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…

iPhone Magic -- It has Applications for Riding Art

Any readers using their smart-phone cameras to make images they consider more than snapshots?
Lately I feel as if I am standing at a line if crossed means the complete, total, and utter abandonment of film.  For the past few months I have been shooting nothing but digital images and I have to say I don't miss the darkroom much at all.  There is a certain nostalgia I'm clinging to -- the tactile process of loading film, the smell of the chemistry, the look and feel of silver prints.  Uncertainty clouds the topic.  Is there more for me to say with film or am I just afraid to cross the line?  I can't say right now and no one can push me one way or the other.

One pleasant surprise is the amazing ability of a smart phone camera along with the associated apps.  I use an iPhone but I've seen work from other systems that are equally impressive.  A few days ago I saw the above video referenced on Twitter that was produced using images made with the Hipstamatic app.  The guy had to shoot a lot of images to pull off this pixelation project.

I've had a few riding projects in mind for a long time, stories that are more about perception and emotion than any documentary detail or recording.  Maybe the phone is the answer...

Perhaps it is time to start experimenting more.  My pictures are getting predictable.

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.

Consumption Therapy and Moto-Porn

A couple days ago good old Charlie6 (Dom) of Redleg's Rides forwarded an email about the above bike.  Overconfidence no doubt at having reversed my opinion about sidecars he probably thought I'd be vulnerable to suggestions about a vintage BMW.  Here's his message.

Steve

Just in case you're undergoing Beemer withdrawals.....this one seems nice.

dom

Date: Thu, 31 Mar 2011

From: "Charles xxx"
Subject: 1988 R100GS For Sale
To: "Airheads"

We are getting ready to move so I am putting my Airhead up for sale and I
thought I would give the list first crack.

It is a 1988 R100GS, Black and Yellow, and is in great cosmetic and
mechanical condition. It comes with Caribou luggage system and a Marsee
magnetic tank bag. The GS has about 38,800 miles. I just changed all fluids,

checked the valves and will check the carb sync prior to delivery.

The GS has had the circ clip issue addressed by Tom Cutter. Some
modifications include Nippon starter, Moto and Hyper lites, Ohlin Adj. rear
shock (came from factory with WP rear and progressive springs in forks),
EnduraLast 450 watt alternator, and Acerbis handguards.

With the GS comes many, many spare parts (including a new-in-box BMW brand
drive shaft, two rebuilt bing carbs(missing floats as I borrowed them last
year and didn't replace), original working Valeo starter, a set of Cont. TKC

tires (currently has Avon Gripsters mounted). Also, the GS is wired for
handlebar mounted GPS and Gerbing heat. The BMW tool pouch is complete. I
will also include a Clymer manual in addition to the Owner's manual.

I am asking $5500 for all.

The bike is located in Pottstown, PA (about 35-miles west of Philly)

Nice indeed.

I had been looking at used motorcycles on eBaby, Kissell Motorsports, and anywhere I could think of when I opened Dom's message. Seeing that yellow and black motorcycle, reviewing the specs and price, I knew, absolutely knew, I wanted that motorcycle. I needed that motorcycle. The world would not be right, I wouldn't be right, until it was sitting in our garage.

Kim, my loving partner, wife, and knowing soulmate was sitting a few feet away in the window, writing in her journal.  I let the words, "Wow, that's a nice motorcycle" ease past my teeth and into the room.  Her pen kept pace across the page of her notebook as I added, "I've always loved the 1988 BMW R100 GS" and feeling a lot like Ralphie in A Christmas Story scheming to get a Official Red Ryder Carbine-Action Two-Hundred-Shot Range Model Air Rifle with a compass in the stock.

The R100 GS is that cool.

Being wise and knowing how to decode my meta-messages Kim asked if I wanted a motorcycle.  I really became Ralphie as I quickly thought how to respond -- not too excited, not too relaxed.  I did not say I wanted a football. (Apologies to anyone who hasn't seen a Christmas Story)

Cutting to the chase Kim asked me a few simple questions. (My recollection of the exchange)

KIM:  Do you like the motorcycle? 
STEVE: Yes, I do, I have always loved the way these vintage BMWs look, especially the R100 GS.

