Riding and Aging

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

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

The Senses of Riding

A dog may not reflect a connection to riding to the casual observer, the connoisseur of mechanical marvel, or the unwashed masses who see riders as fools with a death wishes as they talk on their cellphones.  My dog Junior, like my Vespa, bring me into the world, cause me to move forward, at this time of year through resistance and doubt only to emerge at the other end of a trip with a profound sense of satisfaction.  Like a dog, eyes, ears, nose, they're all turned on, alert and scanning the world.

The Vespa almost always comes after the dog.  Biology trumps engineering.

A ride to work, on an errand, or just an unplanned and aimless trip to no where in particular is much like he morning walk -- senses attuned to the world, sights to see, and that feeling of motion, flying in this instance, but motion both figuratively and literally.  It's a potent medicine.

And always there's arrivals.  A place, a sight, a location.  In cold weather I relish in an almost unnatural way the heat and steam of a cup of tea as no other drink has ever provoked.  And again, the senses are focused keen like a sharp knife on every sound and motion, sight and smell.  All lost on the non-rider?  How would I know?

There are the grand sights and the small ones.  When riding to work or on little journies from one task to the next a person takes things as they come.  Standing at a coffee shop counter I spy the tulips across the room in the window.  I'm certain, had I arrived in the van, my mind would be elsewhere and I'd never have seen them.

Thank you ride.

Joe Paterno: 1926 - 2012

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

The Paterno family released this statement shortly after his passing:

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Riding Interruption Due to Snow

A fresh snowfall overnight -- just four or five inches but enough for me to opt out of riding today.  I've ridden in this kind of situation before but only to prove I could or to test out my winter tires when I bought them.  With nothing to prove to myself the angels of my better nature reminded me of how greatly the speed differential is between four-wheeled vehicles and two-wheeled vehicles in snow.  Seems like every SUV owner feels they can drive even faster in snow because they have four-wheel drive.  And on a motorcycle or scooter, well, you know how slow you have to go in snow if you've tried it.

So I'll stay home and admire the landscape.

And walk Junior.  He and I did a trip to the park so he could tear around in the snow, seek out other dogs to play with, and try not to lose the ball in the snow.  Succeeded in every objective.

All that's left now is to lie on the couch and get fat...

Snow Equals Minivan

The view when I stepped out of my office last night.  Wasn't riding the Vespa then and not today either as another three inches of snow dropped overnight.  More forecast for tonight.

Putting on my mathematician's hat I've calculated that snow = minivan.  Or the more complex expression:  Oh well...

My Own Private Insanity

Riding in the winter is my own private insanity. I do it over and over again with the same results.

In more serious moments, like this evening, standing in the parking lot at work, looking at the darkening sky, wondering how dry the road would be, asking myself which route to take to minimize automotive pressure to rush and I'm left wondering (again) if I'm not being just a bit foolish.

This morning I almost left the Vespa in the garage; a quick look out the window revealed some dusting of snow from the previous night.  Walking through the driveway I realized how much ice might remain on untreated surfaces.  For those of you in warm climates read that surfaces without metal eating salt.

I don't remember the decision making process.  The 29F temperature didn't matter so I must have assumed (rightly) that the roads would be clear and remain so throughout the day.  What I didn't count on was being at work late and riding home in the dark.

Mental calculations are quick in the cold -- gear in place, road surface acceptable, traffic thinning, visibility good.  But there are things I forget. Aggravations at night, in the cold, with visor constantly fogging and the glare of headlights making it hard to assess the road ahead for deer, living or dead, chunks of firewood, on an unfortunate instance of ice, I asked myself again, "What the hell?"

With a smile.

The ride home was uneventful save for some beautiful instances of a landscape under a dying light.  And of course, there is always, every time, a rather potent feeling of accomplishment that doesn't show itself in warm air.

Is it worth the trouble, discomfort and risk?  Maybe only in my own private insanity.

Decision Making

A frosty beard on Junior should be a strong enough indication that the Vespa should stay in garage.  Still, I was running scenarios through my head from the time I woke up.  The Weather.com app indicated 13F and clear skies -- certainly not a show stopper.  Looking ahead the forecast showed ice and snow moving in around 6pm.  I've heard that story before only to find snow falling three hours early.

