The Doe

She raced into the right side of my peripheral vision, entering the plume of light cast by the headlight on a dark road, body churning, straining alongside the scooter. Breathing halted with a fierce intake of air, the animal moved closer as I realized my right hand had already begun throttling back, slowing the Vespa on the wet road.

It was a long day at work, one of those days when the mind leaps from one task to another, switching gears, changing realities so often that you just end feeling numb, stupid, living in a mental fog over which there seems no control. The desire to get on the scooter at 9pm was strong.

Rain fell in big, lazy drops, streaking the blackness ahead with white streaks in the beam of light. New heated gloves felt hot, a stark contrast from the cold wet air rushing under my helmet. Gingerly applying pressure to the rear brake,  the doe lunged left in front of me, her eyes wide as she fought to gain speed. For just an instant everything seemed like it moved in a slow motion performance.

I’ve been here before, riding at night in the rain ready to meet the deer of which the bright yellow signs give warning. A hundred times I’ve convinced myself that I’d be ready to manage the moment.

The Vespa slowed without sliding, the machine straight, tires rolling as the rear hooves lingered in the air then disappeared into the blackness. Breath quickly fogged the inside of the visor as I considered chance, luck, and fortune against experience and skill. A mile down the road I believed in magic and the sudden appearances of ghosts and other visitors, the knowledge quickening my excitement to be riding. Riding on my mind was clear, sharp and a strange feeling of satisfaction remained, as if I was tested and passed. Or perhaps it was nothing more than understanding that there is no test – just life.

Institutional Risk

I saw this video for Central Institute in Australia this morning. Recruiting students is serious business at educational institutions and the approach and manner in which this is done varies wildly. Central commissioned two former students to make a video that would speak to potential students. Time magazine calls it "perhaps the best technical school recruiting video ever.".

It's definitely different than anything I've seen in the recruiting world and I can't imagine the conversations with school officials that must have transpired to get it approved. Vomit, curse words, beer and death are topics not usually associated with schools trying to attract new students.

Risk. Is it part of success?

Vespa on a Sunny Day

The sun finally came out and if it weren't for the wind I could almost believe it was spring.  I'm tired of winter and riding has become a chore in itself of late.  So it was nice to wander around on the scooter, collect some mud under the fenders and just live under a blue sky while it lasts.  Still some snow and ice around in the shadows or on the mountains but nothing to worry about on the road save for the distracted drivers, whitetail deer, and copious amounts of gravel collected at every intersection or other place requiring turns.
.

I took the day off and caught myself thinking it was Saturday a few times since it's rare to be out in the middle of the day on the Vespa otherwise.  In a few more weeks it will be time to shed the winter tires and get back to the warm weather set up.  Won't be long until I'll see green in place of all the orange and brown.

Sky clouded up in the middle of the afternoon dropping me back into that gray, twilight world I've become accustomed to.  A last swing through town to pick up some chocolate at the Boalsburg Chocolate Company.  A fitting end to a relaxed day.

Planned to take Junior to the park to play ball but he was zonked out from an earlier outing.  I think the smart choice would be to recline on the couch and do nothing.  It is a vacation day after all.

Maybe tomorrow will be more productive.

Winter Riding Miscalculation

Fourteen degrees and windy this morning when Junior and I made our way up the street to play ball.  It was one of those mornings when even a dog pauses to consider the weather. I carefully inspected the street surface trying to differentiate how much loose dry snow on top of bare pavement was blowing around versus more tricky ice and adhering snow.

While Junior periodically chased the ball and then hunkered down in the snow I collected pertinent data and made a few riding calculations.

1.  It's cold.

2.  It's really cold.

3.  It's damn cold.

4.  The road is bad.

After careful consideration of all the facts I decided to drive the minivan into town for my 3 Prints Project meeting.

Or, 1+2+3+4=Honda Minivan.

As soon as I got on the main road I realized I had made a miscalculation. The roads weren't bad.  Almost dry in fact.  Though it still was cold.  I was glad I miscalculated.

When I looked at this picture I thought Gordon appeared to be hesitant to face the music inside Saint's Cafe.  He showed up with digital prints.  I showed up with no prints.  I can't be sure if I even want to make anymore prints.  We've been discussing a show but it all just makes me tired.  And I still have to fix the mixing valve in the darkroom.