K: Do you need a motorcycle?
S: (long pause) Hmmm, well, I don't really need a motorcycle.  It would be nice to ride though.

K: What are you going to do with the Vespa?
S: I'll keep the Vespa.  Never know when you might need a second machine to ride.  (Suddenly I'm feeling sort of stupid)

K:  If you want a motorcycle you should get one.
S: (silence)

K:  What will the BMW do differently than the Vespa?
S:  (I almost blurt out "it will go a lot faster") Well, it will feel different on the road.  And it might open up more riding opportunities.  (I am beginning to realize how little I have thought about this subject at all)

K: When will you have time to do this?  You seem pretty busy right now with work, photography, writing, the house, friends, the dog.  Are you really going to be able to use it?  And you're getting all those motorcycles from Kissell Motorsports to ride.  How's another motorcycle going to fit in?
S: (Kim's doing the thinking that I should have been doing.  A light flickers in my head, dimly at first, then brighter when she asks the next question.)

K:  Do you really need this motorcycle or are you just in your buying mode?
S:  Hmmmm.....   Well....   I...  I just...   (silence)

No need to go one here.  I began to see what Kim saw in an instant.  Things were pretty hectic after returning from Colorado.  Lots of work to catch up on with lots of new things to do.  When my head begins to spin at a certain speed I seek consumption therapy.  Buy something and I'll feel better. Buy a motorcycle and I'll feel a lot better.  Or so the irrational thoughts suggest.  I have a really nice Bell Kevlar canoe hanging in the garage with about 4 hours of use on it.  A Wisner 4x5 view camera, bamboo flute, assorted tools and toys, all purchases a direct result of consumption therapy.

Kim just saved us $5500.  While I eventually come to appreciate her insight,  at the moment it's being delivered I can pout at not getting what I want.  I wonder at times how she puts up with me.  I'm the only man who's like this.

I emailed the owner of the motorcycle on the phone to seek permission to use the picture on this post.  He granted it with the statement "feel free to use my moto-porn".  He knew.   

The next day I went for a ride on the Vespa and honestly wondered why I thought I needed anything else.  The thing is perfect for me.  

Couldn't smile a bigger smile.
 

Riding to Alaska

PICTURE COURTESY MOTOQUEST

Admit it -- you dream of riding to Alaska. The isolation, solitude and wilderness haunt your dreams. One hundred miles of gravel after lunch just means dinner will taste all the better. Even if it comes from a can cooked over a small fire along the road.

You can sample a taste of this life on Wednesday evening, April 6, at 7pm in the Outreach Building at Penn State. Kissell Motorsports in conjunction with coolBLUE has brought Brenden Anders from MotoQuest to town to give a presentation on the riding opportunities they offer around the world and answer any questions you might have.

REGISTER FOR THIS FREE EVENT.

PICTURE COURTESY MOTOQUEST

This is Brenden Anders and he's doing what I wish I had the good sense to do when I was 23. Looking at that pretty Kawasaki KLR650 reminds me that Kissell Motorsports has a similar one in their showroom. Actually it belonged to a friend of mine, a fellow photographer at Penn State. But I digress...

I'm anxious to listen to the experiences Brenden has had on the road and how a MotoQuest tour might fit into my future. A look at their website reveals a wide range of opportunities for just about any riding taste. I'm still trying to picture a Vespa in Alaska.

Even if you can't make it to the event visit the MotoQuest site and register in their drawing for an Alaska trip.

A guy can dream right??

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.

An Unexpected Ride

Arriving in Denver last week to attend the CASE Editor’s Forum the last think on my mind was riding. Walking the streets it was hard not to think about it as I passed scooters on the sidewalk and watched riders pass by on the street. Riding gets in your blood and it doesn’t take much to trigger desire.

The city seemed to belong to scooters. Maybe the motorcycle riders bloom later this time of year. The Triumph was the first motorcycle I saw all week but would not be the last. Serendipity, a stroke of good luck, or just a fortunate chain of coincidence, Dom Chang, aka Charlie6, author of Redleg’s Rides, determined I was in Colorado and contacted me about meeting at the end of the conference.

