Mr. Ruby Goes to Sicily

Perhaps it would have been more fitting start for a trip to Sicily to take Mr. Ruby to the airport on the back of a Vespa instead of a minivan but there are times when practicality trumps romance.  And so his adventure began.

An hour later I received a call: "My flight's been cancelled".  I wondered what that meant for the train he's supposed to catch out of Rome to Messina where (I think) he's renting a scooter to tour the island for a couple weeks.

Mr. Ruby is nothing if not always ready for an adventure.  He tells me he's going to post to his blog about it all.

I suspect Mr. Ruby wants to experience the real cafe lifestyle in Italy rather than live only for Saint's Cafe on Sunday mornings despite how pleasant the experience.  Steaming hot tea and a warm bagel is a far cry from a Mediterranean existence.

Paul arrived with his new Fuji Finepix X100 camera purchased specifically to undertake the digital version of a Cartier-Bresson life on the road.  It's an impressive piece of technology and a damn fine camera too.  I actually want one of these, a digital replacement for my idle Leica M6...

I'm looking forward to living the adventure vicariously through Mr. Ruby's pictures.

I picture days on the Vespa interrupted by conversations in cafes. Mr. Ruby will bring his own unique reflection of America to Sicily. In uncertain Italian mixed with English he'll attempt to bring the unsuspecting inhabitants under his spell.

Mr. Ruby has the power to mesmerize, use slight of hand and misdirection to bend those of weak mind to his will.  The perfect combination for a man on a Vespa traveling through the rolling hills once haunted by Romans and Greeks in antiquity.

So his adventure continues tomorrow as he attempts departure in the snow...

Aging and Riding a Vespa

Autumn is for the mind and spirit, the senses taking in the changing of the world.  At no point during the year do I feel so exhilarated and sad at once.  Falling leaves a sharp reminder of the impermanence of life yet the sparkling thrill of feeling alive amidst the sudden sea of color and fragrance makes this time a gift.  Standing at the edge of the road I felt oddly parallel to the world around me, my body in sync with the autumn as I paused at the beginning of a ride to visit a rheumatologist at Johns Hopkins in Baltimore.

Still not sure why I chose to make this trip on the Vespa.  By car on the freeway I can drone along at 75mph for four hours to make my appointment.  The empty stretches of road are a moving meditation for the eye and the soul.  Even though this trip would take 7 hours, an accurate estimate based on an assessment of the route and my propensity to stop to look, listen and make a picture.  Or two.

My complaint is psoriatic arthritis, an inflammatory disease affecting the joints for which there is no cure.  Looking at the field of corn transitioning into something else I couldn't help but see my own transition.  One day healthy and the next barely able to walk.  That was two years ago and I've been fortunate to find control of the symptoms with the tamest of the chemical interventions.  Genes and luck may keep my liver intact for a long time and the ability to lead a more or less normal life for an aging man.

A handful over 200 miles separated home from Johns Hopkins.  Paul Ruby and I both now wrestle with the various annoying maladies that grow more common with aging.  Watching Paul stretch on his BMW had me asking myself when stretching wouldn't be enough for me.  Precisely when would I know that I can't ride anymore?  And would my willingness to stop arrive at the same time?

The kinds of questions that are perfect mind puzzles on a long ride through a quiet countryside and if not interrupted can turn gloomy.

No wonder why the National Military Park at Gettysburg seems eerie.  Though I have to add that more than once I have wandered through the Devil's Den or along Little Roundtop along and sensed a restless energy among the rocks.

Paul and I paused only for a few moments along the road — all access to the park closed due to the shutdown of the federal government.

And then the first leg of the trip was over and I found myself sitting once again in the Arthritis Center filling out forms, submitting to some biometric tests, and going over the results of a series of blood tests I had done a couple weeks earlier.

Executive summary — I'll live to ride another day though admonished to take better care of diet and exercise lest other insidious metabolic tragedies rear their heads.

I want chocolate so bad right now while I'm typing that I can barely concentrate.

Camping outside Baltimore in Patapsco State Park.  I needed to sleep on the ground again for some reason I think is related to convincing myself that I still have a few years of life in me.  Or maybe it's just a cheap refusal to spend more money to sleep in a motel and worry about bedbugs.

The front rack on the Vespa was handy to carry a sleeping bag and tent and I was pleased I remembered how to put the think up.

It was a fine campsite.

The morning came quickly.  Paul spent a few moments with a book while I took one last look with the camera before we began the ride home.

Breakfast, ice water for the road, and a few minutes of charge time for the iPhone as Paul and I reflected on our collective health or lack thereof.  I can hear my father, "It's hell to get old boy.".

I understand the joke.

