Piston and Pints Extravaganza

I'm one lazy blogger and when I catch up it can often mean a boatload of photos with little text, description or commentary.  Such is the case with some images of a Piston and Pints gathering from earlier this month AND images made today at the final moto hang cookout.

Couldn't resist photographing the tank on this vintage Royal Enfield.  How often do you get to see one anymore.  The rider, I did have his name written down somewhere along with all the technical details about the bike, rode in from Beford, Pennsylvania, about 90 minutes south.  Along with the Enfield he had some other vintage British bikes.  Perhaps sometime in the future we'll have the chance to see them.

Paul Ruby interrogates, I mean interviews the owner of the Enfield...

Another vintage bike -- a Harley Davidson that doesn't rattle your fillings when it goes by.

Early in the evening.  Ken Hull's trials bike in the foreground.  Looks uncomfortable for long trips.

A Triumph and a Vespa.  Doesn't get much better than that.

Piston and Pints executive board and think tank members stand aside and ponder deep thoughts.

Always at least one two-stroke machine at the event.  The sound reminds me of my youth...

Romance or just jostling for position to admire the Royal Enfield???

Ken Hull leads Mario towards his first ride on a full sized motorcycle (I think).

I should have shot video.  The results -- Mario was ripping around the yard and then off down the alley.  Not sure I saw him return...

I'll end this group with "a good time was had by all..."

October 26 Moto Hang Party

Hot Italian sausage from Hogs Galore was on the menu today along with a host of other fine foods.  Ken is just beginning to get things going...

A lot of pictures, it's late, I'm tired, so I will just post them here.  Visit the Scooter in the Sticks Facebook page if you need to share or tag pictures.  I think that's how it works.

Strangeness and Murk

There's a full moon overhead and the plaintive sound of a worried dog drifts in the window along with the cool, damp air.  Something is happening as the world resigns itself to the coming of winter. Everywhere there are signs of the strangeness that seems to follow the murk.

Where has the light gone?

Historic Boalsburg absorbs the changing of the season and soon will be looking towards its Victorian celebration of Christmas.  Dead leaves are beginning to pile on the road offering unsuspecting riders a slippery surprise if they're not careful.

This Vespa parking space is just a couple hundred feet from Ken Hull's Moto Hang Lounge -- home of Pistons and Pints.

Halloween isn't far off and the artist's in State College, Pennsylvania seem to be embracing the chaos of the season.  Unfortunately, the model in this painting must have been riding without a helmet, something every rider should think hard about before pressing the starter button lest you look like part of the Halloween landscape.




Junior seems unfazed by the change in the earth's energy and whiles away his days eating, sleeping and chasing women when he can.  Border Collie's are fast but so are Belgian Sheepdogs.  Try as she might she just couldn't open any distance between herself and his ardent pursuit.  Junior's no dummy though -- he's hedged his bets by carrying a tennis ball on the chase should there be a change of plans.

Somehow, looking at this picture, I keep thinking of Jack Riepe...

Riding in the murk -- I have to admit that I love it.  The gray, dark, damp days where the sun struggles to be seen.  Even short rides can turn into gothic novels.  Mount Nittany, an icon of Penn State, remains a fascinating subject to me, not unlike the Vespa itself.  Not sure why, I just keeping running the camera in it's direction.

Trips to Saint's Cafe are far more satisfying when the world feels forbidding, when the fading light along forested roads reveal shadows of phantoms and ghosts and others of my twisting imagination.  As Gordon talks with another patron I could not help think of how the place could be a scene from Dark Shadows and at any moment Barnabas Collins would join us for tea.

The delusion flew as I realized Collins is a vampire and he wouldn't be joining us in the daylight.

Thankfully, I have a good dog to keep me safe and grounded lest the season sweep me deep into the eerie terrain of mystical stories where much seems possible.  And just as it was at 9 or 10, I loved this time of year when spooks and demons became as real as Superman and the Man from U.N.C.L.E.

And now, as then, my trusty dog stayed close to keep the bogeyman at bay...

Attitude Adjustment: Riding at the End of the Week

I needed to be out in the world, riding, or making photographs, I'm not sure which.  The mist cum rain shrouded the mountains in a dark gloom.  Seven miles from home, the gray ribbon of limestone and mud flows through stands of White Pine and hemlock, oak and ash trees creating a sensual canvas of sight and smell that I can't resist.  Triggering those senses serves to reset a mind and body drawn thin from a week of work.

