Traveling on Through Life

Standing along a winding road, the fragrance of honeysuckle and Lily of the Valley drifting through the trees, I'm uncertain whether I'd be happier walking, just leave the Vespa and make off through the woods.  Memories of a million footsteps through fields and forests flood into view, a gift of consciousness that I too often take for granted.  Alone, relaxed and for a few moments at peace with myself and the world, life passes slowly and for a moment time almost stands still.  I don't want to miss a moment and think about something Benjamin Franklin said, "Lost time is never found again."

Riding has a marvelous capacity to create experience through the way it hurls a rider naked through the world.  Every sense can be ignited and a push on the handlebar or a turn of the throttle can sweep you into a different place.  Departing the beaten path, a decision fueled by a passing association with the agricultural landowner led the Vespa through grassy tracks and attention to scooter wheel eating groundhog holes.

In the scooter's dream, the road goes on forever...

The statement is homage to poet Susan Mitchell's work, "The Road" in which she writes "In the car's dream the road goes on forever."  The first time I heard that line, lovingly whispered to me by my wife, I felt a shiver of excitement run through me.  Little did I know I would live it over and over again on the scooter as I travel on through life.

In the heart of central Pennsylvania the roads do seem to go on forever, a dream for anyone just needing to ride quiet.

Someone asked me recently when I was going to move up to a motorcycle.  It puzzles me what moving up means though I've long ago realized it's not a conversation for polite company and instead respond with, "Oh, I don't know...."

The Vespa GTS250ie still exceeds my expectations for performance and I long ago fell in love with the way it looks.

Rain threatened a few times during the ride, something I prefer not do deal with when I'm traversing grass ways and dirt paths.  This picture suggests an innate ability to ignore present danger and dawdle with a camera as the weather sweeps across the sky.  Luckily only a few big drops slapped across myself and the scooter.

Somewhere near the southern end of Centre County, Pennsylvania I found myself walking further and further from the scooter, savoring each footstep and breath.  My wife turned me on to Verbascum thapsus, the long stemmed plants in the picture.  Weeds to many I've now come to enjoy them and am happy to see a half dozen or so have volunteered to grow in our own woodland landscape.  This picture is for you Kim.  Thank you.

The scooter is small and I'm not in the picture.  That has to mean something right?

Just one more ride and I'll find the answer...

The Big Picture

Embracing the big picture, visually and mentally.  Looking out over the Nittany Valley, home for the past 40 plus years, it's easy to let the mind wander, imagine, and plan.  I always think I know what the picture is.  Experience proves otherwise.



On the way to work, wet morning, early enough to stop and look.  I never plan to stop, it just happens on the way to somewhere.  The new tires are worn in and fine on the damp pavement.  For a few moments, taking in the view, it's as if there are no cares or concerns, just breathing and living.

Chinese philosopher Lao Tzu said, "“A good traveler has no fixed plans, and is not intent on arriving.” It's taken years to understand what that means and even longer to become, if not a good traveler, at least a half-assed one.  I have a love-hate relationship with plans; I love making them and hate abandoning them.  Riding has helped illuminate the value of unexpected paths and detours, roads and routes outside the plan.  Still, I make plans both large and small.

A few evenings ago while wandering through the grocery store I was building plans for a quiet evening dashed by a broken waterline in the basement.  Not so many years ago this unexpected change of plans would leave a sour, bitter, angry taste in my mouth.  Remarkably I've found some satisfaction in embracing the unexpected.  So an evening of work with flux and solder, mop and broom, delivered an experience I would neither anticipate or choose.

In the flood in the basement reached a collection of journals, written evidence of my existence all neatly stacked, stored and soaked.  The road this evening called for methodical, careful work to retrieve these books, drying what I could, turning pages, inspecting the faded, bleeding ink.  And here and there reading of life from five, ten and twenty years earlier.  Standing in the basement I had a glimpse of the big picture that I call my life, all thanks to an abandoned plan.


A tiger was drenched in the flood, a Moon Tiger, icon of the Moon Senior High school's Flame yearbook from 1972.  Paging through history it was hard to fathom how quickly the years have passed, and wondering what's become of all those people.

