So, what to make of this…
I doctored the member number so as to not tempt anyone to lose themselves on the BMWMOA website.
Look What Came in the Mail
Riding and the Curious Toddler
Of all the names ascribed to me Curious Toddler might be the best. Or at least I’ve convinced myself of this after a long weekend. Stacy Bolty, author of Bolty.net for some reason chose me to bookend a wide range of riders as a curious toddler. Cool – my 15 minutes of fame promised by Warhol. He never said it would be a heroic or magnificent 15 minutes.
Curious Toddler. Curious.
By the end of the first evening I was talking to myself and standing in front of the mirror flexing my biceps. At least until I remembered being called Weenie Arms Williams in second grade. Pouring through websites for BMW, Ducati, Triumph and Ducati and commenting out loud, “I could ride that. Oh yeah, that one too, piece of cake.” And on and on until it occurs to me that I might need to renew my subscription to Guns and Ammo. I let it lapse in ninth grade.
Part of the evening is spent dusting off the free weight set in the basement. Hairballs from the last three dogs we’ve owned encase them under a workbench. Back in the living room I busy myself designing appropriate tattoos that utilize flames, lightning bolts, and mythical creatures. By bedtime Kim is stroking my hand and whispering, “You’re my man…”
Curious. Is that a polite way of saying odd? Or weird, strange, eccentric? The mind plays tricks with the ego. And toddler. Does that make me an infant, a big baby, or is it code for infantile? Or stupid. By midnight I’m standing outside with Junior peering up at the heavens asking, “Why?”
And the answer strikes deep inside – I am a curious toddler.
Ice water sparkles in a red plastic glass, a welcome hydration after several hours on the road. The narrow, white Formica counter top flecked with gold transports me back to dinner with my mom and dad at Danny’s Restaurant on Neville Island fifty years earlier where I marveled at the riches spread out before me.
Diner 22 just outside Alexandria, Pennsylvania on US 22, a stop for breakfast and a chance for my toes to warm. No riders here. None seen anywhere during the morning – the chill air still keeping most motorcycles and scooters at home. A few old men sit to my right lapping up chicken parmesan, the daily lunch special — $6.25. Overhead is a sign, “J-EET-YET”. Soon my predictable plate of scrambled eggs, bacon, potatoes, and toast will make the answer yes.
That meal is probably more dangerous than anything I encounter on the road.
I work methodically through my breakfast presented neatly on a heavy white plate. Taped to the glass door on the refrigerator in front of me is a hand-lettered sign on peach colored paper announcing fresh baked cinnamon rolls for $1.75. The crisp bacon looses flavor as I contemplate the snaps on my Tourmaster Overpants. A cinnamon roll sitting close to the door whispers my name just as a harmonica begins to wail on the overhead speakers. The waitress crashes two of the red plastic glasses into the ice chest. The Vespa keys are lying on the counter. I look up and catch her eye. It’s over, I’ve lost. I close my mouth tightly for fear drool might escape.
Defying reason I stand up and pay my bill and escape without the unnecessary weight of a cinnamon roll.
The ride started hours earlier as I explained to Junior that any long walk would have to wait until I got home. The sight of fog on the mountain coupled with a strong desire to ride the Vespa overcame the dog’s insistent suggestions of taking a ride in the truck to all his favorite destinations.
Traveling towards weather makes route choices easier. The temperature display indicated 35F as I rolled out of the driveway towards Rothrock State Forest and a maze of dirt and gravel roads. Eight miles from home and I’ve already stopped six times to take pictures. Curious Toddler comes to mind as I wander around the roadside looking for treasure. It begins to seem an appropriate title.
I can’t help being swept away by the gloomy landscape, as if walking through a Charlotte Bronte landscape.
Climbing towards the top of Thickhead Mountain, another stop, more wandering around, searching for a rock for the garden. Winter hasn’t been harsh on the road. Gravel still mostly in place and very little mud to deal with.
Despite the greater risk of riding in fog I am mesmerized by how things look. It’s hard not to give up riding and just make pictures. And there are no bad pictures when fog is involved.
The road and landscape merge to form a continuous picture that compels me to stop despite oaths to ride onward and allow the passing scenes to fade into memory.
Fog.