I've not ridden across the border from Maryland into Pennsylvania in the Appalachian Mountains.  It's beautiful and left me wishing I could spend days rather than hours exploring.

That's a fine desire.

Two days and 440 miles of riding on backroads and byways at leisurely velocities.  It's the perfect formula for the Vespa and I.  I think Paul was comfortable as well and appreciated the chance to embrace slow travel.




A week has passed and autumn is in full bloom.  The desire to ride is strong and the roads are calling.

I wonder how many rides are left...

Failure and Imagination

J.K. Rowling Speaks at Harvard Commencement from Harvard Magazine on Vimeo.

I don't often post non-riding items on Scooter in the Sticks but this video warrants a look.  Early this morning I watched author J.K. Rowling deliver a powerful message on the lessons of failure and the power of human imagination.  I expected Harry Potter but heard something more striking.  Rowling talked about imagination as a unique and special power.   

At the end of her address she offered a challenge to graduates that is equally appropriate to riders and their journeys.  Rowling  invokes the words of the ancient Roman philosopher Seneca:

"As is a tale, so is life, not how long it is but how good it is."

So I guess I'll continue to focus on the good trips.

I found this video quite by accident at Alison Day Designs.

Riding and the Curious Toddler

 

Of all the names ascribed to me Curious Toddler might be the best. Or at least I’ve convinced myself of this after a long weekend. Stacy Bolty, author of Bolty.net for some reason chose me to bookend a wide range of riders as a curious toddler. Cool – my 15 minutes of fame promised by Warhol. He never said it would be a heroic or magnificent 15 minutes.

Curious Toddler. Curious.

By the end of the first evening I was talking to myself and standing in front of the mirror flexing my biceps. At least until I remembered being called Weenie Arms Williams in second grade. Pouring through websites for BMW, Ducati, Triumph and Ducati and commenting out loud, “I could ride that. Oh yeah, that one too, piece of cake.” And on and on until it occurs to me that I might need to renew my subscription to Guns and Ammo. I let it lapse in ninth grade.

Part of the evening is spent dusting off the free weight set in the basement. Hairballs from the last three dogs we’ve owned encase them under a workbench. Back in the living room I busy myself designing appropriate tattoos that utilize flames, lightning bolts, and mythical creatures. By bedtime Kim is stroking my hand and whispering, “You’re my man…”

Curious. Is that a polite way of saying odd? Or weird, strange, eccentric? The mind plays tricks with the ego. And toddler. Does that make me an infant, a big baby, or is it code for infantile? Or stupid. By midnight I’m standing outside with Junior peering up at the heavens asking, “Why?”

And the answer strikes deep inside – I am a curious toddler.

Ice water sparkles in a red plastic glass, a welcome hydration after several hours on the road. The narrow, white Formica counter top flecked with gold transports me back to dinner with my mom and dad at Danny’s Restaurant on Neville Island fifty years earlier where I marveled at the riches spread out before me.

Diner 22 just outside Alexandria, Pennsylvania on US 22, a stop for breakfast and a chance for my toes to warm. No riders here. None seen anywhere during the morning – the chill air still keeping most motorcycles and scooters at home. A few old men sit to my right lapping up chicken parmesan, the daily lunch special -- $6.25. Overhead is a sign, “J-EET-YET”. Soon my predictable plate of scrambled eggs, bacon, potatoes, and toast will make the answer yes.

That meal is probably more dangerous than anything I encounter on the road.

I work methodically through my breakfast presented neatly on a heavy white plate. Taped to the glass door on the refrigerator in front of me is a hand-lettered sign on peach colored paper announcing fresh baked cinnamon rolls for $1.75. The crisp bacon looses flavor as I contemplate the snaps on my Tourmaster Overpants. A cinnamon roll sitting close to the door whispers my name just as a harmonica begins to wail on the overhead speakers. The waitress crashes two of the red plastic glasses into the ice chest. The Vespa keys are lying on the counter. I look up and catch her eye. It’s over, I’ve lost. I close my mouth tightly for fear drool might escape.

Defying reason I stand up and pay my bill and escape without the unnecessary weight of a cinnamon roll.

The ride started hours earlier as I explained to Junior that any long walk would have to wait until I got home. The sight of fog on the mountain coupled with a strong desire to ride the Vespa overcame the dog’s insistent suggestions of taking a ride in the truck to all his favorite destinations.

Traveling towards weather makes route choices easier. The temperature display indicated 35F as I rolled out of the driveway towards Rothrock State Forest and a maze of dirt and gravel roads. Eight miles from home and I’ve already stopped six times to take pictures. Curious Toddler comes to mind as I wander around the roadside looking for treasure. It begins to seem an appropriate title.

