The Doe

She raced into the right side of my peripheral vision, entering the plume of light cast by the headlight on a dark road, body churning, straining alongside the scooter. Breathing halted with a fierce intake of air, the animal moved closer as I realized my right hand had already begun throttling back, slowing the Vespa on the wet road.

It was a long day at work, one of those days when the mind leaps from one task to another, switching gears, changing realities so often that you just end feeling numb, stupid, living in a mental fog over which there seems no control. The desire to get on the scooter at 9pm was strong.

Rain fell in big, lazy drops, streaking the blackness ahead with white streaks in the beam of light. New heated gloves felt hot, a stark contrast from the cold wet air rushing under my helmet. Gingerly applying pressure to the rear brake,  the doe lunged left in front of me, her eyes wide as she fought to gain speed. For just an instant everything seemed like it moved in a slow motion performance.

I’ve been here before, riding at night in the rain ready to meet the deer of which the bright yellow signs give warning. A hundred times I’ve convinced myself that I’d be ready to manage the moment.

The Vespa slowed without sliding, the machine straight, tires rolling as the rear hooves lingered in the air then disappeared into the blackness. Breath quickly fogged the inside of the visor as I considered chance, luck, and fortune against experience and skill. A mile down the road I believed in magic and the sudden appearances of ghosts and other visitors, the knowledge quickening my excitement to be riding. Riding on my mind was clear, sharp and a strange feeling of satisfaction remained, as if I was tested and passed. Or perhaps it was nothing more than understanding that there is no test – just life.

Institutional Risk

I saw this video for Central Institute in Australia this morning. Recruiting students is serious business at educational institutions and the approach and manner in which this is done varies wildly. Central commissioned two former students to make a video that would speak to potential students. Time magazine calls it "perhaps the best technical school recruiting video ever.".

It's definitely different than anything I've seen in the recruiting world and I can't imagine the conversations with school officials that must have transpired to get it approved. Vomit, curse words, beer and death are topics not usually associated with schools trying to attract new students.

Risk. Is it part of success?

Vespa on a Sunny Day

The sun finally came out and if it weren't for the wind I could almost believe it was spring.  I'm tired of winter and riding has become a chore in itself of late.  So it was nice to wander around on the scooter, collect some mud under the fenders and just live under a blue sky while it lasts.  Still some snow and ice around in the shadows or on the mountains but nothing to worry about on the road save for the distracted drivers, whitetail deer, and copious amounts of gravel collected at every intersection or other place requiring turns.
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I took the day off and caught myself thinking it was Saturday a few times since it's rare to be out in the middle of the day on the Vespa otherwise.  In a few more weeks it will be time to shed the winter tires and get back to the warm weather set up.  Won't be long until I'll see green in place of all the orange and brown.

Sky clouded up in the middle of the afternoon dropping me back into that gray, twilight world I've become accustomed to.  A last swing through town to pick up some chocolate at the Boalsburg Chocolate Company.  A fitting end to a relaxed day.

Planned to take Junior to the park to play ball but he was zonked out from an earlier outing.  I think the smart choice would be to recline on the couch and do nothing.  It is a vacation day after all.

Maybe tomorrow will be more productive.

Winter Riding Miscalculation

Fourteen degrees and windy this morning when Junior and I made our way up the street to play ball.  It was one of those mornings when even a dog pauses to consider the weather. I carefully inspected the street surface trying to differentiate how much loose dry snow on top of bare pavement was blowing around versus more tricky ice and adhering snow.

While Junior periodically chased the ball and then hunkered down in the snow I collected pertinent data and made a few riding calculations.

1.  It's cold.

2.  It's really cold.

3.  It's damn cold.

4.  The road is bad.

After careful consideration of all the facts I decided to drive the minivan into town for my 3 Prints Project meeting.

Or, 1+2+3+4=Honda Minivan.

As soon as I got on the main road I realized I had made a miscalculation. The roads weren't bad.  Almost dry in fact.  Though it still was cold.  I was glad I miscalculated.

When I looked at this picture I thought Gordon appeared to be hesitant to face the music inside Saint's Cafe.  He showed up with digital prints.  I showed up with no prints.  I can't be sure if I even want to make anymore prints.  We've been discussing a show but it all just makes me tired.  And I still have to fix the mixing valve in the darkroom.

Another Sunday morning sans riding.  I'm hoping for warmer weather.  I've grown weary of the winter struggle.  At least for today.

Pushing Asphalt, Pushing Steel

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

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

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.