Thirty minutes of dog action chilled my body sufficiently that the luster of riding to work wore off.  All the ride variations and rationalizations were reduced to "I'm too cold to get on the Vespa."

Good thing too.  The little ice balls started falling around 4pm...

Gerbing Electric Gloves: A Pleasant Surprise

My electric gloves are dead.  They died a slow death over the past couple months but last week during an 8F morning ride I knew they were done.

My friend Paul gave them to me for Christmas in 2007 and in the subsequent four years they have seen a lot of use; probably more than most riders ever use them.  I wrote of that joy in a post titled 18F and Gerbing Electric Gloves. 

As I was preparing to toss them in the trash I decided to check to see if the heating elements could be repaired.  Or even easier a bad connector.  Being of sound mind I retrieved a little used multimeter from the toolbox and set to work to determine if something was wrong with the gloves themselves or the connector coming from the battery.

A strong arc on one of the probes indicated to me that I was getting power to the connector so I abandoned that line of research.

A quick continuity check on the gloves themselves indicated failures in both.  Checking for repair service on Gerbing's web site indicated a lifetime warranty on the heating elements.  A LIFETIME WARRANTY!

My sense of joy was dashed when I read that I would have needed to register the purchase four years earlier.

Shit -- I never register anything.  Still, I had to try.

An extremely pleasant voice answered the phone at Gerbing customer service.  I described the problem and asked about repair service since I knew I hadn't registered the gloves.  When the woman on the other end of the line said she would check in the database to see if I was registered I knew I was done.  A new Aerostich catalog had just arrived, maybe they have some new electric gloves.

"Steve Williams" I sheepishly responded when asked for my name.

"Gee, we have a lot of Steve Williams's in our database." she replied.  

Williams is a terrible name to have if you're trying to get a handgun or wade through registrations of any type.  The first because mostly we're criminals and second because there are so many of us.

"What state do you live in?" was her next question.  

When I answered she proceeded to recite my address, phone number, place of employment, blood type, sexual preference and favorite chocolate.  I looked out the window and thought I saw the sunrise.

"Holy shit," I thought. "I must have registered the gloves."  

Great news from Gerbing.  They gave me a return number and said they would either restore the gloves to their previous toasty state or replace them with a brand new pair.

A real surprise to someone who is always expecting to get ripped off at every turn by capitalists everywhere except for L.L. Bean and Walmart.  Always bring Vaseline to Best Buy.

So the gloves are now in Tumwater, Washington and I am roughing it with conventional gloves until they return.  So far the temperature hasn't dropped below 25F, easily managed for the comute to work.  But longer rides will have me on my knees praying at the muffler.

Still, I'm a happy camper.  I'm getting something for free!

Memory, Loss and the Power of Photography

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

This morning I read the following tweet by @timmoolmanphoto

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

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

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

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

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

A New Year, Another Ride, and Another 3 Prints Project Meeting

Downtown State College, Pennsylvania on New Year's Day.  The ice sculpture remnants from First Night glistening in the morning sun. The first day of the year was mild for the beginning of January.  Almost no snow so far this winter.  A nice way to begin 2012.  Riding, I was thinking about resolutions. About not making any.

Leica M6 in tow and a box of black & white prints on hand Gordon and I started the year with new prints.  Our 3 Prints Project agreement is to show up each week having exposed two rolls of film and three new prints.  It's a tough assignment amidst a busy life.

As part of my avoidance of making resolutions I was reading those of others.  Joe Crivelli, author of No Baffles motorcycle blog, had a good set of resolutions for riders titled New Year's Resolutions -- Motorcycle Related.  Good reminders for the road.

Mandoo is a regular at Starbucks.  He and Junior have met on several occasions and have a genial relationship.  Junior could learn a lot from Mandoo.  On command he will sing, or more specifically, utter a long lonely howl.  Seems like an important part of growing up canine.

On the subject of learning I can across a list of lessons learned during the past year written by Bobbi Newman, author of Librarian by Day.  Her list is a good reminder of some of the important things in life and is titled "Looking Back: The 5 Most Valuable Lessons I Learned (or Re-Learned) in 2011".

