St. Cloud Minnesota Scooterist

2011-12-26T07:10:00.000-08:00

A Christmas wish

I originally wrote this as a reply to Scooter in the Sticks. I can think of no better way to speak to you to share my wishes for whomever might still be reading here.

Merry Christmas to you!

I think back and remember easily how blessed I am. My parents were in Germany during the war. So Christmas was, as they said, what you were able to make of it. Aunts and uncles were seperated from the family and while I've talked to them, not much is really divulged. They look to today, to their children whose childhoods were memorable by those aunts and uncles' efforts. What I have, what my cousins have, is because the spirit of giving and the tenacious obsession to put us first is a gift beyond anything I could ever ask for. Because it is beyond my understanding to have been where they were.

For those who had virtually nothing given to them, know that what you have given of yourself when you could, is the strength which makes your loved ones grateful to have you in their lives.

Christmas is about the tenacity of spirit in spite of conditions. The near obsessive internal will to overcome, in spite of what logic seems to tell us. It is the natural condition of the human spirit which leads us to trust in something which doesn't necessarily make sense to us.

Christmas reminds us to have faith.

Harv

2011-09-19T08:36:00.000-07:00

The Does-It-All Motorcycle-ooter

Thirty years ago the average 150cc scooter could run along side cars because the speed limits were lower. Our highways averaged 55 mph speed limits. In my home state of Wisconsin the country roads were also 55 mph. While scooterists generally stayed off expressways, they were perfect for surface streets and country biways. And we often heard tales of scooter riders cruising lonely state highways far between major metropolitan centers. Long distance riders who, in our minds back then, were one step away from the two stroke 50cc moped riders who crossed vast tracts of land just to be able to say to themselves that it could be done. Deep down we were impressed with their daring. But people who rode scooters more than a hundred miles outside their home bases were considered slightly off. When the subject of an assumed long distance scooterist came up, we compared their machines to ours. Mainly for the comfort factor. How could they do it? Why would they? Misunderstood pariahs.

We failed to recognize the logical comparison. It wasn't anything special to hop on our semi restored late sixties to seventies Japanese standards and pull the same stunts. Loose groups of riding buddies whose RD400s, Harley Sprints, Suzuki singles and twins (we called em Sushi's back then), Yammies and the ever revered small displacement Hondas who went as far as time allowed. I rode a two stroke Kawi 250 Enduro myself in those days.

Then we stepped into early adulthood. Larger bikes replaced smaller bikes. Money could buy alot in those days. Or so it seemed. But it never failed to come up in conversation at some wide gravel shoulder. We always discussed the roads as we'd once ridden them. Close to full out, little engines working as hard as they could. Some of them sucking fuel and oil mix through themselves, trying to create enough power to keep up with the bikes ahead of them. Rpm's high and loud. The total rush of going fast on a "slow" bike.

Some of my friends graduated to the eight hundred cc and above class. Mostly cruisers. Even I opted for the vintage look with modern reliability. A Sportster which had finally graduated to belt final drive. Oh, and the wonderful new overdrive gear. You'd know it simply as fifth gear. Fast? No. Comfortable? Not too bad really. But to me that machine was the essence of the unadulterated motorcycle. I could live with its quirks. I still have it.

In the quest to gain market share, motorcycles have only grown over the years. To me they've stepped beyond logical to the point of becoming cartoonish. The backlash is that scooters have followed suit to some degree. Or so you might think, but bear with me here. I'm going to show you something.

The world motorcycle market has a share of buyers who are able to choose something we U.S. buyers cannot have new. The three hundred to five hundred cc class motorcycle. Last I checked you could still buy a brand new Honda CB 400cc in other countries. And the worst part? They are the natural progression of design we would want to see coming out of that historic past. But we can't have em. It's either a 250 road bike or a dual sport, as they're now called. Although the dualies do meet what I still think is the mid sized dispacement catagory we never should have lost here. But not a legit road bike with decent accessory choices for road use. I blame the bean counters.

Find a need, fill a need. It's a quote from a kids' movie called Robots. The character is a visionary named Big Weld. The whole premise of the story line is no matter who you are, (or what you're made of, considering this is a world of machines imbued with human characteristics) you can be the one with the solution to a problem.

Enter the return of the scooter.

Even though Honda never really let go of the scooter market, Honda also never created the same interest in their scooters as they had when they created the ubiquitous "You meet the nicest people on a Honda" catch phrase, back in the sixties. But another company was primed for the market. All it had to do was get it's product in front of consumers again.

First of all, the return of Vespa to the United States came at a time when gas prices were increasing. Parent company Piaggio banked on the market responding well to a sharp little machine with fine fuel mileage and whatever-that-French-phrase-is-which-connotes upscale cool... And they made it automatic. People who'd never ridden suddenly had a reason to find out what made motorized two wheeling so great. They could skip the whole learning to shift shenanigans altogether! It happened slowly, but it caught on.

From the air cooled 150cc ET, evolved the LX. From there, Vespa begat the liquid cooled GT 200. A legitimately tourable scooter. One which could keep up with expressway traffic without being swallowed by SUV's and busses. Before long the 200cc grew to a 250cc and became fuel injected. Now we have the The Vespa GTS 300ie. And with it, parent company Piaggio has added larger wheeled scooters using the same engines carried within the retro Vespa line. Look at the Aprilia scooters some time. They're everything good you remember from the seventies era "mid" displacement motorcycles and they include even more. No bungy cord necessary. There's storage under the seat. There are rear luggage racks. And rack mounted trunks ar available. Windshields too. Best of all, these new scooters retain what made the earliest Vespas so right when they were introduced to Italy on their debut. Legshields and floorboards. In other words, weather protection. Something those venerable small to mid displacement motorcycles of our past never had.

I've always been a believer in the idea that you cannot really instill confidence in a new rider if you teach them to ride on something they don't initially feel confident riding. And I mean before they get some training. If a person doesn't look down at what they're on and say, out loud, "You sure this thing isn't too small???" then maybe the instinct they need to have in an emergency may not be their first reaction. I'll go so far as to say the moment of emergency will be overshadowed by hesitation. One deer or loose dog. A veering car. The rider has to be so confident on the machine that he or she acts before thumbing through the mental rolodex for the right response. From lane position to seating position and hold. You just can't wrestle a bike which takes you for the ride rather than the other way around. Your confidence has to be in your ability to throw the bike any way you need to in an oncoming possible emergency. In other words, you have to prevent the emergency before it becomes one.

Is the scooter the better small to mid displacement motorcycle?

Yup.

Harv

2011-09-02T22:02:00.000-07:00

Check, check, check, Uh oh...

The time had come to replace another rear tire. I'd hit the wear marker. Part of me wanted to click over another thousand mile marker before the change. But the better part of me decided against it.

I'd ridden locally for the last several rides. Inching closer to the mileage marker I wanted to reach. What could it hurt, I thought, to go a little further. There's tread depth beyond that point. And I thought about friends who'd literally ride a tire with threads showing. I also realized they were nuts. Even back in those days.

It took a discussion with a friend I'd just ridden with the other day to remind me of part of the code of Keith Code. He told me a story he'd read about how Mr. Code described the one similarity of all the crashed bikes Code had seen in bike junkyards. They all had severely worn tires. Well beyond the wear markers.

I thought about a certain safety instructor who would kick my ass if I were to fail to follow the most basic and common sense of rules; Only ride a bike which is safe to ride.

So with the shadow of Irondad beside me I set to the task of tearing Kythera down to replace the rear skin. I began by taking off the exhaust. On the Vespa LX150, you don't have a choice. The can is too close to the tire, even though it's a single sided swing arm. You have to screw open the little door at the front and below the seat. Then you spend a little time trying to get the right angle to remove the nuts holding the exhaust in place. Then you move to the side of the bike where the can is and unscrew the two allen head bolts before you can begin with the tire removal itself. And since the bike was partly apart anyway I took the time to change the fluids and such. Everything went extremely well. Transmission fluid, check. Oil and filter change, check. New spark plug, check.