Standing in the road I see possibility, recall memories from youth, scenes of Barnabas Collins or passages from Edgar Allen Poe. Twelve miles now and I’ve stopped nine times to make pictures. Riding has become incidental, a means to another end. I am the Curious Toddler.
Proceeding down the mountain reveals a shortcoming of a scooter with an automatic transmission. A constant velocity transmission (CVT) for engineers or the mechanically minded. What this means is there is little engine braking available. Roll off the throttle, the RPMS drop and before you know it you’re freewheeling at increasing speed. Braking requires a sensitive touch and complete understanding of what is about to happen when the throttle is twisted. Applying power suddenly engages the powertrain and, depending on speed and road surface, can yield a sudden lurch as the transmission is engaged. On snow it can be a catastrophe. On loose gravel or mud it’s a wait and see thing. Motorcycle riders have it much easier with their endless features and capabilities.
Lichen covered rocks in a woodland setting. Gleaning ideas for a Japanese garden installation. Distant, almost insignificant in the photo, the Ves pa asks if I want to ride. At times I feel it deserves a better home. I keep promising to leave the camera and iPhone at home and just ride, explore on the road and not on foot. An attempt to rein in the Curious Toddler.
If you find yourself wandering in a similar environment make a note – those damp rocks are slippery. Crashing down on your head slippery.
Earthly magnetism. I’m drawn to the edge of landscapes where one place ends and another begins – a canyon rim, seashore, overlook. Places to peer into infinity. Places found on rides. The road surface here is mostly sand and clay, damp, and prone to make the tires track sideways as times. The Heidenau winter tires perform well in this environment.
White pines suffocate the road. Descending towards pavement and civilization I stop to make a few photographs. The scent of pine and decaying needles fill the air. It’s hard to see more than 50 yards in any direction. Even the sky is cut off from view. I can begin to appreciate the terrible challenge European settlers had when they traversed these mountains in the early 1700s.
A few miles further; more toddling, more curiosity in play. Lost in a dark wood, the big bad wolf can’t be far off.
The moment the front wheel touches pavement I swear an oath that’s I’ll not stop for another picture until after breakfast. A twist of the throttle, I begin humming Sugar Mountain, the landscape sweeps by in an endless series of images. This is the freedom of riding.
Jane Stewart was born not long after the American Revolution and now rests with her husband James near Saulsburg, Pennsylvania. Each time I visit a cemetery I leave with a renewed sense of time and a reminder to make use of it.
The old graveyard and church stand in disrepair. Decaying forms of wrought iron fence and gates offer ideas for home. Kim and I both embrace the subtle grace of things being overtaken by nature. A quiet growl beneath my riding jacket reminds me of my mission.
On long smooth roads the Vespa is completely at home and can run all day at whatever legal speed I choose. Or some illegal ones as well. Roads lead south to Maryland, Virginia and beyond. Or north through New York and New England. When anyone asks about a scooter make sure you remind them that you can travel as far and wide as your time and resources allow.
What is it about train tracks vanishing into the horizon that’s so alluring? I stood here a long time before leaving. Not a care in the world; just the Vespa and the road. Everything else burned away.
Breakfast at Diner 22 marks the beginning of the end of my ride as I turn towards home.
The open landscape along PA Route 453 near Water Street. Thirty more miles until I’m home, relaxed, smiling, a curious toddler.
Another track leads off through a farm field that I have to explore. I’m tired and don’t fully pursue the opportunity.
The Vespa is silent as I pull in the driveway. Junior doesn’t wake and I walk up to the window to see Kim working in her studio. It’s good to be home.
Junior soon demands some action himself and we take a walk to the park where he and Buddy chase tennis balls.
Thinking about the ride later as I worked on this post I understand more fully the meaning of being a curious toddler. It fits, it works, and I think I will have a T-shirt made…
iPhone Magic — It has Applications for Riding Art
Any readers using their smart-phone cameras to make images they consider more than snapshots?
Lately I feel as if I am standing at a line if crossed means the complete, total, and utter abandonment of film. For the past few months I have been shooting nothing but digital images and I have to say I don’t miss the darkroom much at all. There is a certain nostalgia I’m clinging to — the tactile process of loading film, the smell of the chemistry, the look and feel of silver prints. Uncertainty clouds the topic. Is there more for me to say with film or am I just afraid to cross the line? I can’t say right now and no one can push me one way or the other.
