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.

Heat, Courage and the Jack Riepe Show

Note: Please accept my apologies for the decidedly untimely nature of this post. Circumstances beyond my control have me behind in my writing, riding and other creative enterprises. Hopefully this will be a welcome reminder of a summer fast evaporating and the real riding weather to come...

Staring at the concrete underbelly of the grandstand I was wondering if the ride to Bloomsburg to witness Jack Riepe was a good decision. The air was thick and the BMW rider sitting in front of me must have been one of the unfortunate souls who combined an all the gear, all the time philosophy with temperatures soaring near one hundred degrees and life in a little tent pitched on the scorched earth of the Bloomsburg Fair Grounds. With tears in my eyes, unprepared for the fragrance of a serious rider, I got up to explore other photographic vantage points.

Three hours earlier I met my friend Dan, a committed BMW rider, at the Pump Station in Boalsburg. We would be riding together to the BMW International Rally in Bloomsburg. At 6:30am I was already baking and feeling sheepish that I had abandoned my armored pants in favor of jeans for the ride. Dan has made the blood oath to always ride away fully clad and armored regardless of situation or circumstance.

Along the way we pick up two more travelers, Dave and Jeff, friends of Dan and also adherents of the German way of road life. Sixty miles down the road I sensed a tear in the BMW space-time continuum as the Vespa intruded on a host of German motorcycles. The heat was rising when I made this picture. Telltale fogging on the left side resulted when the wide lens which had been stored overnight in the cool, dry, environment at home fogged when exposed to the hot humid air. It wasn’t even 9am and the temperature was in the 90s. I had to remind myself of why I was out in weather that I normally avoid. One reason—The Jack Riepe Riepe Show. He better be good.

Dan, Dave and Jeff.  Real BMW riders. You could see these three faces along the Autobahn or in a small cafe in the Bavarian Alps.  Except for the Bellefonte baseball shirt.

Jack Riepe is the author of the Twisted Roads blog and monthly contributor to The BMW Owners News (Dan "forced" me to subscribe) with his column Jack the Riepe. Riepe was at the rally to expand the creative skill and consciousness of would be writers, bloggers and motorcycle adventurers from across the continent. To pass up the chance would be like passing up the chance to have a guitar lesson with Eric Clapton, photography advice from Ansel Adams, or a talk on writing from Hunter S. Thompson.

This was my first motorcycle rally. And maybe my last. While I could see the attraction for riders at this well organized event I generally move in the opposite direction of gatherings of more than five people. I found myself mumbling about the decision that had me standing in the heat.

Thankfully there was no line at the registration area as we moved through quickly and we were through and on our way towards the grandstand. Parking was available just a dozen yards from the door and I began to get nervous at the prospect of meeting the man himself.

Stumbling in about 15 minutes early I could see Riepe posing for pictures with who I later learned were some of his ex-wives. I thought they would be banned from attending but there must have been some sort of last minute reconciliation. Except for the Russian one who still must bear a grudge. As I walked towards this scene he must have recognized me and indicated his excitement at my arrival by elevating his middle finger to signify that I was number one in his book. He exudes kindness. Had I been a bit faster on the draw I could have recorded the moment with my camera.

I didn’t count heads but attendance had to be in the hundreds. Things were getting close and the roadies where frantically trying to get the computer to talk with the projector so we could view the performance that was about to occur. To make matters worse the sound system was not working either. Riepe waited patiently, his eyes sweeping from his notes, to his watch and across the gathering throng of riders and would be writers and bloggers gathered from across the globe. As the minutes ticked by the screen lit up with his presentation leaving the roadies to wrestle with the lack of audio. I saw Riepe’s jaw clench once, twice and then him rise in front of the audience and roar through the hall, “Can you hear me in the back!?”

In the heat, above the din of voices, the roar of fans exchanging stale air for hot, I suddenly realized he was going to address the crowd like a traveling evangelist in a tent on a hot Alabama night using only the power of his voice and the strength of his will.

The teutonic riding gods must have smiled at the scene because the microphone suddenly came to life, Riepe settled into a more comfortable posture, and the mass hypnotism began.

Falling into photographer mode I moved around the crowd to find intriguing vantage points and to try and keep myself insulated from the magnetic pull of the speaker. The gathered mass of faces followed his movements like a cobra charmed on the streets of Calcutta.

“Don’t give ride directions in a story!” boomed Riepe. Several times during the presentation I became nervous when I thought something I’d written would be used as an example. Stressing how boring a long list of routes and turns can be I was reminded of how often I see it done in magazines and on blogs. I’ve done it a few times myself.

No more.

Magazine editors are notoriously hard cases, skeptical of everything and assume everyone is trying to violate one of their fervently held laws (things they read in the Chicago Manual of Style. The AP Manual if they are heavy drinkers). Mary Baker, editor of the BMW MOA Owner News was right up front, smiling, laughing and acting in a manner that could have her editor card revoked in the wrong setting. I guess she was glad to hear Riepe charge would be writers with writing interesting first sentences and to have a little respect for readers. Weave an interesting story.

If you would like to learn more you can download Riepe's BMW Rally Handout.

After the presentation jack had one more trick up his sleeve. I don't like to apply the term "hair-brained" but this situation came close as Riepe introduced the "Twisted Roads Enforcer" helmet.