So I started the bike.

In no time at all I remembered the one thing I'd forgotten to do. Put the damn exhaust back on.

There's moment of bewiderment when you hear the cacophony of blatting. Followed by the fastest shut-off of the machine you ever accomplished. And you'll probably hit the kill switch before you'll look for the key as I did. Then I swore. I used the appropiate four letter S word. And the exhaust went back without too much trouble.

A spin around the block and a call to a friend led to a nice evening ride. The bike really did feel like it functioned better. Probably the new spark.

That scooter does bring a smile to my face.

Harv

2011-08-08T22:15:00.000-07:00

She Told Me To

Virtually the entire United States has been under some weird weather pattern which brought heat and humidity over us all. For months. In spades. This same weather pattern also drenched the upper midwest in rain. The upside to all this rain is it benfits the region's farmers. While they've had a late start to their planting season, the strong growth portends high yields come this fall. Although many farmers have suffered storm damage, those storms seem to have been somewhat localized. Overall, most of Minnesota has had a good growing season thus far.

How does this matter to the Roadbum, you might wonder.

A few years ago I bought a chunk of farmland which I rent out to a local farmer. The property is about twenty odd miles from my house in town. It's a favorite loop of mine for short scooter jaunts. Lots of twisty roads to choose from to get there and back. And a myriad of quiet midwest country roads going nowhere in particular that branch out from there.

Because I'm sort of invested in how my own crops are doing, I'll notice certain fields on the way. I'll take account of how well the beans and the corn are growing.    Passing by herds of cattle grazing in the sun and noticing how they and the fields they're in, look.

For the majority of the spring and on through the summer, I haven't been riding as I have in years past. Family schedules and weather kept me off those rides.

And about those rains...

It wouldn't be an issue if rain was just rain. Even hard rain is a kind of challenge to me. I once rode nearly five hundred miles straight in torrential downpours so hard that my buddy and I decided we would only stop to gas up. Every overpass on the expressways had cars pulling under them. Were we to be under one of those overpasses and a driver looking for safety pulled up, they could easily plough right over those bikes without seeing them. We were on two black Harleys and riding in pitch black storms up I94 from Racine Wisconsin to Long Prairie Minnesota. Fifty degrees. My boots were full of water. It was like putting your feet into two large and really cold mason jars and just keeping them there. Water had soaked up the back of the inside of my helmet to the point the interior fabric absorbed it over the entire internal circumference. I had ridden numb from somewhere just east of Madison to the rains letting up a few miles from my future inlaws' home. So rains don't generally bother me. And I've learned to prepare much better for them since then.

No, the rains which bear fifty mile an hour winds and sometimes hail were the norm here in the upper midwest this spring and summer. Broken trees, damaged roofs, that sort of thing.    Always the weather channel warnings. You get older, you start to take those things seriously.

Yesterday my wife and I talked about what we would be doing today. She was going to pick up the kids from her parents and mentioned that I hadn't been riding in a long time. That this would be a great opportunity to make that time. You know, sometimes you just can't argue with your wife. She left, I hit the road.  And I got myself a little lost too.

I headed out to see the land. Then to Joe's to see how he's been. We spoke of the fields, the yields, and his cattle.  His kids, my kids and our wives. Then I left and rode up the west river road along the Mississippi.

I don't know how it is in most places, but here in central Minnesota, when you're this far up, the Mississippi is just the biggest local river.  Homes are sparse along this stretch. A winding road lazily takes you to a small city called Little Falls. Home of Charles Lindbergh and the state park named after him. I rode past the park and took an interesting looking but unfamiliar road west. Once in a while a sign would off some general indication where I was. My heading from there was south. More or less.

Somehow I manged to find Holdingford. And then Avon. I know a little route back from there which has some good winding roads so I took it. The Vespa running as well as it ever has.

It's good to listen to your wife.

TR

2011-07-20T09:48:00.000-07:00

If It Ain't One thing...

Some of you have been wondering where I've been. Surely there have been some opportunities to ride since the spring. There have, but they haven't been worthy of posting material. Short jaunts to scratch the itch but not much more.

When it comes to the second half of the phrase this post is titled, its another.

Oppressive heat makes riding an air cooled anything a lot less fun than sitting in an air conditioned car. I just don't do extreme heat well. The heat index has broken records, even in Minnesota. That makes riding somewhat dangerous for some of us.

When you're cold, you can find ways to warm up. But when you're overheating, you could actually reach a state some refer to as cooking one's brain.

I didn't think such a thing was possible. But I found out what it meant during the two weeks I spent in Vegas at the end of June. I found out first hand what it means when you begin to get so warm your body can't expell the heat fast enough. How easy it is to run out of water (not to mention just how much you raally need between 100 and 110 degrees).

Up to this stage in my life, cold temps, as in Minnesocold temps, haven't bothered me all that much. So imagine the relief I was expecting upon my return to the upper midwest.

And then we get this sweltering heat blast. Vegas temps with sauna liquidy thick air. Even the insects look tired as they fly by on days like these. Around here two wheel enthusiasts tend to wait until the sun goes down and temps drop back into the eighties. Then you hear a lonesome bike somewhere off in the distance. And you wonder if you could bear the heat thrown off the engine for long enough to make the ride worthwhile.

There's no getting around it. A rider has to know he or she cannot overlook the safety factor of what kind of heat can really be tolerated. Hot wind coming through the vents, hot wind blowing across us, unbelievably hot air radiating back from the engine.

I know what I can stand. My personal limitations. I'm pretty aware of the line which seperates suffering the heat just to ride versus enjoying the ride. Suffering the heat only serves to put me outside the frame of mind I need to be in when riding and that isn't safe.

It'll cool soon. I'm really looking forward to it.

Harv

2011-05-17T06:46:00.000-07:00

Spring Finally Arrives

It's been a seemingly endless winter here. Spring lagged well behind any calendar scheduled arrival and family obligations meant more dust would settle upon the Vespa before I had the opportunity to ride old Kythera once again.

One fine evening I mentioned how nice our weather had finally gotten and my wife asked me if I'd been riding anything at all yet this season. I said I hadn't, and she asked why?

"Because there are lots of things to get done around here. Kinda take priority, you know?"

"Those things will still be here when you get back," she remarked. "Go ride. Go take some time. I'll be fine with the kids."

So I did. I rolled the scooter into the center of the garage and set about the preliminaries. Then, for some reason I'm not sure of myself, I gave a step through on the kick start.

Anyone whose owned a modern Vespa knows their kick starts can be temperamental at best and non compliant the rest of the time. So I don't know why I even thought she'd fire up. But she did. One step through and a slightly harder push the second time caught spark. I couldn't believe it. I stood there and listened to that little LX's engine percolate until it settled into a warmed idle.

I buzzed all over the city and its outskirts. Wider and wider circumferances until I was beyond the street lamps and traffic. The sun was just about ready to bed for the night. Summer clouds accumulated on the western horizon, bunched pillowy between it and the edge of the world. Just the hint of coolness in the air.

To the spirit who rides, the bane of winter's ice and salt and sand is only broken in the succor of first rides like these.

Each lean brought more confidence. Looking further out through the turn. Lane placement and remembering how to ride fast without being dangerous slipped back into consciousness. That grinning-too-long-inside-the-helmet feeling kept coming back.

By the time I rolled up the driveway I felt... lighter. Revived. A few hours of supplication to body and spirit in a way no bottle could ever match in redemption. Never mind pouring courage until you get half way past the label. Just to get up the nerve to chase the sylphs before you head home in a stupor. I've seen married guys do it. I've seen them argue with the local gendarmes too.

Just give me two wheels and fuel. You won't hear me complain.

Harv

2011-04-01T06:37:00.000-07:00

Where Does the Winter (time) Go?

Wherever that happens to be, apparently Old Man Winter has decided to stay well past his welcome this year.