My first visit to this part of Rothrock State Forest came over 40 years ago when I drove a Volkswagen Beetle along the roads I continue to prowl on the Vespa.  Thinking about the vehicles I have owned during my life I see a trend of spartan power and performance right up to the Honda Fit sitting in the driveway now.

The rain was light, just enough moisture to keep the camera wet and continually wiping the helmet visor with my glove.  When I traverse these kinds of roads, especially when wet, I find myself wishing I had more aggressive tires.  Too early for the Heidenau winter tires and too late to change out the summer ones.  Even so, I can safely manage the scooter from 25 to 40mph depending on the amount of loose gravel, washboard sections, mud or crown height.  Riding a scooter on wet gravel roads is a different piece of business from riding a motorcycle.

I suppose it's part of the mental attraction to a ride serving now purpose beyond hitting the reset switch in my brain and perhaps tease the lizard brain.

Central Pennsylvania is a beautiful place in the fall.  Riding through the woods I expected to see a black bear or two loping along the road or crossing in front of me.  I've seen it before on foot or in the car.

But nothing this evening, just a few deer and the odd squirrel.  It's cold enough now I don't worry about rattlesnakes as I tromp through the weeds and brush.  The deer tick is the only evil worth paying attention to at the moment.

The Vespa can go just about anywhere a motorcycle can.  Perhaps not as fast or with the same mechanical prowess, but it is a capable little machine.  At least until you encounter water.

I expected to see pools of water but hoped to avoid any flooded areas which I did.  But the low air intake on the scooter makes it a poor candidate for any sort of foolishness involving water or deep mud encounters.  Doesn't take much liquid or debris being sucked into the engine to cut a ride short.

Possibly permanently.

I make sure to avoid water where possible and to absolutely know how deep a murky flow is before attempting any riding heroics.

My hope for drama in the sky with fog in the valley were dashed as I looked east towards Detweiler Natural Area and the Seven Mountains beyond.  Not even an eagle soaring overhead or a screech owl to serenade me before turning towards home.

As the day began to fade my eyes adjusted for darting deer and the black bear I still hoped to see. I'm amazed at how well a ride continues to demonstrate a unique power to transform my attitude and outlook on life.

Sitting at home now thinking of other rides and what the next will bring.  Until then a cup of tea and thoughts of dinner will transform the world again...

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...

Searching for Autumn

Autumn is about to burst forth, leaves beginning to escape their captive positions in the trees.  First a few yellow and orange leaves on the road, a few more in the trees, and suddenly, as if a fuse was lit and a fiery palette of red, orange and yellow sweeps through the forest, across the mountains and then vanishes.

I took the Vespa for a ride in the mountains hoping to feel the change.  Like a kid on Christmas morning the anticipation builds, still after all these years, for natures pageant of color.

There is no doubt this season touches an uneasy place in me, a reflection of the cycle of life that seems more real each year.  I am a leaf still clinging to the tree.  Or so I think as the Vespa climbs through Rothrock Forest, a place so familiar and charged with memories of over 40 years of travel here, on foot, in cars, on skis, bicycles and now the Vespa.  At one point I asked to have my ashes spread near here when I die, on Little Flat, a vantage point that surveys the place I call home.

Autumn was still in the distance for now.  Days away then, almost here now.  Riding the Vespa along forest roads is always satisfying but especially now.  Running back down the mountain towards duty and responsibility I wished I could search longer.

Later in the day, while on a walk with Junior, I found more evidence of fall.  The bright sun erased any lingering uneasy feelings from the morning.  And soon the Vespa and I will plunge headlong into autumn and emerge into winter.

Perhaps autumn is merely practice, preparation for the real test ahead.

Always something to think about on a ride.

A Perfectly Ordinary Ride

Every route into town is familiar, intimate.  Mental notes on every jarring pothole and road seam, trees dropping walnuts and osage oranges, hiding places for police cars and intersections known for drivers running stops signs and traffic lights.  If you ride long enough.

Ride even longer and the characters along the road come to life as well.  Like this Belgian draft horse at Oak Hall Farm.  Trotting over each time I stop to take a picture -- a bit unnerving to have 2000 pounds of horse giving you the once over with only a few strands of wire between us. If we were properly introduced and the owner approved I would offer a slice of the Honeycrisp apple stowed in my topcase.  Few words exchanged between us aside from a soft, "Hey bud, why the long face?".

A moment more to consider the fog, make a few more images, and then off towards town and Saint's Cafe. A perfectly ordinary ride until I take a moment to look a little closer and say hello to a horse.