3 Prints Project: January 1, 2012

Last week on a morning walk through town.  Shadows and road markings always catch my attention.

Kim makes a lot of photographs with her digital camera with an intensity that I admire and wish I had.  She sees things I miss because I am hurrying on to the next subject.

The front window at Saint's.  People seem to get lost in things within those walls.

I'm carrying the Leica M6, there's a roll of film in my pocket, and have a few project ideas in my head.  A good start to a new year.  

Happy New Year!

Suffering and Joy

Sometimes, when desire meets reality, you come face to face with suffering.  Most recently it was unexpected physical discomfort related to the cold and my newly arthritic feet.  Out early yesterday with the temperature hovering around 20F should have been like a walk in the park.  Instead I was served a big bite of suffering.

Looking back I can see how my love of winter has decayed into a state of annoyed acceptance that it's a fact of life in central Pennsylvania.  This first cold ride of the season really surprised me and has me wondering how much cold I can tolerate.  A question every year round rider wrestles with at some point.

After an hour I planted myself in Starbucks to hold a paper cup full of hot chocolate in my hands, let my feet warm, and scribble a few notes on index cards about the challenges ahead.  I wrote "Suffering" at the top of the first card intending to post under that title.  But things have a way of changing.

The iPhone vibrated on the table displaying an image of my friend Gordon.  He and his wife Val bought their 14 year old son a .22 rifle for Christmas, a Ruger 10/22.  Nice gun.  And since he had never shot a gun before he asked if I could go with them to the local shooting range and get them started.  I remember the .22 rifle my father got for me around the same age and the joy I found going out with him to plink away at tin cans.  

Funny how warm some of my memories are related to weapons.

Last time I fired a gun at this range was in the early 1970s when a serendipitous encounter with gun dealer led to firing thousands of round of ammunition via an array of automatic weapons.  My first experience with a Thompson sub machine gun, M16, UZI, and an Ingram MAC-10 with a suppressor.  I learned two things.  Automatic weapons are fun to shoot.  Loading magazines isn't.  It's an interesting story that I'll share someday.

Gordon's son wasn't the only one surprised on Christmas morning.  Gordon's wife Val gave him a pair of riding gloves and some scooter brochures.  The meaning is obvious.  More joy at Christmas.

Went riding again today with no suffering.  Suppose there is a yin and yang to it all.  Didn't realize polar forces of opposite strength were at work in my riding life -- the suffering and the joy.

The Cold Weather Riding Frame of Mind

A morning drive, minivan, on the way to pick up my Vespa GTS.  But not until I pick up my daughter who's agreed to drive the van home.

Not until we have breakfast at the Corner Room in State College, Pennsylvania, a place I've been eating at for the past 40 years.  When I find something I like I stick with it.  Training for an upcoming half marathon accounts for her wet hair.  I don't understand running.

The scooter is home, safe in the driveway again.  The ride home was cold, 25F and windy.  Neglected to plug in the electric gloves and found myself warming my hands on the headlight at each traffic light.  Like the old days.  The pre-Gerbing gloves days.

Riding in the cold takes mental preparation that I've not done yet.  It's more than gear, it's a frame of mind that a rider has to place themselves in.  And right now it seems a far away place.

Left the scooter in the driveway thinking I would go for a ride later -- after I warmed up.  I've been warming up for hours and am no closer to a ride.  In another hour it will be dark and even colder.  Maybe a good night's sleep will help me enter the cold weather frame of mind.

Vespa Maintenance

My Vespa is nearly ready for the road again.  Snow tires mounted, drive-belt and rollers replaced, new spark plug, wire, and cap, oil and filter changed, everything ready to hit the road.  Aaron Grove, the technician at Kissell Motorsports who was working on the scooter, showed me the faulty plug and cap.  Somehow the threaded end of the plug stripped out and fused itself in the cap of the plug wire.  Not sure how it happened but with the new parts I should have another 30K kilometers of trouble free riding.

At least.