I haven't been reading or paying much attention to anything involving riding lately. It just isn't in anyone's best interest to read posts by a guy who longs for more than a calendar spring. Just about the time the snows are mere piles where the white stuff has been shovelled or blown, another front moves through, coating the roads with sheets of ice. And then the plows. Blades up but dropping salt by the ton.

My neighbor Adrian has a 'Guzzi Bistro or Viso... Gristo? It's one of those machines you cannot help but love. And Adrian's kids are long out of school. Mine aren't. The few nice days I've seen him warming his machine have been days when my kids were home.

Not that I would choose a life different than the one I have. A bird in the hand and all that... Yet I can't help but wonder how the odds are so perfectly aligned to match those needle-in-a-haystack nice days with everything but free time to ride.

It's come to this; large carboard containers (which should have gone in the recycling bin months ago) are purposely set to block the view of the three two wheelers. Just to avoid that slight pain in my chest when I see them and wonder why we stay in this clime.

Winter's gasps are prolonged this time around. You just can't change the sun or the earth's orbit. We get what we get. But our way to combat ordinary weather is to drop tonnages of salt and sand so that the four wheelers (bless their cell phone implanted drivers' hearts) don't lose control because they're just moving too quickly for conditions.

The Ides of March have come and gone. The big bright orb in the sky burns away more of the cold wisps of winter each day. It rides higher and longer, fighting the eons old crank who sets upon us with each tilting of this vernal jousting match. Sorry but to me this part of spring always seems like a battle between time and balance. And if you're patient, balance seems to return in the end. It's just a matter of time.

So... in the immortal words of Carl Spackler, "I got that goin' for me".

Harv

2010-12-01T08:47:00.000-08:00

Mistresses From the Past and How To Keep Them (and still have a happy marriage)

If I've heard it once I've heard it a thousand times. Once you marry, forget holding onto the majority of the things you loved to do before you walked down the isle to dedicate yourself to another.

Isn't it always like that? You find a girl and after a while you turn back to look at who you were. You realize you've changed. Not quickly, but you made incremental decisions you would not have made were you still single. The road still calls to you when you see a lone motorcycle cruising the opposite way down a country road. But you're on your way to shop for curtains. With your wife and kids. In a vehicle intended for carrying capacity and safety.

If you're lucky there's still a two wheeler stuffed somewhere in the garage. It's behind the kids' toys but it's still there. Maybe your wife hints about what the money from its sale could buy for the house. Don't blame her though. You were the one who got down on one knee, remember?

Maybe the mistress(es) were a collection of musical instruments you plotted and saved to acquire over years of playing with garage bands who were at the cusp of "making it".  If they just would have taken managing themselves more seriously. A '62 Strat.. A priceless Les Paul.. Or if you're like me, you stumbled on great old saxes which cost quite a bit to restore to playing condition but sound nothing like the modern horns on the market today. Maybe, like me, you craved a vintage Selmer MK VI alto but the four to six thousand dollar price tag kept you at bay. And your sax tech kept reminding you people came to hear what you could do and didn't care about the nuances of sound attributed to the name and model inscribed upon the bell. But a King Super 20.. a singular sound recognizeable to other sax players would still be the holy grail. How much carpet and tile could the price of that rarity afford, asks your loving wife. Wouldn't you prefer a nice modern flat screen television with all its clarity? It would cost thousands less and everyone in the family could enjoy it. The little white angel on your right shoulder reminds you not to say what you're thinking; that screen clarity doesn't make the shows they produce any better.

Marriage is comprised of compromises. But they don't have to cut away the things which make you who you were when she first met you. It's important to remember who she was in those early days of your lives together too. If you think back, you'll realize she's given up alot to make this marriage thing work. She deserves your gratitude. She deserves your undivided attention when she's got something to say. Give her the space to recall who she is. To do the things she's always loved but put aside for the sake of the family. Put aside for the sake of your kids.   You aren't the only one who feels the effects of sacrifice.

It isn't enough to simply acknowlege the distances she's gone for you and the family. You've got to put it into action. And frankly, wives really don't ask much of us, comparatively speaking. Think about when you lived the single lifestyle. No one around to help with all the duties in running a household.

You didn't marry the maid.  Maids can quit employment. And wives can find more attentive significant others.   Then what'll you have? Suddenly that single life just isn't as appealing as it seemed in the rose colored memories you conveniently mentally edited. The married life has its share of jewels to be enjoyed and appreciated. Why else would you trade the old life for this one, then?

Because you knew it then and you know it now. You're not one of those guys who can thrive on the single life. I give those guys credit. That life takes its own patience and strength.

But the married guy has the hardest time being single again. He can forget how much he depends upon his spouse. And that's about the time he begins to lose sight of her needs. It's also about the time she begins to remind him how much power she can wield.

There's an old saying about about how she has the power to keep him from "it" in the bedroom. But you know, that's only half the story. Because if he's not getting any, neither is she. So nobody's happy. The problem is what we think started in the bedroom, started long before then. In the kitchen. In the closet where the vacuum cleaner is. In the flower shop (the cheapest and one of the most effective ways to a woman's heart there is) and at the dinner table where we should have been listening all along.

Don't lose who you are by forgetting who she is.

Look, a yield sign.
Now check your mirrors.

Harv

2010-11-02T09:44:00.000-07:00

Vespa Bianchi?

If you're into riding there's a strong chance you're into.. riding anything you can with two wheels. The motorcycle bug was birthed out of the bicycle bug. Of course, the bicycle bug was the first taste of freedom most children experience. And who can't remember thinking, if only this thing propelled itself?

Somewhere in storage is a Schwinn Stingray. Around a '72 vintage. Red, banana seat, original ape hangers. Prett bike, actually. It was followed by an national anniversary paint schemed Free Spirit from an earlier generation of big box stores, Sears. I don't have mine in my physical possession but I can tell you exactly where it is. Hanging in my best friend's parents' garage. It's um, been slightly altered. The taped on pattern has been removed, revealing a beautiful red to blue blending color scheme. The old frame is still intact and from what I've seen, the old chromed rims are not rusted. Catastrophic failure be damned, it'll have to be the fading brakes which will fail me and send me beyond where I'd hope to go, er, stop.

Then came the Univega. A flashy red sportscar of a road bike. Impressive geometry and my first experience with friction shifting. I'd loved it. And like a fool I would let it pass from my hands. A Giant brand road bike took its place. A stiff aluminum frame with a carbon fork and more gears than necessary. But a five mile per hour tailwind could coast that thing on level ground. I have it, but with young children it didn't take long to want a bike which better fit the needs of family oriented rides. About this time I even won another Giant. A mountain bike which...well, how to say this... the model name of the machine is Boulder. I kid you not. And it rides like one. I felt like B.C. from the comics. Riding my Giant Boulder. My son gets that one in a few years. Definitely.

Enter the Raleigh Superbe, circa 1972. It's green. They're all green. I heard or read they came in other colors but I don't believe them. This one made it all the way to central Minnesota by way of the shop closest to my childhood home. Imagine that! Original leather Brooks saddle, frame mounted pump, in-hub generator with functioning head and tail lights. It isn't retro, it's the real thing.

But you're waiting for the bike to which our title is ascribed.

Ever heard of a frame design known as a mixte? It's supposed to be a unisex frame design from Europe. Where the top of the diamond frame attaches at the handlebars seems usual enough. Except that instead of making a horizontal line to the seat post, the bars (there are two of them) are lugged in the front, at the handlebars, and pass on either side of the frame, bisecting the seat tube and ending at the rear sprocket. Great design strengthwise. Often considered a ladies bike stateside. Most often found at garage sales and flea markets although a resurgance of the design is making a comeback. Trek has recently released a mixte framed model called the Belleville. Only that one comes with the new price smell. My VespaBianchi mixte came with the much less pricy forty dollar aroma. You might be familiar with that one if you've ever seriously considered yard sale bikes. And don't knock em, some of the neatest old machines can be had for little money. Machines in barely used condition, often with high end aftermarket parts bolted replacing the originals. Or, as my crazy Vespa linked find, with about as much use showing as one would expect of a bike moved around the back of a garage since, what the late seventies or early eighties.

