my boots and pants, pull on the polypropylene underwear, pants back on, socks, boots, and trudge downstairs.

When it’s really cold I use more layers.  On goes the sweater, then windbreaker, then jacket liner, and finally my First Gear Kilimanjaro IV riding jacket.  It’s a tight fit in the arms due to the thickness of all the layers.  Wrestling, squirming, pushing the jacket on I then have to struggle to get the armor back into place and then zip and button up the jacket.  After pulling on the ski mask I pick the helmet up off the radiator where I’ve been toasting it and put it on, then reach for my electric gloves toasting as well.

And then I utter a frustrated single word.  I forgot to put the wires inside the jacket.  Grumbling and reciting some well worn mantras I finally get the wires in place, gloves on and push the scooter out into the driveway.  Almost ready to leave I realize I don’t have my wallet, iPhone or keys which I took out of my pockets on the first pants change.

The toasty gloves and helmet are cold now.  I’ve not plugged in the gloves yet.  And I’ll realize shortly they aren’t working anyway.  And I realize I don’t have my camera.  I don’t ever ride without a camera.

So there the Vespa sits, in front of the house, nearly 20 minutes to get from the house to this position.  My head’s in an angry spin — it’s full of briars.

In a hurry to get to work I didn’t think to have breakfast or pack a lunch and was happy to stop at Subway to get both and warm my now frozen hands.  Stepping inside from 8F to 75F and high humidity meant — you know — instantly fogged and dripping glasses and helmet.

Then quiet, under-the-breath muttering and questioning the universe asking if I was wrong thinking riding was supposed to be fun.

Still managed to get to work early with one last look back at the scooter before heading to my office.  Or so I thought.  Once inside I realize my shoulder back is still in the topcase.  Back I go only to realize at the Vespa that the key is still in my riding pants — back in my office.

At this point my frustration is mixing with thoughts about a story I have to edit and a proposal I’m working on.  It’s just a damn ugly mental state, that head full of briars.

Eventually everything is as it should be but I realized not every trip is a magical mystery tour.  Some rides leave something to be desired. And often the challenge or frustration is worth pushing through.

Maybe that’s a good thing.

A Gerbing Heated Gloves Night

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Gerbing is as good as their word — a brand new pair of leather, G3 heated gloves.  My old ones failed and they replaced them.  I’m a confirmed Gerbing rider.  And when I got home from work tonight I had to try them out during a trip into town.  While the Vespa was idling in the driveway I plugged the new gloves in and felt warmth almost instantly.  Really warm.  And the new gloves have heated palms.

I knew there would be some ice to experiment with nearby and I wanted to give the snow tires a little more testing in a controlled setting.  I’m always interested in what the limits of equipment are to factor into my own limitations.  As the temperature dropped to 27F I figured I better head into town.

You don’t see boots are cars very often around here. Finding one on a Yamaha Vino scooter must be a first.  The fines for this rider have to be rough.

Walking down Beaver Avenue in State College, Pennsylvania I saw a poster of James Dean and Marilyn Monroe (I think) in the window of Uncle Eli’s.  Couldn’t resist taking a picture but it’s the kind of vision I would expect on Twisted Roads rather than here.

I had been thinking about heated grips for the past few weeks while my dead electric gloves were in Tumwater.  But I can say without reservation that these new Gerbing heated gloves work so well that I won’t be looking at anything else.

The Sartorialist

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I didn’t shoot this picture.  It appeared on the Sartorialist, a blog about fashion by Scott Schuman. Schuman is a photographer who writes and has a tremendous following in the fashion industry. Seen as one of the most influential men in fashion it’s no wonder considering he measures visitors to his blog each month in the millions.

New York Magazine had a great story about the Sartorialist, Schuman and his blogger wife, Garance Dore.

His photography attracted me, his ability to see, approach and document an aspect of life that he’s passionately connected to. Motorcycles and scooters make their way into his posts on ocassion and when I saw this one I thought it might be time to share.  One of my photographic goals is to make portraits of some of the riders I see on the road.  If I ever get around to doing it the Sartorialist will be something I try and emulate.

I admit feeling a bit ruffled and unkempt when I look at his photographs of people, found on the street, wearing what they wear. Not often making my way to Paris, New York or Milan, chances are you won’t see me appear on The Sartorialist any time soon.

Still, it’s worth a look.

Riding: Other Ways Home

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I know, without a doubt, that my life would be more ordinary if my movement through the world was limited to the comfortable confines of a car.  A satisfied grin marked my face as I scrambled around in the gravel along a line of dumpsters. Looking out beyond the Vespa towards Tussey Ridge, sitting on the ground, I was happy.

When was the last time you sat on the ground by yourself?

At 57 years old I’m still curious and get excited by strange things I see. And maybe more excited that I actually see things.  And concerns for appearances and behavior are mostly in the past leaving me free to roll around on the ground in a yellow and black riding suit to take a picture regardless of who might see me.

Riding the Vespa changes things.  Changes what I see and do.  And for the better.  In a car, the commute to and from work is painfully ordinary, a trip from A to B on the shortest route, radio playing, mind wandering, arriving at a destination startled and wondering how I got there.

It’s almost never that way on the Vespa.  I always know what happened. While riding I’m a man in full possession of my senses of sight, sound, smell, touch and taste.  It’s good.  Life’s richer on a Vespa.

Even amidst a village of dumpsters.

Scooter in the Sticks

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

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