Another Sunday morning sans riding.  I'm hoping for warmer weather.  I've grown weary of the winter struggle.  At least for today.

Pushing Asphalt, Pushing Steel

A morning ride several weeks ago -- pushing, pushing through air, through space, pushing, gritting, standing, riding through the chill air, spine straight, neck extended, seeking, reaching, grasping for the day.  Now, then, tomorrow.  The Vespa pushes the asphalt, slicing through space towards a destination.

At 65mph at 35F the air feels cold.  The Vespa provides little protection without a windshield or hand guards.  With heated gloves at home I am having the naked riding experience.  Armored against the cold as best I can it's always waiting, restlessly searching for an opening to make me uncomfortable.

Below an overpass on Interstate 99, boots scratching at frozen gravel, eyes scanning the lines of steel and concrete overhead, making a picture and postponing for a few moments having blood drained from my arm.  That's my first destination -- blood tests at the hospital.

Face raised towards the sun I stood for a long moment on a gravel lane leading from Mount Nittany Medical Center towards Beaver Stadium. An elastic bandage on my squeezed my left arm, holding in place a small square of gauze protecting a hole where a phlebotomist pushed a fine steel needle into a vein.  Thick, dark red liquid filled one glass vial then another as I provided evidence for my doctor to manage my psoriatic arthritis, monitor the chemicals in my body used to counter an aggressive immune system that's declared war on the body it's supposed to protect.

I feel like I'm in the middle.

People gather at the statue of Joe Paterno leaving cards and flowers and other tokens of recognition. His legacy is still unfolding, his grand experiment unique and probably never to be repeated.

Anywhere.

Another stop at the library bearing the Paterno name.  Not sure if any other large university had a coach who built a library.  After picking up a book more errands lay ahead.  The Vespa has proven itself over and over as a near perfect vehicle for my eclectic journeys.

Steam rises in small, turbulent swirls as I stare at the Starbucks on the table.  Watching, looking, remembering lazy summer days laying on a grassy field as white, cotton candy clouds passed overhead.  Alone with a cup of tea, a few moments to pause and think and just enjoy the moment.

Towards home, detoured once, twice, three times to extend the ride, expand the sights, and drink in the world.  Even the short trips like these, filled with duty and task, can be exquisite.  Fun.  Free.

For me at least.

One last stop at the Boalsburg Chocolate Company for a few confections to enjoy later with another cup of tea and then across the street to Bella di Vita, a small shop selling soap and other conveyances of fragrances. There's always something there that Kim will love -- this time a new Eau de toilette by Cote Bastides.

Seems an appropriate way to end a ride on an Italian Vespa.  I guess I won't ever graduate to a Harley...

Head Full of Briars

A groan of displeasure in response to the 8F displayed on my iPhone woke poor Junior.  That was a month ago but the memory is fresh.  Not because of any notable event during the ride to work.  It's memorable because of the frustration and anger that can be generated in the preparation for riding in cold weather and how that can affect the ride itself.

The first cue that something was wrong appeared as I was pulling on my Tourmaster Overpants and I realized I had forgotten to put long underwear on.  At 8F you need them.  So a trip back upstairs, take off my boots and pants, pull on the polypropylene underwear, pants back on, socks, boots, and trudge downstairs.

When it's really cold I use more layers.  On goes the sweater, then windbreaker, then jacket liner, and finally my First Gear Kilimanjaro IV riding jacket.  It's a tight fit in the arms due to the thickness of all the layers.  Wrestling, squirming, pushing the jacket on I then have to struggle to get the armor back into place and then zip and button up the jacket.  After pulling on the ski mask I pick the helmet up off the radiator where I've been toasting it and put it on, then reach for my electric gloves toasting as well.

And then I utter a frustrated single word.  I forgot to put the wires inside the jacket.  Grumbling and reciting some well worn mantras I finally get the wires in place, gloves on and push the scooter out into the driveway.  Almost ready to leave I realize I don't have my wallet, iPhone or keys which I took out of my pockets on the first pants change.

The toasty gloves and helmet are cold now.  I've not plugged in the gloves yet.  And I'll realize shortly they aren't working anyway.  And I realize I don't have my camera.  I don't ever ride without a camera.

So there the Vespa sits, in front of the house, nearly 20 minutes to get from the house to this position.  My head's in an angry spin -- it's full of briars.