Did Piaggio own Bianchi for a time? I don't know. I've seen all of two bikes identical to mine on the vast resourse of the internet. And virtually no back story. The Craigslist ad merely called it an Astrale. I only discovered it to be a Bianchi when I got there. I didn't need to think about whether or not to buy [it] when I saw the Piaggio symbols and the Vespa/Bianchi one piece decal down the seat tube. And this one is definitely a deeper darker shade of Bianchi blue than the Bianchis I've seen.

All I can say is, I couldn't pass up a bike with obviously factory applied decals somehow connecting it to one of the icon brands of all scooterdom.

C'est La Vespa

Harv

2010-09-07T15:15:00.000-07:00

Choices

You can wake up in the morning with a list of things you need to do and want to do. And then Life comes in, taking precedence over everything you set forth to do. This was my lot since the early spring.

I'm not complaining, don't get me wrong. As the title of this post clearly states, these are some of the choices one must make because, well, that's just how life goes sometimes.

My kids are still young. Seven year old twins. A he and a she. And they will involve me in every detail of their lives. I call that a blessing. I'll take it while it lasts. And while riding is one of the great joys in my life, kids are a dynamic experience which always changes. Each day is a little different. Each year is as new to me as it is to them.   Forgone rides in favor of spending time with my children wasn't really much of a choice.  After all, the bikes wait all winter long for me to ride them and I've never heard one complain about it yet.

My wife went through a major surgery. She was feeling progressively worse through the spring before going under the knife. The healing process took most of the summer.   Motorcycles and scooters are inanimate objects. No emotional healing to bring them back on the road required. They can wait.

I had plans to ride this summer. I mean really ride. Friends of mine did too. We had plans to take days to get where we intended to go. Even though direct routes were relatively short, by the wings of the crow.

That isn't to say I didn't get the chance to ride.  The truth is a buddy of mine opened up a door I hadn't noticed before. He found time in his busy life to duck out on his Aprilia scooter and find me.   While the rides were sometimes shorter, as the song says, you get what you need. ( and once or twice I dragged him along on a longer ride than he anticipated)

The rides I'd planned but never took? They weren't really options considering what lay in store for me and my family this summer. As much as you could say I was there for my family, they've always been there for me.

There's someone in the house who depends upon you. Someone who looks forward to seeing you home again after those late night rides. Someone who quietly hopes and prays for your safety.

You can always get the chance to ride but there are certain periods in the lives of those who matter to you which should not be missed. Should not be choices at all.

I'll ride another day.

Or week.

Harv

2010-07-22T07:32:00.000-07:00

Becoming Home

Nothing feels right when you move to a new town. It takes time to learn your way around. It begins with getting to know alternate routes to the places you need to be. Then you find out about the hip spots and the out of the way specialties of the area. If you're a motorcyclist you begin to wander. Chances are you find kindred spirits. Riders who grew up wearing out bicycle and motorcycle tires from their earliest youth, telling you stories about what they'd seen and done.

Just as most riders eventually do, I found myself with guides to this city and surrounding areas. People who generously showed the way. With friends you gain knowlege. With knowledge, familiarity and confidence.

A long twist of the throttle is like good wine. There are times when it's proper to sup alone, a thick book of prose the equivalent of the unraveling tale down the unknown road. Other times, shared with friends who appreciate a certain kind of story. One that may touch upon memories of rides in their own earlier chapters.

We stop for water and a moment to look around. Those who've grown up here begin to share past rides, beginning with, "Didja notice just past the long sweeping left after we passed over the river..." Roads connect us. Moreso than a mere link to a destination. For us they are the destination unto itself. The place to be is in the moment. This moment.

A friend with an Aprilia became my guide recently. Showing me roads and places I never knew existed. So close to the city I would not have believed it. Yet so removed you forget where you are when you're in that moment. Afternoons turn into late nights. When the summer heat is slow to dissipate. You just can't seem to pull yourself away from the bike.

These are as much the the memories of my youth as they are my feelings today. Back then, riding everywhere I could. Simply to explore. On the outskirts of another city far away. Today, discovering roads which really don't lead anywhere directly unless you learn to notice this moment. Because life is what you make of it.

And home is where your bike is.

Harv

2010-07-17T19:59:00.000-07:00

Thinking About Bikes on a Stormy Night

I've been visiting various riding sites on the internet, reading about riding on a night when tornado sirens have been wailing. Things cross my mind like what makes up a person's favorite choice in powered two wheelers. How do you come to that conclusion? Is it speed? Torque? Seating position? Is it a little about those attributes and a bit about other things? Do you ride what you ride because of the people you ride with?

Forbid it that anyone choose their ride based solely upon trying to fit in. Or to try to present an image. Once a person knows how to ride, their goal ought to be to find that bike which fits them best for the kinds of riding they actually ride. Nowadays that kind of machine comes from many manufacturers. It can even come in different skins. I'll get to that later.

I like a bike I can sling around. Something nimble and somewhat utilitarian. I don't need a cruiser in the common style. Not interested in stretched and lowered. I think those bikes are trendy fashion statements for people looking for an identity. Not everyone, mind you, but people who bought into the whole... scene and only ride with others like themselves. There are those who were there first, so to speak, and they don't exactly appreciate the Johhny Come Latelys. But that's another story in itself. For the sake of a simple point about then versus now I'm going to leave that generality stand. If you get it, you get it. If you don't, then you're probably offended. Here's your sign.

We ride what we ride because it's what we ought to prefer. Another old saying is that no one rides a motorcycle because they have to. And since that's the case, we should consider if what we ride really meets our needs.

I came to this scootering thing long after having been in the motorcycle thing. I can't really say I gave up one for the other though. Rather I parked a few of the latter and chose to ride the former. A dedicated motorcycle enthusiast trading V twins and in line fours for small displacement singles. Why do that?

I ride to revive myself. To clear my thoughts. I want to be on the bike which best meets what I want out of it. You wouldn't take an antihistamine for a stomach ache, would you? That's where I think I'm gettting to with the bike/scooter thing.

Now I'm not saying I'm giving up on the Harley just yet. Memories and recent rides reminded me what I liked about that machine. In a way I think I may be growing back into it. You can get onto that big nearly straight no-stop that criss crosses the country with the old HD. It seems pretty at home there. Just hang back and move along. And if something falls off (I've had it happen. More than once.) there's usually an HD dealer or subsequent shop not too far off the path I'm on. Didja ever notice Harley Davidson dealerships seem to be located right near a main exit on the freeway? Coincidence? I think not.

But something about the Vespa is closer to what I'm after at this stage in my life. When I think about riding, that's the one which comes to mind first. Its only shortcoming is that it cannot quite do all the Harley can. Though legal for the freeway, I sure wouldn't ride there. Not on a 150cc. Uh uh.

Unfortunately Vespa made a 200cc, a 250cc and now a 300cc. Would I trade the Harley for a bigger Vespa? I don't think I can. Some things are kept for sentimental reasons.

That Harley was our honeymoon chauffeur in '96. From Milwaukee to central Minnesota where we got married, to Custer state park. Long days in the saddle, stopping when and where we felt like it. We visited Sturgis as the rally was on (yes we planned it that way). Sturgis during the rally is an interesting thing. Sort of a renaissance fair with motorcycles. Many were true customs. Hand fabricated. I can appreciate that. Some even improved on the look of the originals underneath. And there were many that I could not see from their owners' perspectives.

I remember looking at very old bikes and thinking how beautiful they were mechanically. Simple elegance. Flowing lines in purposeful design. It seems as though an unspoken goal of former motorcycle appearance was to take the edge off. Old Vespas share that. Not only in curbside appearance but in maintenance. A roadside fix was easily doable.

But until recently, Vespa scooters weren't exactly on the A list for expressway use. It's been a long while since the 55 mph speed limits were done away with, but even then, the two stroke 200cc's wouldn't have been thought of as a n everyday use freeway bike. Maybe to some, but no one I spent time with thought so.