Earlier in the evening I was surveying the valley, gazing at the big picture of Boalsburg, State College, and the Nittany Valley.  I've always been attracted to high places, overlooks, promontories, places to take in the world, wander, and think.


Junior and I share the experience though for decidedly different reasons.  The plan often changes during our walks, or at least my plan.  Can't really speak to his though I have my suspicions.  I want to walk, throw the ball, and just spend some time with my thoughts.  And keep Junior out of the ponds so neither Kim or I have to endure the fragrance of wet dog.  And more times than not my plan changes when Junior decides to head off for a swim.

He's just missing the big picture.

The Pleasure of Being Lost

This past Sunday morning was remarkably clear — bright, crisp, the world a surreal stage on which my friend Paul Ruby and I were riding our scooters. Abandoning our normal meeting at Saint's Cafe we veered north towards Beech Creek, Pennsylvania, a 30 mile ride for our breakfast.

Easy riding through the broad Bald Eagle valley and along the lake at Bald Eagle State Park was a quiet reminder of how simple life can feel on my Vespa.  Paul abandoned his BMW K1200 in favor of a Piaggio Fly 150.  Sometimes less is much more.

After donning a liner to my jacket — the air temperature was hovering at 62F — it was time to eat.  Or so demanded my stomach.

I don't come to Beech Creek often and when I do it's just to pass through on the way to somewhere else.  The Furst Corner Restaurant deserves more allegiance.  How many places can I say serves more bacon than I can eat?

After breakfast a decision was made to take a scenic route home and I suggested a road along the west side of the valley that would wind the 15 miles to Milesburg.  Turning right towards Orviston would lead us to the road I thought I knew.

A few words about Orviston...

My knowledge is limited of the place which is nestled in the far northern end of Centre County seemingly lost at the end of a road far from anything.  I remember stopping there over 10 years ago at a little store which was part of the livingroom of a house to get something to drink.  All they had was chocolate milk.  More than a few of the houses had padlocks on the front doors. I thought it odd then and expected the same now.

Perhaps it was the light or things had changed but Orviston seemed a fine little town of 95 people.

On this day I never planned to be in Orviston but rather turn off towards home on some other road.

My cartographic memory failed me at Orviston.  I neither found the road or knew which way to go.  After a momentary pause to consider returning the way we came or to head up a little dirt track marked only by a sign "No Winter Maintenance" I motioned to Paul towards the path less traveled.

As the trail climbed up the mountain and the ride rougher I had absolutely no idea where I was or where we were going.  For someone who's life is full of planning and careful consideration of strategy and tactics it was an absolutely electric feeling to be disconnected from everything.

The pleasure of being lost is rare in Central Pennsylvania, at least for me.  As Paul and I raced our scooters along a path more suited for a dirt bike I remembered why I have little interest in a GPS.  There is little primitive or wild available easily to me and a GPS would obliterate any chance like the one presented on this ride.

A view looking down the mountain road.  Steep and not the easiest to negotiate with a CVT transmission.  Loose gravel and unexpected washboard and rocks made several miles of riding that was outside the norm for the Vespa.

Emerging onto pavement on the other side of the mountain near Polecat Road I passed Paul who was riding standing up in what I could only assume was a gesture of triumph.  A half mile up the road, still unsure or where I was, a came upon a coyote standing in the middle of the road, a tall animal, lank, staring and glittering a warm brown in the sun.  As I slowed he walked off the road into a thicket of scrub trees.

And me, lost and seeing that coyote — how could I ask anything more of the world?

The pleasure of being lost...

Junior the Birthday Boy

Junior is five years old today.  Kim and I have had the pleasure of sharing life with him for almost four of those years and look forward to many more.  This picture, made on one of our morning walks in the hills near our house, shows Junior resting after miles of running up and down the hillside chasing his beloved tennis ball.  On some days as I make my way up the hill and the view of the valley sweeps away to the west and north,  I feel as if I'm walking through a scene from the Sound of Music.