In a hurry to get to work I didn't think to have breakfast or pack a lunch and was happy to stop at Subway to get both and warm my now frozen hands.  Stepping inside from 8F to 75F and high humidity meant -- you know -- instantly fogged and dripping glasses and helmet.

Then quiet, under-the-breath muttering and questioning the universe asking if I was wrong thinking riding was supposed to be fun.

Still managed to get to work early with one last look back at the scooter before heading to my office.  Or so I thought.  Once inside I realize my shoulder back is still in the topcase.  Back I go only to realize at the Vespa that the key is still in my riding pants -- back in my office.

At this point my frustration is mixing with thoughts about a story I have to edit and a proposal I'm working on.  It's just a damn ugly mental state, that head full of briars.

Eventually everything is as it should be but I realized not every trip is a magical mystery tour.  Some rides leave something to be desired. And often the challenge or frustration is worth pushing through.

Maybe that's a good thing.

A Gerbing Heated Gloves Night

Gerbing is as good as their word -- a brand new pair of leather, G3 heated gloves.  My old ones failed and they replaced them.  I'm a confirmed Gerbing rider.  And when I got home from work tonight I had to try them out during a trip into town.  While the Vespa was idling in the driveway I plugged the new gloves in and felt warmth almost instantly.  Really warm.  And the new gloves have heated palms.

I knew there would be some ice to experiment with nearby and I wanted to give the snow tires a little more testing in a controlled setting.  I'm always interested in what the limits of equipment are to factor into my own limitations.  As the temperature dropped to 27F I figured I better head into town.

You don't see boots are cars very often around here. Finding one on a Yamaha Vino scooter must be a first.  The fines for this rider have to be rough.

Walking down Beaver Avenue in State College, Pennsylvania I saw a poster of James Dean and Marilyn Monroe (I think) in the window of Uncle Eli's.  Couldn't resist taking a picture but it's the kind of vision I would expect on Twisted Roads rather than here.

I had been thinking about heated grips for the past few weeks while my dead electric gloves were in Tumwater.  But I can say without reservation that these new Gerbing heated gloves work so well that I won't be looking at anything else.

The Sartorialist

I didn't shoot this picture.  It appeared on the Sartorialist, a blog about fashion by Scott Schuman. Schuman is a photographer who writes and has a tremendous following in the fashion industry. Seen as one of the most influential men in fashion it's no wonder considering he measures visitors to his blog each month in the millions.

New York Magazine had a great story about the Sartorialist, Schuman and his blogger wife, Garance Dore.

His photography attracted me, his ability to see, approach and document an aspect of life that he's passionately connected to. Motorcycles and scooters make their way into his posts on ocassion and when I saw this one I thought it might be time to share.  One of my photographic goals is to make portraits of some of the riders I see on the road.  If I ever get around to doing it the Sartorialist will be something I try and emulate.

I admit feeling a bit ruffled and unkempt when I look at his photographs of people, found on the street, wearing what they wear. Not often making my way to Paris, New York or Milan, chances are you won't see me appear on The Sartorialist any time soon.

Still, it's worth a look.

Riding: Other Ways Home

I know, without a doubt, that my life would be more ordinary if my movement through the world was limited to the comfortable confines of a car.  A satisfied grin marked my face as I scrambled around in the gravel along a line of dumpsters. Looking out beyond the Vespa towards Tussey Ridge, sitting on the ground, I was happy.

When was the last time you sat on the ground by yourself?

At 57 years old I'm still curious and get excited by strange things I see. And maybe more excited that I actually see things.  And concerns for appearances and behavior are mostly in the past leaving me free to roll around on the ground in a yellow and black riding suit to take a picture regardless of who might see me.

Riding the Vespa changes things.  Changes what I see and do.  And for the better.  In a car, the commute to and from work is painfully ordinary, a trip from A to B on the shortest route, radio playing, mind wandering, arriving at a destination startled and wondering how I got there.

It's almost never that way on the Vespa.  I always know what happened. While riding I'm a man in full possession of my senses of sight, sound, smell, touch and taste.  It's good.  Life's richer on a Vespa.

Even amidst a village of dumpsters.

Frosty Morning

Frost on the car is a sign to be careful riding to work.  Clear blue skies can give a false sense of security when the temperature dips below freezing.  This morning it was 28F -- cold and presenting the chance of encountering slippery spots.  With enough salt residue remaining the only real concern is in places where water migrates across the road from springs, car washing or other sources.