So here I sit. Thinking about the unlikely motorcycle that meets my needs and wants.

Sure does look like a scooter though, doesn't it?

Harv

ps: I can see that my writing needs some excersize.

2010-07-11T08:42:00.000-07:00

The Return Of An Old Friend

After a two year haitus from the bigger bikes to a scooter, I finally got around to bringing an older Harley back to life. My '93 Sportster. You can say what you like about the ride these bikes provide, but they're still decent machines for the average enthusiast. You just have to take them on their terms. And be prepared to accept what some consider limitations. Consider it part of the package of owning a bike designed to be reminescent of the technological past.

It took a while to get the bike running again. From thumbing the starter and hearing nothing to thumbing it and getting a sputter. From a sputter to an idle to whacking the throttle and hearing the bike choke and die. Disassembling the carburator a few times and help from a friend showed me the problem. I'd never opened up a variable ventury before. He says I'm overly cautious. Well, I have broken things before.

Aside from the thorough cleansing the main jet required, the machine was in pretty stable condition. Even after languishing in a corner of the garage while I played with the other bikes. And I have to admit, I was a little apprehensive about getting this thing back on the road again. Most people opt for larger machines, mainly because they're larger people than I am. A Sporty fits me like a glove. But after riding the Vespa for nigh on two full years the Harly seemed like a hulk of low slung bar steel. Just look at one. Compared to a Vespa scooter it's a mass of large metal chunks jutting out at all angles. All of them hot once the ride begins in earnest.

Still, there's something inherantly fulfilling in the sound of the stock exhaust in the fifty five to sixty five mph range.   And the Harley veritably carries itself along. Its own mass propelling it onward.   Comfortable. In its own way of course.

On one hand the Harley fits today's standard definition of entry level. A size and displacement considered something of a suburban starter big bike.   They originally came with diminuitive peanut tanks and minimal dressing. You could buy bolt on accoutrements to make yours anything you liked, but the idea was supposed to be that eventually you would move up to a "real" Harley.

On the other hand the Vespa is a suburban jousting tool. You can squirt through traffic without a second thought. Half the time I wonder if people even notice a scooterist on the boil. What with their cell phones sending and recieving signals while they obliviously jostle for lane dominance on the way to work or home.

Something just zoomed by and they probably never heard the thing.  Maybe they saw someone seated rather high fly by but only their eyes ever knew the scooterist was there. Whereas a Sportster tends to announce itself. Even with stock pipes. And Sportsters don't squirt anywhere. You twist the throttle, a cacaphony of machanical noise erupts just forward of your knees and you're off. People turn to see whether the loud motorcycle is about to run them down. Really. The face of the pedestrian does not lie.

The only difference I consider worth noting is that a Sportster can take the superslab and still be an enjoyable ride. Don't try it on a 150cc Vespa. They top out too early speedwise. Someone in a Pruis could easily engulf one from behind and swallow it whole before the driver finished the message they were texting.

Is one better than the other? Comparing an HD Sportster to a 150cc Vespa scooter is not a legitimate comparison. But they both fulfill a certain kind of ride requirement. You have to take each one for what it is. Even in each machine's own element there will be compromises.

And I can live with that.

Harv

2010-05-24T08:50:00.000-07:00

Spontaneous Happiness

I'm what you might call a fair opportunity rider. I have seven year old twins so my opportunities to ride have to be balanced with all the other obligations family men have. If we're smart we realize this is a time in our childrens' lives, our wives' lives which we will remember fondly. If we do this thing right.

Somewhere back in the annals of this site I wrote about the rides becoming fewer but longer. As it turns out this might be the best thing yet. Granted these are usually two to three hour late night chunks of time, but the kids are off to bed and my wife is too. What else would a night owl do?

A friend I've written about recently has gotten himself an '84 Honda Magna V65. An eleven hundred cc V-4. Back in its day it was rated at 109 horsepower. It's a clean machine and my friend knows how to take care of 'em.

Loren works twelve hour shifts at a local printing company. One of those types of jobs where you work three or four days then you get three or four days off. Sometimes the shifts are easier and one of us is calling the other to see about one of those evening cruises. Last night was just that kind of night. I think it was my turn to call...

"Hey bud, I have a question for ya."
"That's a statement. What's the question?"
"I feel like riding but there's a big blob of rain showing up on the local radar to our south."
"...And this has ever stopped you... when?"

Loren made a valid point. I ride a Vespa with a cut down large windscreen.

"Probably not very often."
"Probably almost never, Harv." I hear him chuckle on the other end of the line.
" Is it certain to be coming over us?"
"Hard to say. Might track slightly over St Cloud, maybe a little east of St Cloud."
"Then we'll stay west of St Cloud. Besides, I've never seen your land."

My land is a little thirty five acre chunk of a once larger farm I bought about six or so years ago to plant a house on someday. Different people own segments of it but it seems like I have the biggest piece. One McMansion set in the woods to my north, a farm house with just a few acres at the bottom of the slope is to my east and an old ranch style home on ten more to my south. This area is not McMansionville and I don't plan on building that kind of monstrosity for people to google at when they drvie by, commenting on the mount of debt the owner must be holding. I didn't buy that land for any other reason than to have my "neighborhood" populated with every living thing indigenous to this region. Don't get me wrong, I'm not an environmentalist. I just like watching sunrises and sunsets on a horizon unblemished by rows and rows of slapped together homes indwelt by people who seem to move every five years. You can't get to know your neighbors when they're moving out faster than you change cars.

In the country the pace seems slower. People put down roots. They actually care about one another. Not unlike the old city neighborhoods I grew up in. But times have changed in the big city.

In the country, time moves slower, more deliberately.

So I rode the lx150 west down county roads and frontage roads. Past the town of St Joseph. Through the back door of Avon and continued west. I broke onto a gravel road and found Loren ready for the ride. The big Magna idling quietly. We set out for an indirect path to my little piece of ground in the county.

Loren usually wants me to lead. I think its because he doesn't want to lose the little scooter should he forget and begin accelerating in a moment of relaxation. I can see it now. Me seeing Loren's helmet in his mirror and his tail light blissfully growing smaller as it moves further down the road from me and my little one fitty.

The evening sky was amazing last night. Strangely, a bank of clouds were to the west. Blocking the sun from view. But directly above us those clouds broke. Opening up to the blue heavens. A row of ominous white billows collided with each other three quarters of the sky to our east, running south to north. An occasional flash illuminating them from within.

We parked at the approach and walked the field where the corn had been planted last year. At the edge of the flat, the beans had already gone in. You get the feeling you're standing on a worn plateau when you look down the sharp slopes from this point. Loren commented he was going to find a way to own land like this. And you know, I believe he will. He's that kind of guy.

Back at the bikes we talked for a bit then headed toward Avon. Flashes from within the eastern clouds to our left grew more frequent and brighter. They began to topple over each other. Crashes within the collisions sparked amazing lightshows. I would be riding right into it before too long. I could already smell it in the sticky over-hot evening air. Bugs were plastering my legshield, windscreen and helmet like someone drubbing their fingers on a wooden desk. Constantly.

We parted at Avon. He headed west, away from the storm. I headed east. Right at the storm.

I was alone on the frontage roads. My eyes peeled for deer, dogs and coons. I kept it down to fifty mph for the most part. The sky went black. The flashing clouds were now above me. A constant patter of smashed insects on the 'shield and my helmet. The occasional conk from a June bug. Then the rain came. I love these moments.

This was going to be the first downpour of this season for me, I thought. But the rains faded to a drizzle. Then nothing. Then faintly they started again and came steady. But only briefly before becoming indistinguishable from the persistant glopping of bugs dying instant death on painted steel and plastic. The windshield looked almost gooey. Water and splattered insect remains pressed and streaked in the wind created by a moving bike.

Suddenly I was rolling up my driveway. Once in the garage, listening to the tick of the cooling bike I hazarded a look at the front of my scooter. Collateral damage for a great night of riding I hadn't even planned on a few hours ago. This thing needs a bath.