I can’t help being swept away by the gloomy landscape, as if walking through a Charlotte Bronte landscape.

Climbing towards the top of Thickhead Mountain, another stop, more wandering around, searching for a rock for the garden. Winter hasn’t been harsh on the road. Gravel still mostly in place and very little mud to deal with.

Despite the greater risk of riding in fog I am mesmerized by how things look. It’s hard not to give up riding and just make pictures. And there are no bad pictures when fog is involved.

The road and landscape merge to form a continuous picture that compels me to stop despite oaths to ride onward and allow the passing scenes to fade into memory.

Fog.

Standing in the road I see possibility, recall memories from youth, scenes of Barnabas Collins or passages from Edgar Allen Poe. Twelve miles now and I’ve stopped nine times to make pictures. Riding has become incidental, a means to another end. I am the Curious Toddler.

Proceeding down the mountain reveals a shortcoming of a scooter with an automatic transmission. A constant velocity transmission (CVT) for engineers or the mechanically minded. What this means is there is little engine braking available. Roll off the throttle, the RPMS drop and before you know it you’re freewheeling at increasing speed. Braking requires a sensitive touch and complete understanding of what is about to happen when the throttle is twisted. Applying power suddenly engages the powertrain and, depending on speed and road surface, can yield a sudden lurch as the transmission is engaged. On snow it can be a catastrophe. On loose gravel or mud it’s a wait and see thing. Motorcycle riders have it much easier with their endless features and capabilities.

Lichen covered rocks in a woodland setting. Gleaning ideas for a Japanese garden installation. Distant, almost insignificant in the photo, the Ves pa asks if I want to ride. At times I feel it deserves a better home. I keep promising to leave the camera and iPhone at home and just ride, explore on the road and not on foot. An attempt to rein in the Curious Toddler.

If you find yourself wandering in a similar environment make a note – those damp rocks are slippery. Crashing down on your head slippery.

 Earthly magnetism. I’m drawn to the edge of landscapes where one place ends and another begins – a canyon rim, seashore, overlook. Places to peer into infinity. Places found on rides. The road surface here is mostly sand and clay, damp, and prone to make the tires track sideways as times. The Heidenau winter tires perform well in this environment.

White pines suffocate the road. Descending towards pavement and civilization I stop to make a few photographs. The scent of pine and decaying needles fill the air. It’s hard to see more than 50 yards in any direction. Even the sky is cut off from view. I can begin to appreciate the terrible challenge European settlers had when they traversed these mountains in the early 1700s.

A few miles further; more toddling, more curiosity in play. Lost in a dark wood, the big bad wolf can’t be far off.

The moment the front wheel touches pavement I swear an oath that’s I’ll not stop for another picture until after breakfast. A twist of the throttle, I begin humming Sugar Mountain, the landscape sweeps by in an endless series of images. This is the freedom of riding.

Jane Stewart was born not long after the American Revolution and now rests with her husband James near Saulsburg, Pennsylvania. Each time I visit a cemetery I leave with a renewed sense of time and a reminder to make use of it.

The old graveyard and church stand in disrepair. Decaying forms of wrought iron fence and gates offer ideas for home. Kim and I both embrace the subtle grace of things being overtaken by nature. A quiet growl beneath my riding jacket reminds me of my mission.

On long smooth roads the Vespa is completely at home and can run all day at whatever legal speed I choose. Or some illegal ones as well. Roads lead south to Maryland, Virginia and beyond. Or north through New York and New England. When anyone asks about a scooter make sure you remind them that you can travel as far and wide as your time and resources allow.

What is it about train tracks vanishing into the horizon that’s so alluring? I stood here a long time before leaving. Not a care in the world; just the Vespa and the road. Everything else burned away.

Breakfast at Diner 22 marks the beginning of the end of my ride as I turn towards home.

The open landscape along PA Route 453 near Water Street. Thirty more miles until I’m home, relaxed, smiling, a curious toddler.

Another track leads off through a farm field that I have to explore. I’m tired and don’t fully pursue the opportunity.

The Vespa is silent as I pull in the driveway. Junior doesn’t wake and I walk up to the window to see Kim working in her studio. It’s good to be home.

Junior soon demands some action himself and we take a walk to the park where he and Buddy chase tennis balls.

Thinking about the ride later as I worked on this post I understand more fully the meaning of being a curious toddler. It fits, it works, and I think I will have a T-shirt made…

Riding in Colorado with the Master

This is Charlie6, author of Redleg's Rides, my host for a couple days of unexpected riding in Colorado. Anyone who's followed his blog knows a few things about him:

1. As much as he can he rides all year through all kinds of weather.

2. Riding takes him far afield and into the Rocky Mountains.

3. He racks up miles -- over 60 thousand in the last three years.

4. There's little boasting in his writing.

5. Unless you search carefully you can't quite tell who's behind the helmet. I've taken care of that.

I'll share a few things learned from observation. And a few other things can remain secret -- like the significance of certain street signs and the jungle in Panama.