The ride was uneventful and the temperature rose quickly.  Bright sun beating down on me and the road was a nice thing.

A frosty morning is far more tolerable than an icy morning.

Numb Hands

Looks like a nice morning but it's cold.  Vespa instrument cluster blinking 31F at me.  Mix choosing the wrong winter riding gloves with a false estimate of the temperature (Weather.com iPhone app still set to Baltimore) and you have numb hands.

I should have gone back home to get a different pair but instead muttered the time honored expression, "I'll be fine."

And things would have been fine if I'd not stopped to take pictures.  A few minutes of bare flesh on a cold camera is enough to cause problems for me.  By the second stop I had to warm my hands on the headlight before continuing. Two more warming events would unfold before getting to Saint's Cafe in State College, Pennsylvania.

A pleasant surprise to see another scooter parked across from Schlow Library, an unusual sighting for this kind of weather.  And it was nice to find the trip into town did not involve any ice or slippery stuff.  You always have to be on the lookout for the exceptions.

There was a downside for my fellow scooter traveler -- there is no overnight parking on the street in State College and I guess that includes the motorcycle spaces.  Looks as if the parking people came by three times to say "Get out".  Each of those pretty yellow envelopes costs $25 I hear.  That's six months of gas money for a scooter.

Arriving early allowed for a few quiet moments to take nourishment, read a bit about Joe Paterno, and jot down some notes for this post.  Sunday morning has developed into a ritual.

Gordon arrived a little later with prints of pictures his dog Laika shot.  That thing hanging from his shirt is a camera that attaches to a dog's collar.  Once activated it will take a picture every minute and can store up to 40 shots.  Very strange to imagine life from a dog's point of view.

Paul arrived halfway through the morning with his new Fuji X100 camera in tow.  It looks a bit like a Leica but that's where the comparison ends.  It's all digital after that.  Nice camera though but not the kind of thing I would want to haul around on the Vespa.  It's fixed wide-angle lens won't allow for the creation of the heroic Vespa pictures I imagine.  Need that telephoto lens...

Leaving the cafe near noon saw the temperature rise five degrees and with no stopping for pictures on the way home the numb hands were history.

Moral of the story:  When riding in cold, make sure you have the right gloves.

5 Reasons Not to Ride a Motorcycle or Scooter in the Winter

While this winter has been unseasonably mild it’s still cold when riding. A few weeks ago a ride into town was a bit dicey because of periodic remnants of snow and ice. It's frustrating to show up at the motorcycle parking space and find it full of salty snow and slush.

It left me wondering about riding in winter and the questions I field about being out in the cold. I claim no wisdom, just a few observations on why you should store your machine for the winter.

1. You’ll reek havoc on your brain.

Riding in winter means you have to deploy your intellect to manage a range of complex assessments of self, skill, road, traffic, weather, destination, route and more. If you believe riding is about freedom and nothing else then it might be best to stay behind (or beneath) the wheel. That way you can sustain your fantasy and keep your brain relaxed.

2. You’ll damage your ego.

In cold weather you ride alone. Tribes of riders to face the elements don’t exist. No one will care, admire or recognize your presence on the road. Those that do will think you’re nuts or an idiot, or that you have no friends. Any thoughts of heroic deeds in facing the cold will have to be yours alone. If you need recognition it might be wise to keep your ego intact, stay at home, and clean and polish the bike.

3. Weaknesses will surface.

Winter riding will expose the limits of your physical and psychological tolerance for cold. We all have them but not everyone knows what they are. Discovering that you can’t hack riding at 55F may be too much to bear if you’ve dreamed of trips at the freezing mark. Regardless, whether at 50, 30 or -10 degrees, you’ll find your limits. Make sure you are ready for the knowledge.

4. Grit, grime, and road filth will make you cry.

You may try to convince people that you can’t ride because the stuff on the road creates too big a hazard to ride, reducing traction and making turns especially dangerous. In your heart you know it’s bullshit and you really just don’t want to get your machine dirty. Riding in winter, at least in areas that use salt and grit, will turn your motorcycle or scooter into a nasty thing.

5. You’ll question your sanity.

If you get onto the road in the cold, allow your machine to get dirty, feel your fingers and toes grow numb, and fight to keep your visor clear, at some point in the process you’ll stop and ask, “Why am I doing this?”.