Small price to pay for an unanticipated chance to ride.

Harv

2010-05-13T04:32:00.000-07:00

When a Meal Tastes the Best

I've never been a big eater. Stomach problems have plagued me all my life. This isn't to say that I don't appreciate a good dish but I can never eat much before my gut warns me away from taking another bite.

When I was a child my parents took me to doctors who told them they couldn't find the cause. That I would have to pay close attention to how much I ate. Don't force the kid, doctors told them. He simply won't be able to keep it down.

There is alot of really tasty food out there. And they bring it to you on steaming plates filled with heaping goodness. Flavors that stand alone and others that blend into complex delites for the palate to savor. Amazing what a good cook can accomplish with some basic ingredients. Take someone with training or a real passion for the kitchen and the plates brought before you almost seem like a sinful luxury.

I come from a family of cooks. Two aunts on my dad's side were professional bakers back in their day. We would go to our second home, Chicago's deep south side, knowing what was in store for us. The big treat for the year was Slava.

Slava is the Serbian celebration of God's blessing upon a household. The partiarch would invite every person he knew to come and eat in his house. Preparation would last for days. The women of the family would come early just to begin the process. The aromas drifting in the steam of the open windows of that south side house were rich and inviting. Everything from the special breads to the lamb. They used both kitchens in that house just to keep up.

The first day would begin thus; the priest would come to bless the family and pray over it. He would bless the bread (phonetically known as Poga-tche) and share the first wine with the head of the household. He would bless the children and sit to the first meal. It was a momentous occasion. As soon as the first group of men left the table the women cleared it and the second group of men took their places. And so it went. As long as there were guests, the dining room table fairly creaked with the weight of the bounty shared upon it.

I ate what I could when I could. Often fighting a raging gut. But how could you pass up what you saw and smelled? I paid for it. Oh, I paid for it dearly sometimes. Between my mother and my aunts Anna and Maria some of the potential overdoings were abated. Try everything, they would say, but only a little at a time.

Those days are long gone. Traditions faded. Mom has passed on and the aunts are in poor health. The German cooking of my Milwaukee upbringing is also drifting into memory. But one tradition remains. Because although it is never quite the same, the experience is equalled each time it happens.

Since the first times my friends and I headed out into the countryside we've always been drawn by the smells emanating from family owned restaurants. It didn't matter that we were riding two strokes in those days. It didn't seem to follow the wind patterns. Someone in the group would catch the succulent aroma of something cooking and get everyone's attention. The ride would become a quest to find that source.

When you've spent the better part of the day on the road, even a guy like me will be haunted by lure of a true family owned roadhouse.

For some reason these places have always reminded me of family gatherings. People are most happy when they anticipate sitting down to what their noses told them would be found here. We all look forward to it.

For me, the memories and the anticipation guided by what my senses tell me, draw me here. Even if "here" is a place I've never been before.

The simplest foods from a family owned roadhouse just taste so good when you're riding. Even the coffee seems better.

I can almost smell a family restaurant my bike led me to last summer..

I gotta find that place again.

Harv

2010-05-07T15:29:00.000-07:00

Prettier With Age

I sold the Virago. I know, I know. How can you sell a bike you've had that long?

Same way you sell anything else. You finally realize the time has come to sell it and then you act on that notion.

I rode that sweet little machine to Wisconsin for the last time. An old friend who always liked her said he was ready to buy her. So from central Minnesota to Wisconsin we went. The old girl and I.

I pulled on a sweater because the weather channel told me I would be crazy not to. In town it was forty three degrees. Out here? I try not to pay too much attention to that. You sort of induce an oversensitivity to what the weather feels like versus what it actually is if you convince yourself X degrees is too freakin cold instead of what you actually feel. But I was still shivering by the time I hit the east side of St Paul.

The winds that Saturday were anywhere from thirty five to forty five miles per hour. Gusty. That bike tracked straight though. Just as she always has. Through small towns and long stretches past lakes. An overcast day in the northern midwest.

The Virago would be replaced by a new ride. Well, ok, not a new ride. Just one that's been waiting to be ridden for the last fifteen years. An '83 Honda Nighthawk 650 I got for a song. The Nighthawk and the Virago have been stablemates.

I've always been a fan of Honda. Fit and finish. Attention to detail. Shaft drive. Hydraulic clutch and lifters. An oil cooler. Broad seat and amazingly well detailed instrumentation. (Clock? We all wore watches back then.) I'm definitely a shaft drive kinda guy. But I'm too short for most Beemers. And if I'm getting a Beemer it would be an opposed engine with the classic shaft final drive. So what's a short guy to do? Find a clean Honda Nighthawk and squirrel it away.

But as you can imagine, there are slight maladies percolating to the top each time I ride her. Things to be sorted out. Gremlins which creep into a well running machine stored away for far too long. Things loosening from the simple onset of time.

Yet each ride coaxes a deeper appreciation for this deep red machine. Long and heavier than the 535 my old friend now has, I can see stretching her out on longer rides. Time has been kind to this 1983 Honda Nighthawk. It's an easy bike to get familiar with. Something I can see myself looking forward to riding as much as the ride itself.

Not every bike is this way, you know. Some seem to work well enough until you find their replacements. Others fit a time in your life better than others you've owned. Some are dream machines you realize never really worked that well for you.

Is the Nighthawk one of the memoir-able bikes? Or is it a stepping stone to a Beemer with a lowering kit?

Either way, time has been kind to this machine. The Japanese standard in more ways than one. What with all the retro-hype going on in the world it's hard to know if something is new or just old and immaculately kept.

Nostalgic? Maybe. Still, some old things just seem to gain appreciation against the backdrop of the present.

Harv

2010-04-05T10:22:00.000-07:00

Licentious Woman

If you're newer to riding motorcycles you might not be familiar with the reference. If you've been into Japanese motorcycles since the eighties there's a good chance you've heard someone use the term. If you've owned Yamaha motorcycles and you like their previous iterations of cruisers then there's an excellent chance you know exactly the line of bikes I'm talking about.

I've been the proud owner of a "licentious woman" since the mid eighties. A great bike for those of us shorter in stature. Fantastic lines and the ability to cruise the boulevard, or as I put mine to use, to cruise the farmlands of southeastern Wisconsin at any pace I chose.

Theese machines have excellent lean angles. Light weight makes their ample horsepower very much usable. And when you hear that engine growl you can't help but smile. They were shaft driven and carried a much larger rear tire than anything in their catagory. The faux tanks above broad V twins (Yamaha had a thing about carrying its gas low down instead of where you normally would see the filler cap) helped lower the bikes' centers of gravity. They were police-making-you-walk-the-straight-line stable but turned into any curve or switchback like a dream. You always felt planted on these things.

My buddy Whitey took the bike on his licensing test. I knew he wouldn't be back soon. Better than two hours later, he returned. Grinning like the cat that finally got the family parakeet. I couldn't blame him. Every person whose ridden that bike wants to keep riding it.

Jerry, a guy who lives and breathes Harley Davidson, lost his coil on a country ride we did one night. I gave him the Yamaha to get the necessary part for a roadside repair and the same thing happened. He returned apologetic. Again, a couple hours later.

"Don't sell that bike Harv. I've never ridden anything like it."

Today I reaquainted myself with what it's always been with that particular machine. Back roads through farm land. Twists and gently rising and falling hills. Roads where I've always found the most enjoyment. The Yamaha just felt so good. The note of the two pipes, the slight whine of the shaft final drive. A V twin in its proper element. Expressways are for people needing to get somewhere. Roads leading nowhere in particular are a destination in and of themselves. They'll take you somewhere. Eventually. But the chances are better you'll enjoy what you see on the way that much more.

The roads and a great bike. In this case, an '87 Yamaha Virago 535 I bought new. Someone once said it's the color of red wine.

Seems appropiate for a bike named the licentious woman...

Harv

2010-03-08T06:05:00.001-08:00

Waiting for the Rain

When I was a budding young riding enthusiast I recieved an important piece of advice. It applies well to these northern midwest climes where sand and salt are used to clear the roads during the winter months.