The casual Redleg's Ride reader may have missed the author's name is Domingo Chang. Or that he's published an article in the BMW Motorcycle Owner's Association's Owner News magazine.

The article is titled Monument Valley via the Million Dollar Highway. It's a good read.

He's a serious rider. A look at his machines, gear, and attention to them give the strong impression that Mr. Chang is not a casual, fair weather rider.

I could go on but I don't want to embarrass him or screw up any chance of further riding should I return to Colorado.

Last Saturday morning Dom gave me the choice between Vikki, the V-Strom I had ridden the day before, or his beloved Brigitta, a beautiful 1987 BMW R80 airhead. With the thermometer reading 29F at departure time I chose the BMW because it had heated grips.

Our destination was about an hour away -- Red Rocks Park -- a little taste of the mountains before I had to fly back east. Once we arrived Dom told me to take the lead, go where I wanted, stop whenever I wanted to shoot pictures, we had plenty of time.

The bad feeling I get of having people waiting for me is one of the reasons I ride alone. I can stop a lot. The day quickly can become about photography and not riding.

As I scrambled up the red clay towards the rocks Dom probably was wondering what the hell I was doing. By the time I returned he said he would ride on ahead and I could catch up. He shot a video of me when I finally caught up. The startling slowness should serve as ample warning for anyone who thinks of riding with me.

The place was beautiful. The sky, the landscape, the feeling unlike anything I experience in Pennsylvania.

Charlie6 is all about the motorcycles. Whenever I turned the camera towards him he commented that the pictures should be about the motorcycles. So I had to switch to stealth mode, useful for reluctant or nervous subjects.

While Dom composed his artistic motorcycle arrangements I grabbed a shot of an R1200 GS (?) putting by.

Dom does look like a police officer. You would think people would steer clear. While we were here an SUV drove up and a woman leaped out and came running over and asked us if we wanted her to shoot our picture. First thought in my head was of Jack Riepe and the stories this encounter could generate. Then I wondered if she thought we looked like the Village People.

We politely declined the offer and I noted a scooter decal in her back window as she drove away. Obviously just a fine, friendly human.

It kind of bothers me that Jack Riepe pops into my head when I'm out riding. What the hell is that about?

Dom shoots as many, perhaps more, pictures as I do. He was curious how our pictures would compare. I'm always interested in how different people see the same places.

Nothing like big, red rocks for subject matter.

I learned something else about Dom when making this picture. He likes his motorcycles just so. When I set up the bike I had turned the front wheel to the left. Opposite of how one learns to leave it when you dismount in an MSF class. But I like the way the bike looks when the wheel is askew.

Dom likes the wheel straight and trotted over to fix things.

We rode to the top of Lookout Mountain and walked up to Buffalo Bill's grave. Only a foothill of the Rockies I still felt the 7500 foot elevation. At this point I wasn't shooting many pictures because the clock was starting to tick in my head and visions of security checkpoints at the airport were dancing in my head.

Going down the other side of the mountain towards Golden, Colorado placed us in clusters of bicyclists making their way up and down the mountain. I was glad to have a motor. At least for a few more moments.

After shooting this picture I couldn't get the BMW started. Dom came over and swore there should be gas in the tank. A quick dismantling of the fuel bowl of one of the carbs confirmed there was gas. Turned out I put the fuel shutoff valves in the wrong position. How would I know? I ride a Vespa.

After another Panama jungle experience we gassed up and hit the freeway to get back home and to the airport before I would have to buy another ticket. Brigitta followed Vikki and at times I saw the speedometer needle pegged at the maximum. Smooth and stable despite a nice crosswind.

Bikes safely back in the garage Dom checks to make sure I've not left anything behind before we go the the airport. Unfortunately we both forget the long underwear I borrowed. (They're in the wash now and I'll mail them back soon.)

At the airport I say my goodbye and head through security to meet motorcycle blogger Richard Machida as he heads back to Alaska. Dom must be a puppet master to pull off all this interaction so smoothly.

By the time my ass sinks into the seat of the Boeing 757 I am really tired. Five hours of riding is a nice sedative before flying. And a great way to end a great week in Colorado. I hope I can return the favor should Dom and his family visit Pennsylvania.

Dom -- thank you for your kind hospitality and trust with your motorcycles. The keys to the Vespa are yours whenever you want.