Renewing a Dead Battery

Have you ever misplaced your car in a parking garage?

Last Tuesday evening I wandered through five floors before realizing I left my truck at the loading dock when I returned from an assignment around noon. With the flashers on. After five hours the battery wasn’t interested in starting the engine.

But that’s not the kind of battery I’m talking about. Creative batteries are the focus right now. Where the Vespa usually provides a reliable source of positive energy the last few weeks have found it coming up short. Rides to work on gray mornings have not worked their usual magic.

Crashing waves and 500 miles of space between my office and me usually have a powerful influence on creative energy but like the Vespa I found myself wrestling with my expectations – work, photography, writing and photography. At times I can hear myself whining.

A Yamaha Vino in suspended animation along Shore Road in Ogunquit.

Mental preoccupation has been active enough at times that I find myself choosing to leave the scooter in mothballs on some days rather than ride when I know I won’t be able to focus as well as I should on two wheels. Couple that with work requiring four wheels and things get messy.

Sitting along the shore for my last breakfast before returning home I wondered what direction Scooter in the Sticks should/would take. To this point it has been a meandering work not until the rides I love so much.

Maybe I’m thinking too much and riding too little.

Watching Kim use her camera in the fading light reminded me of how resistant I can be to situations I judge inadequate for photography. Or riding. Or pretty much anything. I wish I could work with a camera as freely as she can.

More piling on of expectations.

It’s raining hard in this picture made on Old Orchard Beach just south of Portland. My pants were soaked from rain running off my Gortex jacket. Kim is collecting shells washed up by a storm. My little digital camera gets soaked despite my best efforts to keep it safe inside a plastic bag. It’s good photography weather.

On the way back to the inn I stop to photograph the railway that passes just east of Kennebunkport. At home I discover Amtrak runs on these rails and if I was so inclined I could take a train from my house to Maine. An adventure for another day perhaps. For now, looking at these tracks makes me wonder what the future holds.

It will hold more riding, writing and pictures. Stops like this one to admire the changing leaves. Those might not always be the best method of renewing dead creative batteries but it probably can’t hurt. And typing these last few words makes me think the green light on the charger has just started blinking.

Riding When the Rest of the World Doesn't

A couple weeks ago I stopped on the way to work to put on an extra layer to keep the cold away from my tender flesh. Less than perfect weather does seem like a good reason to stop riding when minor fashion adjustments make flying down the road a pleasure. It must be too much of an adjustment for a lot of riders.

Here I am in Maine. Sustained winds of 25 knots are blowing in off the ocean with gusts up to 38 knots. That’s around 44 mph for non-nautical types. A fresh gale. Rain stings when it hits your face. It’s hard to walk. And you hope nothing comes flying off the beach in your direction.

Just like setting off on the Vespa when the temperature plummets I head out on the beach for a walk to Perkins Cove about a mile away. I have the right gear. There is a fine little café where I can get in out of the weather and have something hot to drink. Arriving in Perkins Cove, wet yet satisfied in the same manner when I return from a winter ride, I find the café closed. Everything is closed and aside from a few storm peepers inside their cars there isn’t a soul outside.

The experience gave me an excellent opportunity to justify and rationalize my riding (and walking) behavior. Standing on a promontory looking out past the waves I remembered sailing through similar weather just 30 miles off shore on my way to Peake’s Island, Maine.

Maybe it’s a good time to re-evaluate risk.

Dispatch from Maine

Apologies for not writing sooner. Amazing how a trip away from home can lead a person to abandon responsibility and work. From the Maine coast I have time to reflect on life and recharge my creative batteries with a bit of rest and relaxation. Two mornings ago I found myself on the beach waiting for the sun to appear over the Atlantic. My restless spirit is eased in the broad, open expanse of ocean. Or in the desert.

Ogunquit, Maine must be scooter friendly since the local parking enforcement people ride a Honda Ruckus. Nice big tires for travel in the sand. The search is on for scooter or motorcycle rentals for a scooter near the ocean experience.

Fido’s sad face interrupted an otherwise serene morning walk as I thought about my own poor dog back in Pennsylvania staying with a dog sitter. He must be sad since I’m gone and he worships the ground upon which I stride.

Kim has managed to return to the beach for an hour or so after a nine-year absence. Like me, she finds magic here.

More to come. Unless I just say the heck with it all, I’m on vacation.