An old experienced rider, my friend's father, once told me it was better to wait for the first heavy rains to clear debris off the roads. He told me about accidents which could have been prevented by simply riding to the conditions. But that most people are too excited to pay enough attention to roadway surfaces. He told me how roads which looked clear and passable turned out to be dangerous enough to cause slides and spinouts.

"Its like riding across fine marbles."

I can attest to this. A fine rider, an experienced rider once had such an episode right beside me. We were stopped at a county road tee intersection. Once traffic was clear I rolled into my left turn. But I heard acceleration to my my right, followed by a cacophony of grating sounds. Metal grinding hard on pavement. A brand new bike. Not even through the break in mileage yet.

My riding compadre juiced his larger displacement machine to pass me in a swift maneuver from a dead stop. Only the bike had no traction under the rear tire. He had his feet down for the stop but didn't know the rear tire rested on soft, pliable road grit. When he spun the throttle the bike wanted to launch forward but slid sideways. In an instant he was down.

We gathered ourselves and headed straight to my garaage to assess the damage as best we could. Luckily, only minor damage and one bruised ego. All this carnage simply due over acceleration from a dead stop!

I've thought about that incident each spring since it happened. I've been waiting just a little longer to hit the county roads. Conversations with fellow riders always include road conditions of the farm lands. The hinterlands, as we sometimes call them. From what I've been hearing, some places are still pretty sandy. More than a few riders are thinking it might be better to wait until traffic and weather clean most of that stuff away.

Riding is about anticipation. Irondad will tell you that better than I ever could. Conditions must be respected in order to see another day. The price paid against it is just too high.

So I'm waiting for the rain.

Harv

2010-03-04T04:09:00.000-08:00

C'est la Deux

This is the second part of a post about the first of two Vespa scooters. Or should I say, of the first Vespa finding a new home.

Granted I like two strokes to a degree. Just don't have the space to rebuild one anymore. For the foreseeable future, what amounts to a spaceous garage is showing its limitiations. You wouldn't think so, but it does. And with six year old twins, I really don't have the time to divide toward rebuilding it. You could say I've lost interest in this one. You'd be right.

Think of it as an item on the back burner. Something which has been there for a very long time. Long enough that it becomes a bane every time you see it suspended by the bench, waiting for you to pick up the tools to put it back together again.

Premix two stroke. In today's world. Injected two strokers seem outdated with all the environmental brouha. Imagine Puff the premix Magic Dragon, er Vespa, belching a blue haze wherever it went. In the past, people actually thought it was out of tune. In today's consciousness the sight of a motorized anything with a visible cloud behind it would probably get people talking. And not in a good way. I'm no environmentalist by any stretch of the imagination, but I'm aware of the current trends, or rather what I would call 'group think'.

So the old Vespa has gone away. A certain Yamaha Virago I bought new in '87 might soon follow. That would pare the motorcycles to three and scooters to one. Getting to more livable numbers. I'm not a collector. At least I never intended to be a collector. I just have a hard time parting with things which have made me happy in the past. Once in a while they seem to find their way back to me. I don't know how that happens but it does.

Maybe I shouldn't tell you that the name of the Virago is Christine.

Name ring a bell?

Harv

2010-03-02T11:05:00.000-08:00

C'est la Vespa

As you noticed the bicycle bug has once again bitten me. Time for a more family oriented machine. Something with an easy upright riding position. Something to toodle around the neighborhood on. Or take leisurely long rides on one of these new fangled converted asphalted train beds. Seems everyone pedaling looks happy when I ride or drive past. I used to ride all the time. I've been missing it.

Back in Europe certain bikes have been a mainstay for generations. Known as commuter or utility bicycles, they offer very upright seating positions and usually some sort of carrying capacity. They wear long fenders, real purpose built mudguards. The Dutch versions of the design actually became known simply as the Dutch bicycle. On one hand Dutch bikes last forever. Usable heirlooms. And they weigh as much too. On another, you can't find replacement tires for them without ordering a set from across the pond. Somehow though, they look weirdly right.

Not to say that other European countries didn't create beautiful machines, they did. But here in the U.S. these seem to be the boutique bikes. Collectors look for them, hence the prices rise. And parts prices increase too.

Somewhere in the middle of all European offerings reside the Brit bikes. They were considered daily riders. Middle class masses used them to get to work until they could afford cars. Raleigh and Rudge. The epitomy of the basic design. The more I'd seen pictures of them the more I seemed to remember a few of them around the area where I grew up.

The old Schwinns hold the same lines as, say, a Raleigh Sports. But finding them always seems to make people selling them think they're collector's gold. They were great products in their day but comparatively speaking they were just good standard products. An old Schwinn can be tuned up and ridden for the rest of a rider's life, they're that well built. The good news is they're everywhere. Hey, if you find one you like and the price is too high or the color isn't the one you always wanted, a little patience will likely bring you just what you were after.

Huffy, once a big player in the States, also made its share of commuter, or utility bicycles. Before you run out and buy one for some warm season riding, take a good look at the welds on Huffy frames. Now that the paint on these bikes is well aged or scratched, the poor welding is better seen. Too often made as quickly as possible with little (or no?) quality control. And I'm talking about the Huffys made right here in the good ol' U.S.

Now I would go for just about any utility bicycle. I like them all. The problem I have is I'm not what you'd call average height. Standover height (the tube from the seat post to the handlebar) probably means more to me than most. I had to pass many bikes for that simple reason. They were too tall.

I found a potential candidate on Craigslist. I called and the seller measured it out for me. He told me these particular bikes came in three sizes. That this one was the smallest they made. We talked and I learned he was into Czech scooters. I mentioned the Vespas. That one of them has been apart for years and I was either going to sell it as is or build it and just move on. He asked me what I wanted for it. We struck a tentative deal.

When he came over with his trailer he brought a 1972 Raleigh Superbe. Dark green. The in-hub generator lit both fore and rear lights. The Sturmey Archer three speed internal hub functioned just as it should and the bike, for all its weight, glided down my street like any other bike I've ridden. The original leather Brooks sprung saddle isn't cracked. I don't know that it's ever been truly broken in. It retains the shape they all do when they're new. Oh, the pump is mounted in the frame and it works.

He looked at body of that old GL and whistled. He looked at the boxes of parts and whistled again. But he smiled. We loaded up his new scooter and talked like old friends. I watched as he drove off. A very old Vespa frame secured to the front of a trailer, on the way to its new home.

The sun was out. Bright skies. Temps in the mid twenties. And there in the shadows of the garage was a classic old bike. My new old bike; full length matched paint fenders, upright deep chrome handlebars and a giant headlight nacelle in which I can actually see my reflection.

I pumped up the tires, checked her over and took her for a little spin.

No, she doesn't remind me of the Vespa. Or a motorcycle. She's wholly her own experience. Surprisingly easy to pedal. I can't emphasize this enough. From the first downward pedal stroke the old Raleigh just glides down the road.

Just another aspect of two wheeled happiness.

Harv

2010-02-01T14:29:00.000-08:00

Thoughts During Hybernation

Its the first of February. Light snow is coming down. A good friend called me this morning to touch base and see how things were.

"How've you been?"
"Good."
"The family?"
"Good."
"You?"
"Same."

Then the conversation began to take its natural direction.

"So I was talking to this guy I used to know..."

And we're back to where we like to be. Discussing the ins and outs of bikes of today and bikes of bygone eras. Rides we're planning and places within a day's travel for two guys on early to mid eighties UJM's (universal Japanese motorcycles). He's got an early eighties Kawasaki 900 and I've got my Virago and my wife's '83 Nighthawk 650.

Somewhere in the conversation I interject something to see what his reaction might be. The fact that the bicycle bug has once again bit me. He's right into the groove. He lives within walking distance of the Lake Wobegon Trail (see Garrison Keilor and his fictitious tales of the town where all the women are pretty, al the men handsome and all the kids are above average). Its a MUP (multi use path-mostly paved nowadays) and it also happens to be about the same distance from my farm twenty miles west of here. I think total mileage for the trail and all its branches is close to 150 miles. We're planning to get our families together and spend some days riding bicycles together.