One pleasant surprise is the amazing ability of a smart phone camera along with the associated apps. I use an iPhone but I’ve seen work from other systems that are equally impressive. A few days ago I saw the above video referenced on Twitter that was produced using images made with the Hipstamatic app. The guy had to shoot a lot of images to pull off this pixelation project.
I’ve had a few riding projects in mind for a long time, stories that are more about perception and emotion than any documentary detail or recording. Maybe the phone is the answer…
Perhaps it is time to start experimenting more. My pictures are getting predictable.
Chick Magnet
Paul Ruby with his self-described chick magnet — a 1994 Oldsmobile Cutlass station wagon, a cream puff car he purchased last year at the Carlisle Car Show. He owns a number of chick magnets by his reckoning, including a big, black Harley-Davidson, a red Ducati 1198, a ’70s vintage red Ferrari, and a ’60s vintage Vespa. He describes them in various ways, from pure mojo, chick magnet, or other “pure” terms I would rather not put in writing. All are part of a unique Rubiesque lexicon. Under intense questioning he’ll eventually admit that none, save the vintage Vespa, have ever attracted a female. He may go further in saying that the women he’s encountered, in fact, seem completely disinterested in any of these machines.
Maybe the special power resides in the white socks and black slippers.
This past Saturday, something happened to possibly alter my perception of the idea of a chick magnet. The Oldsmobile Cutlass wagon may just have those fabled powers.
Dan Leri and I stood outside Saint’s Cafe, discussing Dan’s recent mishap with his BMW RT1150. I’ll be posting that story sometime soon. As we talked, Paul trotted up with a cup of his favorite Duncan Donuts coffee in hand, smiling and thankful to be walking on the good earth. He is generally that happy.
Before Dan could continue with his story, which included how the throttle froze on the way to work, Paul suddenly interjects: “You can’t talk to me. I have a 1994 Oldsmobile Cutlass station wagon. It’s a creampuff, pure mojo, a major chick magnet!” Bam. Or so he could have added. Bam is a common way Paul punctuates his deliveries.
Just as the words pass his lips, the crash of metal meeting metal stops the conversation. Paul’s head rotates toward the sound as if mounted on some fine, German, geared system. Eyes wide, his body is already in motion towards the parking lot across the street. It takes a moment for Dan and I to comprehend the situation. A gray minivan has just plowed into Paul’s creampuff. Like many guys, well, maybe most guys, we grin, chuckle and return to the frozen throttle conversation.
Only a few minutes pass until I notice Paul, standing behind the minivan, his arms wrapped around a woman. Another few minutes pass. Dan and I part ways. I head across the street towards my Vespa and see Paul still talking with the woman. The side of the wagon is clearly wrecked, and I’ll later learn that the minivan was in far worse shape. I stifle a strong, very strong, urge to chirp “chick magnet” as I walk by.
A few hours later, Paul is on the phone asking me if I think God is trying to tell him something. He’s wondering if he’s making light of women, by thinking his possessions have some magical power over them. Does this mean he believes– they’re one-dimensional creatures drawn merely to the sparkling of worldly goods. I listen quietly as he expresses deep, spiritual concern for his actions and speech–as he questions the foundations on which his beliefs are based. His angst flows through the phone in a heavy wave of emotion. I listen until he’s drained of speech, awaiting my response.
In our front yard, a Carolina wren sings loudly for a mate. Junior stretches on the floor as my foot rubs his soft belly. Finally, I respond.
“No, none of that. It’s a chick magnet.”
What are friends for if not to rubber-stamp each others’ shit.
Consumption Therapy and Moto-Porn
A couple days ago good old Charlie6 (Dom) of Redleg’s Rides forwarded an email about the above bike. Overconfidence no doubt at having reversed my opinion about sidecars he probably thought I’d be vulnerable to suggestions about a vintage BMW. Here’s his message:
Steve,
Just in case you're undergoing Beemer withdrawals.....this one seems nice.
dom
Date: Thu, 31 Mar 2011
From: "Charles xxx"
Subject: 1988 R100GS For Sale
To: "Airheads"
We are getting ready to move so I am putting my Airhead up for sale and I thought I would give the list first crack.
It is a 1988 R100GS, Black and Yellow, and is in great cosmetic andmechanical condition. It comes with Caribou luggage system and a Marsee magnetic tank bag. The GS has about 38,800 miles. I just changed all fluids, checked the valves and will check the carb sync prior to delivery.