Life with a good dog...


One many mornings during those walks Junior decides to go for a swim -- a newly acquired taste on his part.  Made this video a little over a month ago when he finally decided to go after the tennis ball in the water.  He was still tentative then.  He's an expert now.  Not sure how Belgian Sheepdogs generally react to water but Junior has become a swimmer.

Happy birthday Junior.  What will it be -- Outback Steakhouse or Texas Roadhouse for dinner?  Or just a big bowl of Fromm's?

Happiness is Not a Destination...

There is a moment before I press the starter button on the Vespa when everything becomes simple.  Even on cold mornings that requires a frustrating amount of time to put on, the moment when the ride begins is a door into a simple place.

Gordon Harkins displays a found object at Saint's Cafe.

Happiness is a strange thing.  I've learned over the years that it's not a destination.  I've heard stories that it's a state of mind.  And others have postulated it to be nothing more than a chemical reaction in  our brains resulting in an emotional reaction we collectively label happiness.

Most instructive to me is Thoreau's pondering:


Happiness is like a butterfly; the more you chase it, the more it will elude you, but if you turn your attention to other things, it will come and sit softly on your shoulder...

The butterfly appears while riding, and I shed the worries of the world and am grounded in the moments flying by on the road.

The past week saw the last of the snow evaporate and temperatures climb close to 60F.  I won't be sad to see the cold weather behind and warmer rides the norm.  In a few weeks these farm fields will grow green and the winter tires will come off the scooter.

Evenings are still cool but don't limit riding like frigid, sub-freezing ones not so far off.  In winter sighting riders is an infrequent occurrence.  Standing on the concrete deck of the parking garage I think I saw a butterfly...

Waiting for Junior

Junior knew this vet visit was different. I could see it in his eyes -- a nervous scanning of the office, maybe noticing the place was empty at the end of the day. Maybe he could feel the small injury that resulted from his exuberant reaction to my arrival at doggy daycare when he banged his head against something as he strained to communicate, “Daddy’s here!”. Sedation and stitches were in his future.

So I wait.

Waiting for Junior.

I picture him coming through the door, wobbly from drugs, drunken on shaky legs wondering if he’ll be able to jump into his crate in the back of the van or if I’ll have to heft his 81 pounds like a sack of potatoes. It’s been 30 minutes -- the vet said it wouldn’t take long to fix him, close the cut in his face just below his right eye.

On the counter is a picture of a man hugging a yellow lab. I know that look. I’m reminded of the intense, shimmering lives led by dogs that seem to sparkle past in an instant. I’ve had a lot of dogs.

Waiting for Junior.

A stuffed dog perched amidst pamphlets for pet insurance and memorial services provide no comfort. It’s dark outside. Just a little injury, a small mishap in a dog’s life. Still, I miss my boy.

The dark side of imagination works through unlikely scenarios. Still, sedation is never a minor activity. Or so I believe sitting alone in the waiting room.

Waiting for Junior.

A technician emerges, smiles, and tells me they’re almost done. The room brightens and I see Junior running through green fields leaping toward an orange rubber ball. I imagine giving him dinner later -- letting him lick the dregs of milk and cereal in the morning.

Waiting.

Waiting for Junior.

A large inflatable tick hangs from the ceiling over a display of healthy pet treats. The technician who took Junior steps into view, stops, and softly speaks, “Come on Junior. That’s a good boy.”
Junior walks slowly, struggling to keep his legs under him, moving uncertainly. His eyes find me and his gait increases as he heads home. His body touches my leg and he melts onto the floor, tired, disoriented, relaxed. I know everything will be ok. I am reminded again of the place dogs have lived in me.

Later I hear his breathing, soft and regular, at my feet. I read on his discharge papers, “Junior was a very good patient today”.

He slept well, worn low by the day.

In the morning I took a close look at his injury. Small, almost insignificant. And I almost wonder why I was so nervous.

My dog Junior.

Riding and Aging

My daughter sent me a link to this video about a woman who at 101 is still driving her Packard.  Surely the inference is that I should set my goals to still be riding at 101.

