Scooter in the Sticks

Exploring life on a Vespa Scooter and Royal Enfield Himalayan motorcycle.

Warm Day, Cold Day

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Two motorcycles parked by a farm field.
As spring approaches more and more riding days appear.

A Bright Light

A faint wisp of steam rises from a mug next to my easy chair in the living room as I watch large snowflakes descend from the heavens. The aroma of cinnamon toast fills my head as I wonder why winter has been such a burden. Despite efforts to blame it on pandemic uncertainty, rising prices at the pump and grocery store, or a raging war in Ukraine, I can’t quite help but think I’m merely suffering the effects of age on my body, mind, and spirit.

While I don’t feel it’s universal, it is common, and I can easily enumerate a list of changes that have no other explanation. I’m powerless to change some of them, but others are absolutely within my arena of action.

Two days ago it felt like a warm spring day as I went for an afternoon ride with my friend Paul. The sky was clear, the sun bright in my face, and a breeze seeming to clear away any gloomy energy hanging in the valley. It was a good ride. I was a good day.

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Finding Balance with my Vespa Scooter

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Life over the past year was complicated by a pandemic, the relentless march of aging, and the seemingly endless tasks of daily life. My Vespa scooter helped ease the pain.

A view of a rural central Pennsylvania valley
I’m blessed to live in the hills, mountains, fields and forests of central Pennsylvania.

Surrendering the Fantasy

I’ve become more willing to accept that my life is in a continual, endless cycle of change. There was a time, decades in fact, that I struggled to keep things “under control,” the same, predictable, and unchanging. I was facing upstream in the rushing current of life until I finally raised the white flag of surrender and allowed the river to sweep me away.

And with that surrender came victory. A life in the flow. I’ll still find myself standing up to fight, but my Vespa scooter helps me accept the inevitable march of change. It blazes a path toward balance.

I used to judge riding by measures of quantity — how often I was on the road, how many miles I gathered, the number of experiences collected, how many photographs were made.  I would tell myself riding was a way of life, a manner of living, with the goal of always traversing the landscape on two wheels. I won’t lie, it was a seductive fantasy. But one I had to surrender like all the others in my life.

Standing in a farm field on my way to breakfast surveying the sweep of landscape that sums up the place I live, the mountains, fields, and forests of central Pennsylvania, I’m struck my the fact that I arrived with no plan or expectation other than a friend asked me if I wanted to ride to breakfast.

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