Standing at a mental crossroad -- one direction leads on to the secret nirvana of winter riding. The other to self doubt, disappointment, excuses and internal arguments that seek to soften the thoughts of failure. Stay at home and protect your sanity.

The Gathering Gloom

Dying light, the gathering gloom descending on the ride home from work.  Cold enough that my hands chill quickly when I handle the Canon G9 camera without gloves.  I can't quite get the camera to do what I want it to do with those thick winter Tourmaster gloves.

Stay just a bit late at work and the light disappears quickly, especially on an overcast day.  Riding is bright.  I find unexpected satisfaction in cutting through the grayness on a cold evening.  Riding is an affirmation of living.  It is a reminder of breath and sight and feeling.  It's so far from being behind the wheel I can't begin to describe the experience.

One last stop on the way home to scramble up the concrete beneath the overpass.  Standing with the camera I wonder if a passing police car will think "terrorist" as I photograph in my bumblebee riding suit.  More likely "idiot".

When I think of injuring myself during riding more often those thoughts arise as I am finding places to shoot a picture.

And on down the through the gathering gloom to home and hearth and a cup of tea.  Or two.

Riding in the Gray and Grit

Winter feels gray and gritty.  It shows on the soul and on the Vespa as the grime collects.  Piles of crushed limestone dot the landscape where road crews place material to add friction to the roads when it snows.  This morning on the way to work in the dim light I wondered where all the color went.

One stop to buy something to eat at lunchtime and make a picture of the local fuel depot.  I remember when I worked at an Arco station in high school with one gas island and two pumps.  We handed out Green Stamps, washed windshields and checked oil.  Can't quite understand how that was possible when I look at these modern installations and the number of vehicles guzzling gas.

On cold days, even ones with no snow and no threat of snow the parking lot doesn't have many two-wheeled commuters.  Just the intrepid Vespa riders braving the winter elements -- on this day a balmy 35F. Despite the gloom one thing shines through -- the grin engendered by the trip, the travel, the road.

Damn, I love it so.

Waiting for Junior

Junior knew this vet visit was different. I could see it in his eyes -- a nervous scanning of the office, maybe noticing the place was empty at the end of the day. Maybe he could feel the small injury that resulted from his exuberant reaction to my arrival at doggy daycare when he banged his head against something as he strained to communicate, “Daddy’s here!”. Sedation and stitches were in his future.

So I wait.

Waiting for Junior.

I picture him coming through the door, wobbly from drugs, drunken on shaky legs wondering if he’ll be able to jump into his crate in the back of the van or if I’ll have to heft his 81 pounds like a sack of potatoes. It’s been 30 minutes -- the vet said it wouldn’t take long to fix him, close the cut in his face just below his right eye.

On the counter is a picture of a man hugging a yellow lab. I know that look. I’m reminded of the intense, shimmering lives led by dogs that seem to sparkle past in an instant. I’ve had a lot of dogs.

Waiting for Junior.

A stuffed dog perched amidst pamphlets for pet insurance and memorial services provide no comfort. It’s dark outside. Just a little injury, a small mishap in a dog’s life. Still, I miss my boy.

The dark side of imagination works through unlikely scenarios. Still, sedation is never a minor activity. Or so I believe sitting alone in the waiting room.

Waiting for Junior.

A technician emerges, smiles, and tells me they’re almost done. The room brightens and I see Junior running through green fields leaping toward an orange rubber ball. I imagine giving him dinner later -- letting him lick the dregs of milk and cereal in the morning.

Waiting.

Waiting for Junior.

A large inflatable tick hangs from the ceiling over a display of healthy pet treats. The technician who took Junior steps into view, stops, and softly speaks, “Come on Junior. That’s a good boy.”
Junior walks slowly, struggling to keep his legs under him, moving uncertainly. His eyes find me and his gait increases as he heads home. His body touches my leg and he melts onto the floor, tired, disoriented, relaxed. I know everything will be ok. I am reminded again of the place dogs have lived in me.

Later I hear his breathing, soft and regular, at my feet. I read on his discharge papers, “Junior was a very good patient today”.

He slept well, worn low by the day.

In the morning I took a close look at his injury. Small, almost insignificant. And I almost wonder why I was so nervous.

My dog Junior.