The conference ended early Friday afternoon and I was soon standing at the light rail station waiting for the train to take me to Nine Mile Station. The ticket cost four dollars but no one on the train ever asked to see it. As I suspected Denver residents are exceedingly honest.

As trains go this one was first rate with lots to see inside and out. Loved how much is invested in artwork along the train route and highways – etched images in the concrete of buffalo and prairie. Pennsylvania puts its cash into wildflowers.

At one point we passed the place Union Pacific locomotives go to die. There were hundreds of them decorated nicely by enterprising artists for their eventual move to the recycling graveyard.

Riders are everywhere in Denver including on the train. I asked this young woman if I could take her picture as she leaned against the back of the car with her bicycle. After removing her earphones and listened to my question she nodded and I made the shot. Everyone in Denver was nice. Even the two young people I gave money to the day before because they needed bus fare after losing their wallets.

This is where Charlie6 lives.

A plainsman who also rides in the mountain wilderness of Colorado. Well, not quite. After picking me up at the Nine Mile Station in a new BMW X5 we made our way to his home where he introduced me to Vicki and Brigitta. Natasha was away. After telling me he had some work to do he suggested I take Vikki for a ride. For a moment I wondered what Jack Riepe would say.

Not every rider offers up their motorcycle to another rider and I was honored that Dom trusted me enough to take care of Vikki, his DL1000 Suzuki V-Strom. After cobbling together some gear he suggested I ride east towards the plains. After about 20 minutes the traffic lessened and the development gave way to more open and rolling roads.

Dom suggested I return in about an hour to have dinner with his family. When questioned about directions I assured him I would find my way back. After riding for half an hour I parked the bike, took a few pictures, and promised Vikki I would take her home. I assumed she knew the way.

Watching the clouds move in from the mountains I had to stop and make another picture. It was hard not to think about those mountains in the distance but people would be waiting for me.

I should probably comment on the V-Strom. Nice bike. It has always been on my list of machines to consider owning and now I know why. Tall but easily managed. Fast. Nimble. Reliable. Couldn’t ask for much more. The soft sand and fine gravel mix on the sides of the road meant I had to be careful to not park in a place where the kickstand would descend into the softness and tumble Vikki to the ground.

And still, those mountains in the distance were calling. I couldn’t ride to them but I did stop often to make pictures. And the clock continued to tick. As I rode back into town the landmarks got blurrier until I found myself lost. Dom chuckled when I called on the cell phone. He knew no one could find his or her way back to his place. An hour late I met his wife and kids and sat down to a fine dinner.

Before dark I was invited to take a ride on Natasha, a Ural sidecar rig. The light was fading fast and I asked Dom if there was a place with a big sky to make a picture. He knew a place. Minutes after we arrived a fellow raced up on a Royal Enfield screaming, “Hey, that’s a motorcycle with a sidecar.” As he bent Dom’s ear I made a few pictures of this modern version of a motorcycle classic.

A quick portrait with the Ural. When I commented how much he looks like a police officer Dom told me that he had heard that before. He’s one serious rider.

I wasn’t sure if I would be able to spend the night until later in the evening. With the promise of more riding in the morning we headed into town to pick up my stuff at the Grand Hyatt. If necessary I bet Dom would pull a tux out of the trunk of the sidecar.

The valet raced out when we arrived, not to welcome us to the hotel – he was a scooter rider enthralled with the Ural. It is an interesting machine and Dom wanted to make sure I fully appreciated a properly setup rig after my less than pleasing ride on Piaggio MP3 with a sidecar.

After an enjoyable ride in the sidecar and enough time piloting the rig to determine how it handled I can say that it was a pleasure to ride. Even with all the weird characteristics of the Ural. Things like marginal braking and grinding gears.

I could see myself with one.

The ride home was fast on the freeway. With temperatures dropping into the thirties I just pulled the sidecar cover up around my neck and enjoyed the ride.

A great first day of riding in Colorado!

Denver by Pavement

Friday morning and things are beginning to blur. My brain can only absorb so much information. Copious notes and a rewrite on Monday when I'm back at the office will allow a more thorough reflection on the week.

