Latin Lessons, Breakfast and Other Riding Pleasures

If I had a quarter for every time I was asked "Can a scooter ride with a motorcycle?"...

The answer is simple — yes, and no.

On this morning last week my Vespa was an acceptable riding companion to Paul Ruby's BMW K1200GT despite the gap in size and power.  In this case the riding styles of the riders matched making the machines incidental to the ride.  No freeway tricks or backroad racing involved, just a leisurely 38 mile tour through the woods on the way to breakfast.

Paul dispatched some trash from the road which offended his view in the pristine landscape.  I can't remember ever seeing a rider police litter during a ride, myself included.  Only took a few minutes to gather, stow in the sidecase, and return to the ride.

Positive Karma points involved.

The woodlands and waterways in Black Moshannon State Park are more like the arboreal forests of Maine than the typical Pennsylvania ones.  The last flowers are blooming on the lilypads before everything recedes into fall and then the cold of winter.

Speaking of motorcycles and scooters mixing -- there's a reason why the BMW isn't in this picture.  Fine, soft gravel provides uncertain footing for the big bike where the scooter, while no dirt bike, is easier to flog without fear of dumping.

My wife is the naturalist in the house, by temperament, training and love.  I know this plant as Doll's Eyes.  She does too but consistently shocks me with her encyclopedic knowledge of scientific names (in Latin) of plants as Actaea Alba flows from her lips. I tell myself I'm smart in other ways.

On rides like this I wish she had a Vespa and we could ride together...

Ruby and I arrive at the Retro Eatery in Philipsburg, Pennsylvania for breakfast — hungry. It's a great place to eat and not what I would expect to find in P Burg.  If you're out that way it's worth a visit.

Paul always investigates the menu and engages in a range of culinary evaluations.  Regardless of where we are though the end result is the same: waffles and bacon.

I've never questioned the choice.  Some things are private.

After breakfast we made a quick stop at my entrepreneurial enterprise that promises to make my retirement years profitable and comfortable.  I see new socks and underwear in my future.

We took the long way home — a 50 mile trek across the edge of the Allegheny Plateau until we descended into Bald Eagle Valley and the beginning of the ridge and valley section of Pennsylvania.  The abrupt changes in natural and geologic landscapes are a pleasure to experience and with the tutelage of my loving wife I see a lot more than I used to.

Just not in Latin.

Family, Friends and a Ride to the IngleBean Coffee House

Not just another Saturday morning in central Pennsylvania.  This one was one of those magnificent days where the atmosphere is free of haze that postcard photographers love.  Add a constantly changing variety of blue sky and wispy clouds and it feels like you're in a Disney World commercial.

With the temperature at 48F, Aleta, Paul and I pointed our scooters towards Millheim, Pennsylvania and the IngleBean Coffee House for breakfast.  A fine, lazy ride through some of the most picturesque agricultural landscapes in Pennsylvania — a real ride through time as a result of the growing Amish communities here.  

Seeing horse-drawn buggies is a common scene with road apples everywhere and the telltale lines on the road sketched by hundreds of thin steel wheels.  During the ride we passed a number of them.  I noticed one Amish farm is a solar array on the roof.  Wonder what that powers...

We were lucky enough to get a parking space right in front of the coffee house.  Notice the parking pattern -- Paul and I represent the older generation parking head out.  Aleta does the head in parking.  Evidence of an intergenerational ride.

The IngleBean Coffee House is a relaxed, comfortable, feels like home kind of place with good food.  Definitely worth the half hour ride.  The place has a rustic, LL Bean feel to it and is the sort of establishment you would expect to find friends (which we did when we first arrived).  Paul and Aleta seemed to be at home.

Paul Ruby, BMW, Ducati, vintage Vespa, and on this day Piaggio Fly rider.  I think he's sucking in his stomach...

Aleta puts up with one more picture with the local mural on the side of the Elk Creek Cafe. Another fine place to eat.

We wandered across the street to the Green Drake Art Gallery where I bought a small clay tile for Kim.  On the way back I had the chance to catch another Amish rider...

As fast as the morning develops it draws to a close.  Departing Millheim we wandered a bit until Paul and Aleta decided to head to the Nittany Valley Antique Machinery Show and Flea Market while I chose to head home.  Riding with family and friends is great but there are moments that I like to keep to myself -- the little walks along the road looking for a vantage point, burning memories into my synaptic pathways, being grateful that I'm alive and on the earth.

Riding through the middle of the valley on the small roads, the ones the Amish use, and just thinking how fortunate I am to be here.

Another little ride stored away, percolating, mixing into the Vespa experience.

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.