It's funny how varied people's ideas of old age can be.  Mine can change with the weather, the creaks and aches, or with the memories that surface at any given moment.  Right now, as I write this, I'm a young buck ready to take on the world.

Joe Paterno: 1926 - 2012

Joe Paterno died at 9:25am today at the Mt. Nittany Medical Center where he'd been hospitalized since January 13 due to complications from the chemotherapy he was was undergoing for lung cancer. I've seen Coach Paterno often walking back and forth from his home to his office since coming to Penn State in 1972.

The Paterno family released this statement shortly after his passing:

It is with great sadness that we announce that Joe Paterno passed away earlier today. His loss leaves a void in our lives that will never be filled.

He died as he lived. He fought hard until the end, stayed positive, thought only of others and constantly reminded everyone of how blessed his life had been. His ambitions were far reaching, but he never believed he had to leave this Happy Valley to achieve them. He was a man devoted to his family, his university, his players and his community.

He has been many things in his life – a soldier, scholar, mentor, coach, friend and father. To my mother he was and is her soul mate, and the last several weeks have shown the strength of their love. To his children and grandchildren he is a shining example of how to live a good, decent and honest life, a standard to which we aspire.

When he decided to forego a career in law and make coaching his vocation, his father Angelo had but one command: Make an impact.

As the last 61 years have shown, Joe made an incredible impact. That impact has been felt and appreciated by our family in the form of thousands of letters and well wishes along with countless acts of kindness from people whose lives he touched. It is evident also in the thousands of successful student athletes who have gone on to multiply that impact as they spread out across the country.

And so he leaves us with a peaceful mind, comforted by his “living legacy” of five kids, 17 grandchildren, and hundreds of young men whose lives he changed in more ways than can begin to be counted.

In lieu of flowers or gifts, the family requests that donations be made to the Special Olympics of Pennsylvania or the Penn State-THON, The Penn State IFC/Panhellenic Dance Marathon.

Memory, Loss and the Power of Photography

Memories are more valuable that gold.  At least to me.  As time passes I find them more and more precious.  Memory drives me to make photographs, a tool to capture fleeting moments and restore them to fullness in my mind later.  Photography has a special power.

This morning I read the following tweet by @timmoolmanphoto

Don't underestimate the value of what you do.“@jeremycowart: MUST read for photographers. http://fototails.wordpress.com/2012/01/02/a-letter-on-my-doorstep-portraits-are-more-than-paper/” @kikiphoto

For those of you who don't speak Twitter don't worry, I'll translate.  Tim Moolman identified a link to photographer Jeanine Thurston's blog Fototails Photography.

The post titled, "A letter on my door step. portraits are more than paper." is one of the most powerful messages about the simple power of pictures I have ever read. It talks about photography as it relates to normal, everyday life. Not the drama of war or famine or exotic locations. Just life in the way most of us will embrace it.

Take a moment and read it. She posted it yesterday and it already has over 500 comments.

It's short. It's sad. It's a potent reminder of what is important in life.

The Aging Rider

My father used to tell me “It’s hell to get old”. I’m beginning to understand and move that comment from the joke category in my brain to the section reserved for current events. My friend Gordon recently made this picture of me at one of our Sunday morning print meetings and I see my father. And I’m saying to myself “It’s hell to get old”.

Standing at the kitchen sink last night with a handful of Methotrexate I realized something had changed. Almost overnight I’ve traveled from oblivious through denial and on into acceptance that I’ve become an aging rider and with it all the rights and responsibilities attendant to a change in physical ability.

A week ago I was standing in a hospital gown with my back to a wall while two rheumatologists at Johns Hopkins Medical Center recorded measurements of joint flexibility, pain and range of motion, and finally confirming the diagnosis of my family doctor -- “You have psoriatic arthritis Mr. Williams.”

Great.

Aging is a natural, nearly invisible process until it isn’t. And one day a light is turned on and you realize some new limitation has formed, some new element to be managed. And it reaches out to every detail and aspect of living and informs a new life. It branded me an aging rider.