Views from almost every window of the hotel seem to reveal another odd view of Denver. The weather has been wonderful. Snow back in Pennsylvania. It has to be gone by the time my plane lands.

A walk after the conference to let the swirl of the day dissipate. Scooters are everywhere. At 6:30pm the downtown is rather quiet. I could ride my Vespa here.

A last picture before going to dinner. Pegasus reminds me of the sense of power and freedom riding can deliver. Not horsepower -- a power of reflection, a recognition of life. On the road, alone, and with my thoughts, I can appreciate what parts of destiny are beyond control and what parts aren't.

That's power.

The Denver Riding Nightlife

I raced across the street in downtown Denver last night to catch these two young women with my iPhone. It's not often I see anyone riding side saddle on a vintage Vespa.

Two days in Denver and I have not seen a single motorcycle. Lots of scooters though -- zipping along on the streets and parked on the sidewalks. Being in the wild west I sort of thought the place was going to be a motorcycle town full of cowboys who had abandoned their horses for Harleys and Triumphs.

Between meetings I have a chance to look out the window at the still snow-covered Rockies in the distance and wish I had an extra week and my Vespa to do some exploring.

Sunrise in Denver a few minutes ago. Day three in Denver. Life can be simple on the road. Right now the only decisions I have to make is Starbucks or the hotel restaurant for breakfast.

Up in the Air

Parked the Vespa in favor of bigger, faster transport yesterday. Flying west for a few days of work. That's the Colorado landscape you see below. A lot more pivot irrigation being used here than I saw the last time I came through. That was in 1970.

I know I am in the wild west now. On the way to the hotel from the airport I saw one motorcycle. A scooter actually. And a pink one at that. Yee Haw!

View from my hotel room this morning just before 6am. Like the view but it's hard to beat the bed at home.

Should be back on the Vespa soon.

Riding Out of Winter

With morning temperatures consistently near 40F and above the ride to work is effortless. The chore of putting on a lot of gear to insulate from the cold is in the rear view mirror. And the extra time allows me to take more leisurely and relaxing routes to work. The above picture was made on a lane crossing one of Penn State's farms on Friday morning. Often the gates are closed when cattle or horses are put out to pasture.

Tremendous clouds and piercing light this morning demanded a slight detour to make a picture of Meyer's farm outside of State College. When the weather is frigid I am far less likely to stop, especially in locations I have photographed before.

While this scene is pretty what you don't see it the fresh manure I walked through to get the picture.

Worn brick and written admonishments contrast the usual bucolic landscapes I seem to be drawn to. Passed this scene on my way to meet a friend at Saint's Cafe. Last time I photographed this place I was on a Triumph Bonneville. The Vespa looks fine here too.

Alleys are magical places. Whenever I have the chance to explore in towns and cities alleys are my first plan of attack. While Calder Alley in State College, Pennsylvania is pretty tame as alleys go, it still offers some interested colors and textures.

Notice how I am slowly digressing away from any direct riding references? The Vespa is the perfect foil in this area.

My friend Paul Ruby usually parks his motorcycle here. He thinks it belongs to him but I still belong to the school of who ever gets their first owns the space. Seem the American thing to do.

Another morning in Saint's Cafe. Sitting at the table getting ready to write a few notes in my journal I could not help but notice the odd juxtaposition of characters. The beam of light on a red head of hair was just gravy in my book.

Paul Ruby.

I stole his space for nothing because he arrived in his 1962 Mercedes Sedan. Paul is a collector of machines and you never know what he might show up with. An old Vespa, Ferrari, Harley, or bicycle. A few weeks ago he stopped by my office at lunch time so I could take some pictures of his latest acquisition.

Now he has a Ducati 1198. This is a class of motorcycles outside my experience or desire. I've sat on them but my body cries out, "Please, no, don't make me ride on this."

So far I've ceded to my body's wishes.

The weatherman says it will be almost 70 degrees tomorrow. I'm convinced winter has passed and my whole life as relaxed. As much as I enjoy riding year round I admit that this winter was tough. I'll have to reflect awhile to discern the reasons. Something to think about on these nice, warm day rides...