Fall Skies and Motorcycle and Scooter Magic

Riding under a strong, dramatic sky on a fall day lends offers a certain je ne sais quoi.  I feel something different in my blood, an excitement shimmer through my bones just being on the road and moving.  Scenes that pass with vague indifference in a car ignite my imagination on the Vespa.  Or any motorcycle I have ridden in fact.  Those skies don't favor one machine over another.

This time of year, with bigger shifts in temperature and light, I find a rolling unfolding of aerial tapestry that threaten to cut my rides short as I stop and watch shafts of light sweep across a field, clouds pass overhead in a collage of shapes and forms rekindling memories of childhood spent lazing on a hilltop just watching the sky, free of worries beyond being home in time for dinner.

 On days I can't ride to work I often find myself rolling the Vespa from the garage and heading down the road "just for a short ride" I promise Kim.  An unwinding of the strangling energy of a busy day, the quick thrill of flying over the pavement, the momentary fantasy of freedom that a ride can bring.  And then, an image of something so ordinary and familiar beckons for attention.  Standing along the road, not far from home I look and wonder and make a picture.

The Vespa is elegant in its mechanical simplicity and continues to surprise me with its faithful performance and willingness to tackle anything I've asked of it, from smooth pavement to gravel paths to snow covered roads.  I would be lying to say I have not considered other machines, imagined different rides in different ways on motorcycles that have caught my attention.  But I continue to be glamoured by the Vespa, it's magical hold clouding my mind, calling me back, over and over again to the silver scooter. 

The important thing is to ride. Even for just a few minutes -- that's all it takes.  Here I stopped to look back towards home, watch the sun go down, and express some gratitude for being alive and walking on the earth.

I never do that when I'm driving.

So I keep riding. For fellow riders keep riding.  For those would be riders reading and dreaming, take the leap, assume the risk, and find some magic.

Especially now, under those hypnotic fall skies, cool days and fast changing colors.

Little Rides on a Fall Day

Last Sunday morning arrived cool and foggy, the kind of day I relish as photographer and rider.  The falling leaves signal a change in days, a shortness of light and warmth and the arrival of the official Vespa riding season.

Just down the street I pull over to ponder the ride.  The painted white arrows echo the conversation in my head, the uncertainty of which direction I should go.  Eventually I decide to ride directly to my Sunday morning meeting with Gordon to talk photography and drink tea.  But until I get there, I savor the ride, no matter how ordinary or short.

Scooter riders become familiar with the liberal interpretation of parking rules, especially when applied to spaces beyond the reach of the four-wheeled world.  I'm not sure if it's legal to park here but so far I've not attracted the interest of the local parking constabulary.  It is after all, a moped.

Vespa riders are badasses.  We sit in a dark corner of the room, back to the wall, and survey the world that's ours to explore.  With tea cup in one hand and my Canon G9 (I seem to have lost it somewhere) in the other, I record the view at Saint's Cafe on a Sunday morning.

The ride home under a clear morning sky offers a different experience.  After nearly dumping the Vespa on a steep drop from pavement to gravel caused by hasty decision to explore I stop to admire the landscape and admonish myself for being a careless rider.  I suppose it's always good to look in the mirror and remind yourself of those inner weaknesses.

Later that day, the sun on the other side of the horizon, I ride back to town to an appointment.  Another little ride, another reminder of how satisfying even the little rides on a fall day can be.

No reason to wait for extreme adventures to enjoy the satisfaction of riding.

The Hello Kitty Harley

Nothing says Harley-Davidson like a Hello Kitty water bottle.  I spied this one on Paul Ruby's Harley Crossbones and wondered how he missed the marketing messages that Harley has poured millions into -- with much success I might add. I may have suggested a HOG member seeing it might confiscate his bike.

Now I wish I had held my tongue.  He must have been upset because he's traded the Harley for a 2007 BMW K1200 GT.  Hello Kitty will be more at home there I guess.

Paul and I left early to ride to Altoona to pick up my father-in-law before riding on to a new breakfast spot. Light traffic, long lights, and the easy of parking the Vespa allow for some quick pictures like this one. 

Remember those cool tablets that they used to give out on the first day of school along with the giant green wooden pencils?  If you weren't alive and in the first grade around 1960 forget I mentioned this.

Anyways, the Blank Book Company has been making school supplies, tablets, notebooks, etc, for over one hundred years.  This was their original building in Roaring Spring.  I can't quite decide which is more unique -- the architecture or the two Vespa scooters with the Harley.

Mamie's in Martinsburg. While Paul checks the map to figure out where we are the cooks are preparing what was among the finest breakfast sandwiches I have ever devoured.  Devoured is the right verb.  I had a half steak and egg sandwich on homemade bread with grilled peppers and onions. 