Fog offers one of the few reliable environments to experiences something too strange to believe.  Like seeing spirits or ghosts, aliens or Big Foot.  If there is magic in the world it will surely involve fog.

Imagination forges doorways in perception that allow imagination to burn forth and transform a perfectly ordinary ride into something special.

Off in the distance, at the foot of Mount Nittany, I can almost see a mountain lion cross the road and disappear into the forest.  Some believe they still prowl the Pennsylvania forests.  If they do then surely their existence will be confirmed on a foggy day.

Photographically speaking fog strips away much of the tonal and color experiences of life leaving behind form, shape, composition and the hint of something more beyond perception.  I've ridden past these gravel piles a hundred times, maybe a thousand.  And each time I stop and look I imagine something new, like a kid laying in the grass on a summer day looking at clouds and seeing giants.

The new front rack looks good in this dream on a perfectly ordinary ride.

Can't help but think of scenes from The Walking Dead.  Empty roads disappearing into the unknown. The story would be different in the sunshine, a different perfectly ordinary ride.

Sunday morning at Saint's Cafe in State College, Pennsylvania -- a destination for, by now, hundreds of perfectly ordinary rides to meet my friend Gordon, talk about photography, teaching and the work and world we construct.

The morning started with a whisper today, the world spinning up slowly giving me time to take it in.  As it was on the Vespa during a perfectly ordinary ride.

 Finished watching "Long Way Down" and thought about my own experience in light of that film.  Adventure lies close and circumstance dictates the rides I make.  That's ok.

I don't believe I've yet scratched the surface in terms of seeing and experiencing the world just outside my door. And that's why a perfectly ordinary ride is still so rich.

Tomorrow is the Very First Day of the Rest of Your Life

Stumbled across the opening scene from Then Came Bronson again and struck how it still resonates 44 years after seeing the pilot.  Can't help but think the writer mapped out a series of archetypal characteristics the would capture the imagination regardless of whether a person rides a motorcycle or not.

I want to say it has a universal appeal but it definitely was created with men in mind — a Mad Men styled world where the guy always gets the girl during or at the end of almost every adventure.  Can't remember ever having a conversation with a woman who pointed to Then Came Bronson as an important cultural event in their lives.

Listening to Bronson's brief exchange with the man in the hat at the intersection and riding off on a motorcycle to see the world was a powerful idea for me at 15.  It remains that way today.  And even though I ride a Vespa I can easily imagine myself on a Sportster.

Wonder what a 2013 version of this would be?  Ewan McGregor and Charley Booman's Long Way adventures have some things in common save for the absolute aloneness that Bronson can conjure.

Maybe it's time for another pilot.  I have some ideas...

Lion and Wildebeests

All Vespa riders experience it, moving through the world, minding your own business when suddenly you realize the Vespa frightens a big segment of the riding world.  Most of the BMW riders, some of the sportbike riders, and almost all the Harley-Davidson riders.

At a fuel stop I realized a large contingent were huddled on the far side of the lot awaiting my departure, like nervous Wildebeests waiting for the lion to leave the waterhole.

It's a sad statement on the riding world...

Learning to Ride, Choosing to Eat — The Unionville Cafe

My youngest daughter recently acquired her motorcycle license and the rights and privileges attendant to it — like having to invest in the global petrochemical cartel. Her Yamaha Vino sips fuel but the tank eventually wants more.

On the bright side, Aleta is experiencing the freedom a scooter can offer.  And the food.

Aleta joined Paul Ruby and I on a Saturday morning ritual — riding and eating.  Part of the lesson is becoming comfortable on the road whether by yourself, with a big motorcycle, or with other riders.  In this case Paul and I were probably the biggest challenge for her.

For a beginning rider one can't ask for more than what's available here.  Light traffic, reasonable road surfaces, and plenty of twists and turns to practice what you learn in and MSF course.

I suspect Aleta will attain character status on Scooter in the Sticks if she continues to ride.  I'll have to think about a name.  Flash doesn't seem quite right.  Neither does Twisty.  I suppose Aleta will suffice for now.

Upon arrival in Unionville, Pennsylvania — a 20 mile jaunt from home; just enough time to feel like you had a ride, eat, and get home to take on a day of chores.  Pretty good deal in my mind.

Paul and I have eaten breakfast here a few times but it was the first for Aleta.  Once she gets the hang of things I expect she'll be choosing the routes and eateries.  There are a lot of vegetarian cookbooks in her house.

Fearful about the future of my bacon and eggs lifestyle...