Men live in denial though.  I can't speak for women.

Two months ago I was deep in it, telling myself that my arthritis would have no effect on my riding. Sitting astride the Vespa was easy and I could ride all day but stopping was another story. The joints in my toes were on fire and walking was a problem. Pushing the scooter onto the centerstand was a challenge. And walking to make a photograph along this winding gravel road in Rothrock State Forest was near torture.

But I ignored it and pushed onwards in the rain.

I see pictures when I ride and especially ones where the scooter plays a role. Standing some distance away from the Vespa, thinking about this shot, I was regretting wandering so far from the seated comfort of my ride. Not yet thinking of myself as an aging rider I rode on.

Fear of aging generates denial. It takes time to acknowledge the fear and more time to understand what the march of time means. Personal dishonesty in this area can lead to bad decisions. An acquaintance comes to mind -- a fellow in his early 70’s who purchased his first motorcycle two years ago -- a Harley Davidson Ultra Glide. He had never ridden before but was persuaded by a friend that he would love riding.

Whenever I run into him I ask if he still has the Harley. His face lights up and he responds with a bright “Sure do!”. What I’m careful not to ask is if he rides it (which I’m sure he doesn’t) Not long after his purchase he discovered that riding a big motorcycle is not an innate skill and after a few scary moments on the road he parked it in the garage for good.

Denial is a wonderful thing and is helpful in making irrational decisions. I’m not saying a 70 year old can’t ride but I might suggest a different path to the road for a first time rider of any age. The accumulation of years (and wisdom) will quickly raise its case in these kinds of situations.

Back on the road I continued to ride and find opportunities for more pictures. Picking my way through the rocks on sore feet finally illuminated my limitations. I was going to have to change the way I think about my capabilities.

The Death Equation.

I like to think that I’m not the only one doing death mathmatics in their head -- calculating the difference in years between your current age and the age of your father or grandfather when they died. I can’t remember when I started doing this but it’s definitely related to aging and a growing awareness of the finite number of days at my disposal. I should add that it’s not depressing or obsessive but a result of an awareness and acceptance of my mortality. And fueled by my latest medical adventure.

Right now the only thing keeping me from riding to work is the fact that the Vespa is in for service. I postponed the work until a time I can meet with the technician to photograph him for a blog post. But soon the scooter will be parked again outside my office like it is in this picture expect the sportbikes will cease to appear as winter descends.

In the meantime Junior continues to keep me busy though our walks have diminished in favor of drives to the part where I can stand in one place and heave the ball across the field for him. He’s a potent reminder of the mobility that I have lost for now. He’s always in motion. I’m always.... not.

The change is something new to manage. Like rain or snow or darkness. As I assess routes and weather I now have to assess my physical state. Reading the current issue of the BMW Owners News I’m impressed by the number of aged riders piling up tens of thousands of miles every year. During murky thoughts it helps remind me that the passing of years doesn’t have to relegate me to the rocking chair, or worse, a trike. Actually, I’ve never ridden a trike. Experience has shown me that I really need to try something before judging it harshly.

A shiver of excitement swept over me as I stood in the road with the Leica. Despite any current physical ailments the road still rolled on ahead. There are more rides to make and things to see. And I'll view these rides through a new filter...

...as an aging rider.

Farewell to Bacon

Last Wednesday evening, my view of the emergency room, wondering if I had a heart attack or stroke.  I was polite and kept my boots off the hospital bed.  I'm not really that tall.

My daughter told me this morning while I was walking Junior that she wasn't surprised that I ended up there considering my diet based on the four food groups -- hot dogs, potato chips, pretzels with extra salt, and bacon.  From my point of view it wasn't so bad considering I didn't smoke, drink, and had given up chocolate donuts a long time ago.

Arriving home from work that day I was tired enough to take a nap for about an hour.  Kim was on the phone talking to someone about antique bricks when I sat down to have a sandwich and my second bag of potato chips for the day.  I noticed my left arm was aching but thought it was probably a result of the two tons of bricks I had moved the previous couple days.  Tired, aching arm, a headache beginning and I start to feel a little wobbly even though I am seated at the computer reading Twisted Roads.  A recently purchased blood pressure monitor was sitting nearby and I wondered if my blood pressure changes when I don't feel well.