 As all good things come to an end so did the presentation. It took a long time for the crowd to filter out with everyone seeming to want a piece of Riepe. After the crowd filtered out, something that took a long time because everyone wanted a piece of Riepe, a few other bloggers and myself cornered him for lunch.

Writers have a voice, a persona projected from the page streamed to the minds of readers creating a real or imagined experience. It’s hard to know what’s real or what’s created, true or false. Maybe it doesn’t matter. Still, I’m always interested in the man behind the curtain. Especially this one, weaver of tales, silver tongued devil, who bridges the gulf between a mainstream column and a more jagged presentation on his blog.

The heat dogged everyone the entire day. Under a tent serving apple dumplings with ice cream, pulled pork sandwiches and bottles of icy water George, Richard, Jack and myself sat down to solve the problems of the motorcycle world and rationalize why we spend our time laboring over a blog. The discussion dissolved recognition of heat and sweat gave way to stories of people, places and rides to come. Our lunch together was worth the price of admission.

From left: Jack Riepe (Twisted Roads), Steve Williams (Scooter In The Sticks), Richard Machida (Richard's Page), and George Ferreira (Riding the USA).

Vanilla Riepe

Regular readers of Twisted Roads will be familiar with the battered baby seal, a legendary look so powerful that it reduced women to putty in his hands. Like a vampire glamoring a helpless human. Amidst the heat and humidity I asked for a demonstration. Riepe looked over at me and switched it on.

 Battered Baby Seal

Two waitresses working nearby cooed involuntarily, caught in the energy flow. They brought him free bottles of water and soda and more had he wished it.

After George and Richard departed Riepe and I continued to talk for a couple more hours. The MAC-PAC, machines, life, family, challenges, health, writing, and postulations on why we do what we do. Despite the temperature near 100F I was happy to be there.

Later in our conversation Riepe expressed concerns that his audience might not have been engaged with his presentation that morning. I’ve been to a lot of talks over the years and in this instance, the crowd was mesmerized. The message, the delivery and the performance were perfect.

No need to tell him that though.

Dan, Dave and Jeff were somewhere on the sprawling fairgrounds. Phone calls and text messages finally brought us together at the GIVI tent just before 4pm.

A BMW rally is a massive coming together of like-minded people, connected by style, culture and machines in a manner unimaginable to anyone not impassioned by something. Vendors of every possible real or imagined need wait patiently to sell their wares, plant the seeds of desire, do their part to support the civilization of BMW riders.

At the Wunderlich tent gazing at the mesmerizing display of finely machined parts and pieces to build a better motorcycle I wonder what I’m doing here. Everyone looked normal. No bikers or tattooed scooter riders. Nothing weird. Despite Dan’s best efforts to explain the strategy and meaning of the event I am left feeling like I’m at the mall.

I never go to the mall.

Still wanting to make an appearance at the Kissell Motorsports pig roast and eventually find the living room couch for a long nap I parted company with the guys and struck out to find my Vespa. I felt a little bad not spending time with the guys, especially Dave and Jeff who I had pretty much just met earlier in the day. Perhaps on another ride we can get better acquainted.

Hot isn’t the right word for that afternoon. Brutal, oppressive, deadly seems more appropriate. I stopped under a water sprinkler and thoroughly drenched myself and the scooter before departing. Sprinklers were everywhere to help people keep cool and out of the emergency room. The ambient temperature reading on the Vespa measuring the air just a foot from the pavement indicated 109F, the highest I’ve ever seen. I’d been advised to hydrate carefully, without a windshield the air would be eliminating body moisture quickly.

Eight miles down the road I’m bone dry, lips parched, teeth, gums and tongue dry. Heat strikes my face and chest like a convection oven with no airflow relief at 60 mph. During the 80 mile ride home I’ll stop four times to drink a 16 ounce bottle of water and pour another over my head.

The heat remained steady with the temperature readout rising to 114F on one stretch of black, newly paved stretch of asphalt. I began to wonder about my blood pressure when I stopped in a patch of shade for a drink. Later in the day, when I arrived at home, my pressure was 116/72. The heat didn’t seem to have much effect on pressure.

 I don't usually drink from roadside springs because they aren't tested and these days who knows what might be in the water.  But the heat allowed me to abandon my reservations and enjoy the icy cold water.

Other than a handful of riders close to the rally I only saw one other motorcycle when I stopped for more water in Centre Hall. I made this picture because I saw a dog driving a VW Jetta. Look closely, click on the image, you can see him in the distance. It was only the next day when I downloaded the images that I realized I captured the woman and bike in the picture. Her boyfriend had gone inside for a few bottles of water which he devotedly poured over her head and back. As hot as it was, you’ll never see me riding with so little protection.

Bob and Tom. (Serious riders-- Bob on a Goldwing and Tom on a BMW RT1200)

They had ridden from Bloomsburg to the pig roast at Kissell Motorsports. And that was after they rode from Seattle to Bloomsburg. Serious riders. We talked and when I asked how they knew about the pig roast they told me they read about it on Scooter in the Sticks. Turned out they had been reading for years. It’s always odd to meet people who actually read this stuff. Tom and Bob are intrepid riders and have had adventures I can only dream about for now.

It was a long day made longer by the withering heat. I’ve not fully recovered yet. Might explain the dearth of postings of late. Or maybe it’s all Jack Riepe’s fault that I’ve not written much. He set the bar so high in my head that I can never bring myself to hit the publish button on the half dozen pieces waiting to appear.

He should have talked more about courage. That’s what a writer needs.