I'm not a donut guy.  I'll eat them but am not impressed.  At least not until I had one of Mamie's donuts.  Fresh, warm, sugary.  This is the kind of donut that Homer Simpson would abandon his family for.

When I looked at the folder on my computer for images of this ride the donut was the last one even though we put another 65 miles on the odometer before reaching home.  The donut was the capstone experience for this ride.  Thank god I didn't ride 1000 miles to find it.

Embracing Failure, Return of the iPhone

Waking to fog still excites me.  Duty and responsibility take a back seat as I scheme to find a way to explore a world half shrouded, half hidden by fog.  This past weekend was no exception and after a rush to get Junior exercised, fed, watered and Milkboned I was off to make photographs and eventually meet my friend Gordon at Starbucks.

The world was perfect.  Even the occasional draw of my glove across my visor to clear condensation could not interfere with the moment.  As I walked into position to make a photograph along Spring Creek I was presented with a wonderful opportunity for personal growth in the form of acceptance -- the SD card for my digital camera was missing. 

 Obviously all was not lost.  My recently revived iPhone (not long ago I abandoned it for a Trac Phone.  That was a bad plan professionally.) was in my pocket and I surrendered to the reality that photography on this morning would be different than I planned. The fog was subtle and that ephemeral nature would easily be lost without the more powerful rendering of my Canon G9.  The iPhone is closing in though.  Riding on along the creek I was surprised how angry I was with myself for being so irresponsible.  Again.  I could tell you about all the pictures that got away.  Instead, I embraced the failure and made the most of the situation.

And I still could ride.

 Earlier in the week I did the same thing on another evening ride.  No card in the camera.  So I had to resort to the iPhone.  It's not that the pictures are bad, they just aren't what I planned.  And again, my expectations struggled against me seeking to ruin a lovely evening on the road.

The roads here are sublime.  While there are times when I wait for vehicles to leave a scene for the most part these roads are empty on a Sunday morning.  I could have had breakfast here without concern. 

One last detour at a tract of land managed by the Pennsylvania Game Commission.  Kim and I used to rent a farm bordering these lands and could walk out our door and walk for hours without seeing another person.  Those were pre-Vespa days.  Standing here a flood of memories swept over me like ghosts from the past.  For those of you who know where this is (of for the Game Warden reading this) I did not motor into this position.  I dutifully pushed the Vespa around the gate and posed it for this picture.  There is no outlaw biker in me and I was not about to intrude on this place with my scooter.

Well, I thought about it for a second or two.

By the time I arrived at Starbucks I had moved beyond embracing my failure to bring along a working camera to deciding I should reward myself for making the most of a situation I could not change.  Two of these cookies died in the process.

I'll post the black and white prints for the 3 Prints Project when I get a moment to make some scans.  Right now I would rather ride.  It's only 9:30pm.  Perhaps a run to the store for some chocolate to go along with a cup of tea is in order.

Evening Patrol by Vespa

One evening ride, one quiet trip, no different than the ones before.  The road moves by, my eyes absorb the the passing landscape as light slowly fades and leads to moonlight glimmer.  At least that's how I think about it now as I write, a reminder of riding and the quiet transformation that occurs on the road.

Standing before Mount Nittany, a hill in the valley where I live, after so many years the experience has grown sublime.  In all weathers and times I find myself here.

All is not necessarily quiet in the physical world.  Behind me the din of traffic gnaws and chews at the mental hush that the Vespa can bestow.

Bright orange earplugs can't diminish the thunder of a passing truck and it's easily to lose myself to the noise.  Still, with a bit of practice, the thoughts inside my helmeted head can remain quiet and relaxed, the wandering pace of the ride bringing order to the mental chaos of the day.

A gift of riding.

A hundred times I've stood beside a road as the day fades, no house or car on person in sight, and here I confront the moment and a life unfolding.  Beyond enjoyment, past relaxation, these evening rides move towards a kind of active meditation.  For a moment I think about a loud motorcycle I've ridden and the impossibility of entering this place.

There is no plan or route or destination.  Just the movement of the Vespa over the road, the track it follows over well paved road with little to interrupt a slow change in outlook and attitude during the evening patrol.

As day surrenders to night I know why I ride -- beyond fun and enjoyment, adventure or challenge, the deflation of noise and jagged energy made possible by this scooter brings me back, over and over again, to the road and ride.  A few miles, a handful of minutes, it doesn't take long to find my way.

At least on some days it's why i'm on the evening patrol...

3 Prints Project: September 16, 2011

After months of neglect I returned to the darkroom.  Ritual film development, printing and processing were an unexpected high in an otherwise hectic life.  I'm not certain what changed but I found myself carrying the Leica M6 again, one lens, and an extra roll of film in my pocket.  The familiar actions related to using that camera surged into an excitement that bordered on giddy.  Thankfully I didn't question my sanity or state of mind and just went with the flow, a re-acquaintance with the 3 Prints Project.