Aaron is a year round rider like me which meant he understood why my exhaust system was so heavily rusted.  You ride in the winter with salt on the road and things happen to metal.  He rides a vintage, (I think I can call it that) 1970s Honda CB400.  Raining hard outside he assured me that he would have ridden to work if the bike wasn't apart in his garage.  I'll have to keep my eye open for him this winter.

Most of the work was finished when I arrived but it was nice to watch a skilled craftsman work.  Aaron has a confident manner as he methodically moves through a task.  I watched him connect the battery leads and Battery Tender wires with a speed I can only dream about.  Not a single curse word to be heard.  That's probably just one of the differences between a professional and myself. 

Almost had me wishing I would take the time to reacquaint myself with the tools in my tool chest.  Someday.  Just not today.

Snow showers forecast for tomorrow with the temperature hovering near the freezing mark.  If all goes well I should be riding the Vespa late tomorrow morning.  It's about time I got back on the road.

I keep telling myself that but with a week off for the holidays I am getting pretty comfortable laying on the couch...

Searching for the Christmas Spirit

A week ago I borrowed a motorcycle from the selection of pre-owned machines of Kissell Motorsports --a 2005 BMW F650 GS. I’ll often find myself looking at their web site listings or trolling eBay for the quintessential deal. For a lot of riders a used motorcycle is the best route into the world of riding.  And during those rides I found myself thinking about Christmas.

Junior and I walked in the park this morning to the tolling of bells from a nearby church, announcing Christmas Day. Blue sky, bright sun and the temperature pushing forty degrees doesn’t feel like Christmas.

I’ve been thinking about Christmas all week, trying to bring to life those feelings I had as a kid when Santa Claus was real. Memories of candle light services on Christmas Eve singing Silent Night, the anticipation of presents under a tree seem to fade away a bit more every year. Charles Dickens wrote that Christmas can, “...win us back to the delusions of our childhood days, recall to the old man the pleasures of his youth, and transport the traveler back to his own fireside and quiet home.”. Maybe that’s what I was looking for.

Roaming the countryside on a motorcycle often fuels a flood of thinking. I found my thoughts leaning towards the past, to things that would not come again. Each stop along the road seemed to trigger a memory of Christmas time. Each memory bringing another, and another.

Looking at motorcycles (when you tend to obsess about them) isn’t a lot different than coveting a BB gun or some other must have item of childhood.  The evening I picked up the BMW was like that -- the proverbial kid in the candy store -- so many things to desire.

A festive red Ducati should feel like Christmas shouldn't it?

Or certainly a pink Vespa would conjure some sort of magic if only given a chance.  But maybe what the Grinch said is true: "Maybe Christmas, the Grinch thought, doesn't come from a store."

The pink Vespa will have to wait for another day along with the Triumph Tiger 800 XC and the flat screen TV I was thinking about.

The BMW F650 GS in its 2005 incarnation is a marvelously nimble motorcycle on the gravel roads that crisscross the central Pennsylvania forests. Aggressive knobby tires provide a surefooted ride at speeds I don’t normally attempt in these environs. The bike is completely comfortable from the start.

I felt like Charlie Brown. Christmas time is coming and I don’t feel the way I’m supposed to feel. Or at least that was what I was thinking. Riding through beautiful landscapes I can’t quite appreciate because I’m searching for the Christmas spirit. The little red-haired girl is waiting at home for me, my black dog too, and here I was along a creek, watching the cold, clear water sweep by and nothing. I’m blessed but don’t quite appreciate it.

The F650 GS leads me to the Pump Station Cafe in Boalsburg where I can appreciate a cup of tea and a scone, and the blessings of the motorcycle's heated grips when I take out my journal to write.  BMW has great heated grips.  They feel hot even through thick winter riding gloves.

I suppose there is no connection between riding and Christmas save for the incidental juxtaposition of machine and iconography.  But I did find that missing Christmas spirit.

Last night family and friends gathered on Christmas Eve, for fellowship and food, to spend time together and acknowledge what's special this time of year.  Maybe it just becomes more difficult to see past all the wrappings and tinsel to the meaning of Christmas, a time of transformation and forgiveness where, for a time, the world is a more gentle place.

Merry Christmas to all and best wishes for the holidays.

