The Road Devours All Concerns

With the Vespa parked across from the Cafe on the Park I sat outside in the cool air with a cup of tea and watched the world go by. Moments like these remind me why I ride alone. But they don't always come easy.

Checking the scooter over in the driveway this morning I had no idea where to go. I've not ridden much apart from my commute to work. Thinking about the road ahead made me anxious. Nervous. A soft melancholy flow squeezed me and my gut was whispering to stay home. Backpacker and author Colin Fletcher describes the feeling in "The Complete Walker". Something that happens to him before a backpacking trip the he refers to as "Fletcherititis". An unexplained and sudden onset of physical and emotional symptoms striving to keep him at home.

But the road devours all concerns.

The cafe is not on my mental riding stop list. Somehow I forget about it despite nothing but exceptional morning meals. This morning was no exception. I'll have to reprogram.

The ride home was like a kid wandering through the neighborhood after school. (Do parents actually let their kids still do that?) No road was too small, no track too difficult. My only goal was slow and empty.

Riding off the beaten path always reminds of things. This gravel road freshened thoughts of more aggressive Kenda K 761 tires to run this winter. They are more akin to those you see on a Honda Ruckus.

Cotton candy clouds and blue skies, riding along towards home, the tires, winter, and everything else faded. All that was left was the road...

Squirrels and Riders

We're the same at some level. Perhaps it’s the common DNA we share. Standing in the garden this morning while the dog patrolled the premises the 59-degree air triggered a reaction not dissimilar from those going through the heads of the squirrels racing overhead in the spruce trees. Or so I imagine.

Cold air means winter is coming. Time to prepare. I don’t gather acorns but do think about NikWax for my riding clothes to hold the foul weather from my tender boyish flesh. Locate electric gloves, wonder about the condition of the Vespa’s battery. That sort of thing. Winter riding sorts of things.

The ride to work on Monday morning beneath heavy, gray clouds reminded me of fall. And winter. A feeling in my gut manufactured by ancient genetic coding that once kept my ancestors alive. And I suppose it’s still working that way.

What troubles isn’t that I might be like a squirrel. What really bothers me is where did the summer go?

Balance: On the Road and in Life

Looking out over a quiet morning landscape reminds me of the possibility of balance. What it means and what it takes to achieve.

One of the reasons I ride so early in the morning is the world is still a simple place. Returning my father-in-law's Vespa ET4 on a 60 mile ride at dawn swept everything away but the balance of the moment.

Waiting at traffic lights I try to balance the scooter. Feet up at a dead stop I count the seconds before balance evaporates. One, two, three seconds and the Vespa begins to travel towards the pavement. A 350-pound scooter is easy to manage and keep upright. That's probably why I don't see Harley and Goldwing riders playing the same game. This practice has done wonders for my own slow speed balance. Not sure how others practice.

Balance. A simple word with many implications. More than the obvious riding needs to keep the rubber side down. Riding home from work in the ends of a heavy rain called for another form of balance as I worked to manage my position on the road, with other vehicles and water lying randomly in my path. Speed, lane position, my intentions, suspicion of others, everything working together in an intuitive balance that manages risk.

Inputs affecting balance seem endless. When the dance on the road becomes too frenetic an alternative is always available. Stop, slow down, take another route. As long as my brain doesn't interfere with my willingness to depart from a preconceived plan. Stubborn. Stupid.

Sitting this morning in the Boalsburg Griddle having breakfast I was struck by a sign from the Pennsylvania Liquor Control Board outlining their attempt to exert balance in the beer consumption arena. You can't walk out with more than 192 ounces of beer. The need to balance is everywhere.

On the road it is a model of simplicity compared to the choices faced everyday in living. At least for me. Choices are more varied, their impact subtle, gray, and uncertain. As are the motives. Little wonder the struggle for balance rages from eyes open in the morning until I drift into oblivion at night. During that time though is the real juice of living.

It's been almost a month since my last post. This one has been in my head simmering and blocking the way. Wrestling with balance at home, at work, it's held my attention. Letting these words finally spill out in my Moleskine journal has brought balance. All is right in my world and the road ahead is now clear...