That's my friend Paul Ruby floating in the tray.  I made a picture of a piece he had in a local exhibit, a large self portrait made while he was in India.  He works and prints digitally since he no longer has a darkroom.  

Anyone who's spent intermittant periods in a darkroom knows the early frustration of finding chemicals out of date, materials expired and other victims of neglect.  A ride into town to visit the local camera shop solved the problem and I was soon ready to go.  Camera stores are fast disappearing from the landscape.  My sentimental feelings for them run deep and I never pass up an opportunity to visit one.  I suspect in another five to ten years they'll all be gone.

I still remember the first can of Dektol developer I purchased in the 1960s at a small drugstore.  Photographic supplies were far more common then.  Nearly 50 years later I am still a faithful user of Kodak's stalwart paper developer.  At least until the big yellow box makes it all go away.

 

The ride into town last Sunday morning to meet my 3 Prints Project partner Gordon Harkins offered the first fall-like weather of the season complete with just a bit of fog on the hillsides.  Mornings like these have me thinking of riding more than photography.

State College is quiet in the morning.  The streets are usually empty and I don't mind being in town.  Making this photograph I am reminded of how many years I have been using these parking spaces.  Time is flying by.

Here are the prints I made this past week.  Proof prints, nothing special, just a quick enlargement on an 11x14 sheet of Ilford Multigrade IV fiber paper.

Mr. Ruby as seen at the Art Alliance Gallery in Lemont, Pennsylvania.  How would you like that image staring at you from your living room wall?

Junior and I at home. In low light I decided I had to see how slow I could shoot with the Leica. This one was made at 1/4 of a second. I'm not as steady as I used to be, at least not crouched down like that.

Kim flying out of the car, camera in hand.  She tells me she doesn't get excited about much.  I know different and witness her focus and energy on a daily basis.  I try not to lead on how much I envy her energy and concentration. 

  

A portrait of Gordon Harkins at Saint's Cafe, frequent site of our 3 Prints Project meetings.  Captured here listening to some inane chatter pouring forth from my mouth.

Junior watching over his domain which includes Kim pulling weeds.  Gordon and I discussed conversations about this image that might have ensued when we were in graduate school.  Politics is everywhere.

I finished two more rolls about an hour ago and after dinner may head again to the darkroom to work under the amber lights...

Dream the Triumph Scrambler

I want the Triumph Scrambler in my driveway. It’s been the subject of more than a few riding fantasies. Not long ago I had the chance to test my desire.

Next to my bed is an Orvis catalog. Their marketing and creative staff seem to have worked over time to push into my subconscious and trigger desire for canvas field coats, twill and flannel shirts, and an assortment of leather belts and boots, all to embrace the coming fall, all part of a design sensibility rooted deep in tradition and experience growing up, the outdoor style of my father, the look and feel before the advent of hi-tech fabric and construction.

Triumph has managed the same thing with the Scrambler. They’ve electrified my imagination by bringing this modern machine before me while triggering dreams of desert sleds and Baja adventure from my youth. It’s a potent combination.

While my personal fascination with traditional, timeless clothing style may be perfectly functional when it turns towards more mechanical iconography those items often wither under the bright light of daily use. Doesn’t matter if it’s a camera, car or motorcycle, the fantasy never lives up to my expectations when I attempt to put them to daily use.

This is a story of dreams.

Two people have a role in this tale -- Craig Kissell, owner of Kissell Motorsports and granter of magical wishes by putting a Scrambler in my hands, and Jonathan Ziegler (JZ), creative director, designer, sometimes author of Two-Lane Blacktop, and rider of a 1977 BMW R75/6.

Craig has maintained that my riding and writing about his motorcycles helps his business and my slow, scooter perspective on the motorcycle experience doesn’t seem to hurt and I have the chance to walk on the wild side.

JZ is the kind of rider suited for a vintage airhead—attentive to detail, driven by style, and possessing the requisite patience needed to own and sometimes actually ride a vintage motorcycle.

I have no business owning a vintage motorcycle. While I can be seduced by the look and style of many older machines my lack of patience makes me a poor candidate to join the crowd of vintage airhead riders, BSA and Norton aficionados, or those poor souls who surrender their sanity to finicky vintage Triumphs, Vespas, and Harleys. I expect the bike to start when I press the starter button. Every time, regardless of weather, time of day, tide or phase of the moon. I find no romance in side of the road repairs regardless of how many riding stories they might inspire. I want to ride.

The desire for the Scrambler is based on anything but actual need and reflects a definition of a motorcycle in my head developed in my youth from movies, television and the infrequent motojournalism to which I encountered. I believe almost every rider, in a quiet moment of honest reflection, will find their choice of rides are based on a manipulation of desire based on style, tradition, perception and fear of being different. Choices based on actual need are tricks of the mind.