A Sunday Afternoon Ride

Despite the cold it was good to get out for a ride this afternoon.  I don't watch enough sunsets; my life can be filled with chores and tasks.  On this ride I stopped to smell the roses.

An hour earlier I stopped for another reason -- to search for a view of a local landmark.  I rode the 2005 BMW F650 GS I had on loan from Kissell Motorsports up a winding, muddy path through a small patch of woods and stopped as it led into an expansive hayfield.  Less than a minute after arriving the farmer who owned the property sped towards me on an ATV with a look of displeasure on his face.

After an apology for trespassing and explaining what I was doing we determined that I had photographed him before.  Back in 1984.  He said he still has the picture of he and his dog in his home.  Just one of the serendipitous moments on the road.

Later in the ride I crossed through land owned my Penn State as I searched for light sweeping out of the sky in what I like to call "God light" -- those instances when the light is drawn in beams from the heavens.  Never did find the right spot but was impressed by the performance of the BMW.  First bike I've ridden in years with real knobby tires.  Makes a world of difference in gravel.  And mud.

I've put some time on this bike and will post more about it later in the week.  A lot of good values in the pre-owned category with this being one of them.  Liked it a lot.

Junior is barking outside so I can't write more.  Tired and drained.  No stories or words left for today.  Just a few pleasant memories of a Sunday afternoon ride...

The Aging Rider

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

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

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

Great.

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

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

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

But I ignored it and pushed onwards in the rain.

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

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

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

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

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

The Death Equation.

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

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

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

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

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

...as an aging rider.

My Dead Vespa

It happened today -- pressed the starter on the Vespa but it would not start. First thought was an empty fuel tank but that couldn't be true; I monitor fuel closely.

With Kissell Motorsports a mile away and pressure mounting to get back to work I made the call. Fifteen minutes later the scooter was on the back of a truck headed to the shop.

Good fortune had my friend Paul and his girlfriend Mary just down the road.

In a few minutes Paul was inspecting the Vespa and quickly found the spark plug lead had come off the plug. Worse, the end of the plug had come off and was lodge in the plug boot.

So the Vespa will get a new plug along with the 30K kilometer maintenance . I'll be ready for winter.

I'm posting from my iPhone using an app I've never used before so I'm unsure where the picture of Paul and Mary will appear.

Paul is serious with his inspections.

Should have the Vespa back soon.

The Simple Night Ride

 

The past two evenings I've found myself on the road at night and with it a renewed appreciation of riding.  Many riders tell me they don't ride at night -- too dangerous, too cold, or no fun.  I read in riding books about the misguided riders who venture forth at night, in the rain, or in cold weather. 

Make no mistake; the risk of riding at night is greater than it is during the day.

This evening I was sitting at the traffic light at the corner of Allen Street and Beaver Avenue in State College, Pennsylvania looking at the Christmas lights when I turned off the engine and pushed the Vespa up onto the sidewalk to make this picture.  And to look a bit longer at the lights.  Just long enough to be on my way before finding out that there is a law against having the scooter posing for pictures on the sidewalk.

Off into the night, a changing pattern of color and light as I made my way home, a visual treat that just doesn't exist during the day.

 

The night before I rode to the grocery store for supplies -- empty streets and a quiet parking lot.  The night air was crisp but not cold at 42F.  What struck me most was the tapestry of fragrances arise from the darkness offering an experience unique to the night.

Riding home through the smell of charred meat at the steakhouse and on past gasoline fumes from a busy island of gas pumps.  Passing through a tony section of State College my helmet filled with the acrid smell of coal -- someone burning coal for some unfathomable reason in a neighborhood.  I remembered the same smell from childhood driving through less tony neighborhoods in Mckees Rocks and Coraopolis.

Passing into the sticks I was greeted by the unmistakable smell of fermenting liquid cow manure from a nearby dairy farm, the farmer no doubt adding or withdrawing from a lagoon and releasing a reminder of food production.

At some point I shuddered for a moment, just a bit of excitement from my senses being roused to life, realizing (again) at how powerful a ride can be.  Walking into the house, skin warm, eyes bright and a spring in my step I was sure a grin was painted on my face.  

All courtesy of a simple night ride.