Normally I'm 117/72.

Strap on the monitor, press the button, listen to the thing pump up and feel my heart pounding in the cuff.

197/109.

"Shit that's high." I say to myself.  Can't be right.  Wait five minutes and check it again.

227/117.

Now I'm worried.  I have been monitoring Kim's blood pressure for awhile and knew what constituted a crisis event.  My arm's aching and I am having a little trouble drawing a deep breath.

Kim was standing in the living room talking on the phone when I touched her shoulder and said, "Hang up."

Normally, she might give me a look that says, "Who the hell do you think you are?"  but she hangs up immediately and later tells me the look on my face told her something serious was afoot.  I tell her she needs to drive me to the hospital now and I head towards the door.

I need to interject two things here.  First, Kim is a good driver.  Second, I am a terrible passenger.  I almost never allow anyone to drive me anywhere.  Kim says I am somewhere between cautious and paranoid.  We get in the car and she wants to get me to the hospital fast.  I'm pushing the invisible brake pedal and ask her to slow down.  No wonder I ride a Vespa.

I still can't figure out how Charlie6 of Redleg's Rides got me in the sidecar of his Ural on the freeway at night.  He must be some sort of Ride Whisperer.

The ER is waiting for me.  I begin wondering if our $29.95 blood pressure monitor was giving faulty readings and I am about to be revealed as a fraud and wimp as they wrap a professional BP cuff around my arm. Two nurses begin to ask me questions that Kim wants to answer.  I already know they are trying to assess if my brain is working and ask me my birthday over and over again. For an instance I consider pulling their leg but decide against that course of action because I really want to go home.

Vindication -- my pressure is 187/108.

Laying in the hospital bed I'm considering what all of this means.  One of the first thoughts is no more hearty breakfasts.  Somehow oatmeal doesn't have the same romantic lure of bacon, eggs and potatoes.  I'll have to survive on the fruit and parsley.  

Over the next for hours I find out the following:

1.  Did not have a heart attack.
2.  Did not have a stroke.
3.  EKG normal.
4.  Blood enzymes and chemistry normal.
5.  Chest X-ray shows no enlarging of the heart.
6.  I have high blood pressure, take these pills, see my family doctor, change my diet, exercise, grow up .

I know there are a variety of things that will have to be assessed (I see a stress test in my future) but for now I am good to go.

By the time they send me home the pressure has dropped, thanks to some medicine I can't remember, to 125/80.  Still feeling tired but maybe that's just my laziness coming out or the 4000 pounds of bricks.  It was kind of nice napping in the ER and listening to all the chaos.  Kim wasn't having the same good time.

The next morning my BP was 117/72.  I was miraculously cured.  Didn't last as the numbers climbed all day even though I was eating a healthy diet.  By the evening I was close to the levels of the previous evening for a short time before watching them drop.

Did I say I didn't take the medication they prescribed?

Same thing today.  Start normal and slowly work up through the day though nowhere near the crisis level.

*Sigh*

I guess I have entered Stage I Hypertension.  Downloaded a nifty app for the iPhone to record and chart my BP, mean arterial pressure, pulse, weight, and time of day.  By the time I see my doctor next week I will have a great set of charts he can use to lecture me about the importance of diet, exercise, and stress reduction.

I would really like to say this blindsided me but I knew something like this was coming.  I have been eating like a cartoon character for 50 years.  Something was going to happen.  I let my boyish figure deceive me into thinking things were AOK.

Thankfully I like riding enough that I want to keep doing it for awhile and will make the shift away from fat, sugar and salt.

Farewill bacon.  Goodbye chocolate Tastycakes.  Ciao pizza. No more two cheese hot dogs for 99 cents.  It's going to be a sad culinary life.

I think I need a motorcycle to help manage this transition.

Continue to Dream

I hope I can continue to dream when the time comes...

What about you?