The GS has had the circ clip issue addressed by Tom Cutter. Some modifications include Nippon starter, Moto and Hyper lites, Ohlin Adj. rear shock (came from factory with WP rear and progressive springs in forks), EnduraLast 450 watt alternator, and Acerbis handguards.
With the GS comes many, many spare parts (including a new-in-box BMW brand drive shaft, two rebuilt bing carbs(missing floats as I borrowed them last year and didn't replace), original working Valeo starter, a set of Cont. TKC tires (currently has Avon Gripsters mounted). Also, the GS is wired for handlebar mounted GPS and Gerbing heat. The BMW tool pouch is complete. I will also include a Clymer manual in addition to the Owner's manual.
I am asking $5500 for all.
The bike is located in Pottstown, PA (about 35-miles west of Philly)
I had been looking at used motorcycles on eBaby, Kissell Motorsports, and anywhere I could think of when I opened Dom’s message. Seeing that yellow and black motorcycle, reviewing the specs and price, I knew, absolutely knew, I wanted that motorcycle. I needed that motorcycle. The world would not be right, I wouldn’t be right, until it was sitting in our garage.
Kim, my loving partner, wife, and knowing soulmate was sitting a few feet away in the window, writing in her journal. I let the words, “Wow, that’s a nice motorcycle” ease past my teeth and into the room. Her pen kept pace across the page of her notebook as I added, “I’ve always loved the 1988 BMW R100 GS” and feeling a lot like Ralphie in A Christmas Story scheming to get a Official Red Ryder Carbine-Action Two-Hundred-Shot Range Model Air Rifle with a compass in the stock.
The R100 GS is that cool.
Being wise and knowing how to decode my meta-messages Kim asked if I wanted a motorcycle. I really became Ralphie as I quickly thought how to respond — not too excited, not too relaxed. I did not say I wanted a football. (Apologies to anyone who hasn’t seen a Christmas Story)
Cutting to the chase Kim asked me a few simple questions. (My recollection of the exchange)
KIM: Do you like the motorcycle?
STEVE: Yes, I do, I have always loved the way these vintage BMWs look, especially the R100 GS.
K: Do you need a motorcycle?
S: (long pause) Hmmm, well, I don’t really need a motorcycle. It would be nice to ride though.
K: What are you going to do with the Vespa?
S: I’ll keep the Vespa. Never know when you might need a second machine to ride. (Suddenly I’m feeling sort of stupid)
K: If you want a motorcycle you should get one.
S: (silence)
K: What will the BMW do differently than the Vespa?
S: (I almost blurt out “it will go a lot faster”) Well, it will feel different on the road. And it might open up more riding opportunities. (I am beginning to realize how little I have thought about this subject at all)
K: When will you have time to do this? You seem pretty busy right now with work, photography, writing, the house, friends, the dog. Are you really going to be able to use it? And you’re getting all those motorcycles from Kissell Motorsports to ride. How’s another motorcycle going to fit in?
S: (Kim’s doing the thinking that I should have been doing. A light flickers in my head, dimly at first, then brighter when she asks the next question.)
K: Do you really need this motorcycle or are you just in your buying mode?
S: Hmmmm….. Well…. I… I just… (silence)
No need to go on here. I began to see what Kim saw in an instant. Things were pretty hectic after returning from Colorado. Lots of work to catch up on with lots of new things to do. When my head begins to spin at a certain speed I seek consumption therapy. Buy something and I’ll feel better. Buy a motorcycle and I’ll feel a lot better. Or so the irrational thoughts suggest. I have a really nice Bell Kevlar canoe hanging in the garage with about 4 hours of use on it. A Wisner 4×5 view camera, bamboo flute, assorted tools and toys, all purchases a direct result of consumption therapy.
Kim just saved us $5500. While I eventually come to appreciate her insight, at the moment it’s being delivered I can pout at not getting what I want. I wonder at times how she puts up with me. I’m the only man who’s like this.
I emailed the owner of the motorcycle on the phone to seek permission to use the picture on this post. He granted it with the statement “feel free to use my moto-porn”. He knew.
The next day I went for a ride on the Vespa and honestly wondered why I thought I needed anything else. The thing is perfect for me.
Couldn’t smile a bigger smile.