After a long absence from the back of the Vespa is was good to be on the road again on a Saturday morning. Spring is sweeping through the valley and the scent of fresh turned earth filled the cool air. The chill from the ride was opposed by the fire to be riding again, the interconnected opposing forces of physical cold and psychic heat, a yin and yang experience. I didn't know it at the time but this philosophical opposition would raise it's head again later in the ride in a more dramatic and challenging fashion.
As the tempo of the work week slowly unwound the little details of life began to emerge. Or at least I noticed them. The lone tree in the middle of a field, that tree left behind to give a team of plow horses a place to rest under the noon day sun. On the Vespa, riding slowly through the countryside, I become more willing to stop and smell the roses.
The roads in Penns Valley meander through farms and villages; the emptiness at times allowing a fantasy of isolation and aloneness I usually associate with the West.
Millheim, Pennsylvania. Amish buggies are a familiar site here, especially on a Saturday morning. Watching this one pass serves as a reminder of the range of definitions of simple living. The goals I reach for seem complicated as I pointed the digital camera. But only for an instant -- I was in Millheim for breakfast and my first visit to the Inglebean Coffee House.
I feel as if I've stepped into a scene from an LL Bean catalog shoot as I make my way to a chair to eat and make some notes in my journal. For a moment a wave of nostalgic sadness sweeps over me as I realize that I grew up in a time when spaces like these were real and not replicas. Hunting camps, sportsman's clubs, places my father took me. Suddenly I feel old and at the same time alive, memories dancing like flames across a broad tapestry of experience.
A great place to pause the ride and have breakfast. While sitting in that room I knew with certainty that I would not be there without the Vespa. The ride -- the capital "R" ride -- brings forth an experience that would otherwise lay dormant within the plain monotony of an automobile.
Riding, it's like a dream.
Flying, that's what's it's like, riding along a sweep of asphalt through the forest. Onward, forward, ahead and beyond. It's good to be riding.
On the road again, the scooter running faster and smoother than I remember. Anything is possible as I turn off the main road to ride over the mountain. Not far from this spot the road turns to gravel and dirt and isn't maintained through the winter -- the promise of a more challenging ride on the Vespa.
And then, from the blue, the scooter stalls. Restart, ride a few hundred feet and the engine cuts out again. Not wanting to engage any mechanical issues alone on a mountain road I turn around and head for home.
Smart.
Minutes later something isn't right -- engine cuts out, restart, ride for a few moments and lose power. Repeat the sequence again. Each time the riding interval shortens until the scooter finally stops for good. A quick survey of the engine reveals the sparkplug wire has burnt off again where the wire meets the sparkplug boot. I know how to replace the wire but no extra on hand. The only course of action is to sit along the road, against a utility pole, and make the call.
So another kind of riding adventure began. I always wondered how the whole "broke down along the road" thing worked. Now I know. The scooter is with the dealer and I'll await the mechanic's verdict on what happens next. The yin and yang of riding. Strangely, I had fun throughout.
