My dog Junior watched with a forlorn look as I rolled the Vespa out of the garage.  The language barrier kept me from explaining I would only be gone a few hours, that there was work to do today that would keep me from riding longer, that I would be home soon to offer treats and tennis balls. Riding lust effectively inoculated me from any battered baby seal looks that Junior can muster.  I’m immune to canine manipulation.

The riding plan was loose, almost non-existent, a general direction and time constraint with plans to limit my stops for pictures.  Charlie6 of Redleg’s Rides inquired about the appearance of the Vespa GTS with the GIVI E370 topcase.  That request haunts some of these pictures.

From the moment I twisted the throttle I could feel a vague, mental discomfort about the road ahead.  Familiar, and not unlike what best-selling backpacking author Colin Fletcher describes as “Fletcheritis”, the anxiety a hiker feels before a big trip.

A recurring and scurvy condition (typically, a horrendous slump with variegated symptoms, uniformly exhausting and dire, or semi-dire) that oozes into existence at such moments of crisis.

And though I was only planning a trip of a few hours I could quickly tell my heart was elsewhere.  Too many thoughts in my head, too many stories swirling in my brain. 

A ride is a series of decision points, at least for me when it’s no longer a question of where to go but what to do.  A turn off into a field would offer a chance to consider the options.  The summer tires on the scooter are not nearly as good off the road as the winter tires I have been using for the past few months.  Made a note to be careful.

Another stop, another picture, and I surrender the riding plans and decide on breakfast instead.  I can ride another day.

Parked across the street from the Cafe on the Park in Bellefonte, Pennsylvania, a familar breakfast stop. By this time my stomach has taken control from my brain and I’m nothing more than an automaton.

Only one biker in the place.  One of those bikers, the kind that have nothing in common with me.  And wear clothes with far more words on them than I’m comfortable with.  I have a black T-shirt on with the word “NO” in white letters across the chest.  It’s a work related thing.

Bacon, the candy of meat.  Breakfast erases just about any concern I have.  The only way this could have been better is if I was eating it after 120 run that was just the first of four riding legs before needing to be home at 4pm.  But that will have to wait for another day when I’m not suffering from psuedoriding relucto wimpism.

After renewing membership in the clean plate club I made plans to ride to the local farmers market to visit a tame animal the owner of the cafe described.  Seemed appropriate to visit a petting zoo since I didn’t appear too thrilled with riding.

In the park beyond the Vespa a group of Tai Chi practioners moved in slow motion.  For a moment the Vespa seemed overly powerful.  Just for a moment and then it returned to it’s utilitarian state.

This is Bentley, a 17 year old American Bison and his owner indicated he is tame, that she raised him by hand from two days old.  I inquired on the life span of a bison and was told he cold live for 40 years.  Since the owner was at the farmer’s market selling bison steaks and roasts I wondered to myself about his longevity until she interjected that Bentley isn’t worried.  He won’t end up on the table.

She shared another interesting factoid — the American Bison is the only land mammal that never gets cancer.  Did not know that.

Bought a sirloin steak and headed for home.  All plans for a nice long ride evaporated in a cloud of mental resistance.  Oh well, I had to go to work anyways…