So I don’t often kid myself into thinking I actually need much. I do want a lot though.

A Saturday morning and I pull up to JZ’s garage, hoping his machine will actually start and we can take advantage of a lovely morning to ride. And get breakfast.

I’m drawn to simplicity of style and function. A look at the instrument cluster on the Scrambler reveals a Spartan collection of information:

A speedometer to tell you when you’re at risk of a speeding ticket.
An odometer, useful to keep track of mileage since there is no fuel gauge.
A green light indicating the turn signals are on – but not which one.
A blue light to let you know your high beam is on.
A small orange check engine diode informing you of, most likely, some incomplete product of combustion. Or maybe the engine is ready to blow up.
And another diode informing you that soon you will run out of gas.

Nothing else. No gear indicator, RPMs, ambient temperature readout (I’ll miss that one) or anything else. And certainly no stereo, GPS, heated seats or grips, and no windscreen. Just a straightforward motorcycle to safely and efficiently get you from point A to B.

In style.

The two motorcycles look good together and are completely at home on the backroads of central Pennsylvania. Looking at pictures like this makes me wonder why I don’t make more time to ride.

We headed south down the valley towards Petersburg and the Route 22 Diner, a small, unassuming establishment along US22 just east of Water Street. It serves a fine hearty breakfast without pretense or fuss.

The Scrambler is not a good choice for anyone requiring the like-minded support of others. You’re not going to find crowds of Scrambler riders at the local diner. This is a unique motorcycle for the rider heading in a different direction. Where Harley talks about the lone rider on the road in their marketing, Triumph actually delivers with the Scrambler. I have never seen another on the road.

Esquire magazine says every man in America needs a Triumph Scrambler. They’re seeing it as a statement of style. I see the Scrambler as a key to unlock insight, imagination, and the first steps towards spiritual freedom. Spoken like a true Vespa rider.

Fifteen miles from breakfast we’re buying fuel at the Sheetz in Huntingdon. The lot is packed with cars and motorcycles. At the next pump is a bright red Ducati MultiStrada ridden by Doug Roeshot, orthopedic surgeon and Ducatista. After a brief conversation about plans he invites us to join himself and another Ducati rider for a ride. Not wanting to reveal my fear that Ducati riders believe the throttle only has one position -- wide open, I infer while JZ is in the store that his BMW is having problems and we wouldn’t want to be a burden. Thinking back, as I was feeling some aches and pains from the ride, and watching Doug labor to get his leg over the topcase on the Ducati, I realize that neither of us will probably do anything scary on the road.

But you have to keep up appearances.

The ride home was uneventful. Just he kind of ride you need sometimes. The Scrambler performed flawlessly and the BMW exhibited the kind of eccentric behavior I associate with vintage machines -- turn it off in the heat and the thing will not want to start again. At this point all of you serious vintage airhead readers should weigh in and criticize Ziegler for not learning to tune his bike correctly. He’s a designer. He is used to criticism.

I had long admired the Triumph Scramblers at Kissell Motorsports. When opportunity arrived to take one for a ride I was pleased but hesitant because you never really know how you will respond to a motorcycle until you have the chance to ride it. Heading home that first evening I was all smiles.

Each jump from Vespa to motorcycle requires a physical adjustment due to riding position, handlebar width, how much I have to struggle to get my feet to make friends with the shifter and brake levers – that sort of thing. Making those adjustments with my 57 year old body are, well, aggravating. During the time I had the Scrambler I made note on the burning across my shoulders from the wider handlebars, and was grumbling under my breath from time to time about an assortment of aches and pains. By the end of the second day I was completely acclimated and ready to do 800 mile days.

Well, maybe 400 mile days.

All that was left was to test the off-pavement capabilities since a big part of my fantasy for this motorcycle involved going places where others dare not tread. The run across one of Penn State's gravel roads is much smoother on the Triumph than my Vespa.  Go figure.

 Being an adult I mediated fantasy with a healthy dose of reality and stayed on some reasonably tame pathways. 

Verdict: the stock tires aren’t exactly what the doctor orders for off the pavement action. I was pleasantly surprised at how nimble and smooth the bike was. While I didn’t take any spine jarring hits from ruts or rocks it was fine on the kind of forest and mountain roads that crisscross this part of Pennsylvania.

I want one of these motorcycles. It looks good at the end of the driveway in the morning light.  Kim, if you are reading this, you should push me to buy one.

My desire was strong enough that I avoided visiting Kissell Motorsports for fear I would buy it. Craig probably wonders what happened to me. He sold the Scramblers. It safe to visit now. Until the next shipment arrives.