I've always had the desire to ride. Whether it was motorized or not. Something about two wheels and a place to ride has been a kind of balm for me. Pedaling in silence. Or the drone of an engine beneath me. To many others they aren't the same, but to me they are.

So I'm waiting on spring. To bring out the Vespas and the motorcycles but also the non motorized two wheelers. A dedicated road bicycle and just recently a very Americanized version of a standard bicycle. Fenders, chain guard, a pull back handlebar for very upright riding. You might wonder why a guy whose got a drop bar road bike would ever want a standard slow-bike.

Last year my kids learned to ride their bicycles. The Giant OCR3 can roll with just the slightest tailwind. I would coast past them with nary a downward pedal while they worked just to keep up with me. And the hunched over riding position is not intended for the child's world of constant discovery. We'd pedal six feet and.. "Oh look!" A grasshopper!" Fifteen feet later, "What kind of inchworm is that, daddy?" Any bike that has you bent into a comma is not designed to be used with little children. Trust me.

Its good to be thinking about spring. Its good to have something new to look forward to, also.

Harv

2009-11-02T11:11:00.000-08:00

Time for a Break

When you write a blog there isn't really a time frame in terms of length of posts or months or years (has it been that long?) you can keep writing . What I mean is, you can keep doing it as long as you like. As long as it holds your interest. No one tells you when to begin, and no one tells you when to punch the proverbial time clock.

The rides are as good as they've ever been. In fact, through the riding group I'm involved with, there seems to be a fairly local discovery of some roads just off the beaten path of a main artery I've written about in the past. Highway 9 out of Avon.

Getting on two wheels is always a refreshing experience. A revitalizing internal thing. Yet writing feels like it's beginning to become harder and harder not to rehash each ride into the same general experiences.

To me they're always new. But there are only so many ways you can rewrite how good it makes you feel just to be out there. To feel the bike underneath you. To hear the unique drone of that little Vespa engine as you wander toward the best riding roads.

I'm not the type of person with a need to refresh the experience of riding in some new way just to keep the joy in it. I'm content where I am. I'm content with who I am. While I'd certainly like to be able to ride more, I wouldn't trade what fills my life in place of riding for it.

So I'll lay this little page in the ether on hold. Maybe until the spring. Unless something really good just has to be shared.

May your lust for the road be matched by the steed that carries you

Harv

2009-10-14T19:59:00.000-07:00

When You're Prepared

When you're prepared you can do many things, I've learned. Its all the rehearsal before the stage lights come on that makes the experience so worthwhile. No matter what you do, its preparedness that allows you to think more clearly in the face of adversity.

I've been playing the saxophone since the late seventies. From the days that my parents had to insist that I play for half an hour each day to playing as long as time would allow. Its been a great musical life. But it all started with learning perseverence.

You might think that playing that long might make me feel like I've accomplished something. That I've arrived. Nothing could be further, as they say. What its gotten me is a tenacity to keep at things until I break through. My sound has definitely evolved. My style, changed so many times as I'd learn new things that playing to fit the music seems natural. Its a skill that evolves the more you play.

This is not unlike that machine I put away this evening. Wet and cold. A steady light rain and a temp into the thirties during an indirect meandering home after the meeting with our scooter group.

I would not have tested the weather if that tenacity and pure desire to ride were not instilled in me from a young age. But I prepared myself. (Over time, just as I had with the saxophone.) Mainly for the cooler air though the rain never got to me.

There is something inherantly fun about riding a scooter in the rain. I don't know what it is, but it just seems like legshields and floorboards were made for this type of weather. Pin a sizeable windshield to the thing and you've got a pretty serious foul weather repellant form of two wheel transportation.

It takes time to learn the proper combination for you the individual. What's too warm or too drafty for seasonal riding where you live? Questions we ask ourselves.

But why would anyone take that much time to put on that much gear just to ride in cold or wet weather?

Ask someone who loves to ride. Enough to find the right gear in order to prolong the riding seaon. That person will tell you its worth it. Something about seeing the changing seasons from the saddle of that favorite two wheeler. So what if its cold. Or wet. If there's better gear made for inclement weather, that rider will tell you.

Sometimes its trial and error. Sometimes the right combination of clothing is already in the hall closet. The end of the summer riding season is a great time of year to bring a few extras along for the ride. Change into them when dusk falls and see how well they work. An extra sweat shirt or an added liner for example. Overpants or long underwear. Definitely a personal choice. (Or both!)

Still, you get the best idea of how cold or wet weather riding gear will work for you when you use it for the longer rides. Because you get comfortable on the longer rides. You... settle into the spirit of the ride when its more than just a few miles. Short rides don't really provide much information on gear and that includes how well the bike works for distance treks. I think the shorter rides are indicators giving an idea of how clothes might work or feel, but settling into a long ride is as much a state of mind as anything else.

Oh, before I forget, I should point this out:

There is no perfect gear. There is very good gear and there is gear you can get very comfortable in, but you sort of have to, I don't know, come to terms with the few shortcomings you might discover. It might mean a quick duct tape wrap on a fold to stop a draft from shooting up your sleeve. (You can solve that problem if you know someone who can sew velcro to the wrist of a jacket for example) It could mean buying those thicker socks you would only use to ride. But those are small investments to extend your fun into the cooler weather won't be regrettable efforts. The ride is worth it.

A little over a week ago I began the ritual of digging through all the old winter riding gear. I acquired more than I thought over the years! And other than needing new heavy socks, everything else fit the bill. Sure, I was overdressed for hanging out at a coffee shop. But I wasn't over dressed for the ride home. Which certainly wasn't by the direct route.

What I haven't told you yet is that I'm usually one of the first to arrive at the coffee house for our Wednesday Night Rides. I didn't expect anyone to ride to the meeting (save Colin-man of steel) since I didn't check the weather and it had started to drizzle at immediately the moment I crossed from my driveway onto the street. Imagine my triumphant joy at seeing Chauncy, Zuma and Colin arrive on two wheels. Besides these brave souls, Sam, and the Dibbers also came. I'm guessing they fit the meeting in along with other responsibilites or they also would have ridden. I really don't see anyone in this group shy about riding when the weather changes.

We had a good meeting. We talked and laughed and passed Keith's new Scoot magazine around. Ideas for next season's runs were tossed into the fray. Keith has always got great ideas for rides. Be they long or short, he's an excellent organizer and really knows how to get the group involved in the planning.

I guess its easier to plan what to wear when you've planned for the ride, eh?

Harv

2009-10-09T08:14:00.000-07:00

American Highway

My family had the good fortune to take a vacation in Disney World. Since I no longer get on (or in) planes under any circumtances I chose to drive. My wife, kids and in laws got there in just over two hours. I got there in about two days. Its a little over sixteen hundred miles by car. I loved it.

Now I considered taking one of the bikes. The Harley would have been the first choice since its a decent tourer by my own standards. But the family thought I could bring along more luggage with the car so the '98 Camry did the task. I even had the advantage of a Garmin lent to me for the trip. A surprising little tool so long as you program it correctly.

More often than not I drive a car in silence. Whether the distance is long or short. Conversation usually just flows from me but when I drive I must be trying to get as close to the riding experience as possible. That's what my wife thinks anyway. I'm sure she's right. She likes to take naps when I drive. I'm a very predictable driver.

So the drive from St Cloud Minnesota to Orlando Florida was a vacation in itself. Heavy rains through Atlanta. My first time actually doing the driving through that city.

When you hit Florida you think, based upon everyone whose visited the ocean, that the state is as flat the waters that surround it. But once you hit the turnpike toll road you realize there's more to the beatiful state than just year round summer weather and palm trees.

I saw roads sweeping away from main arteries which made me think about getting a scooter trailer. I could fulfill luggage duty for my family and take advantage of my night owl proclivities . A quiet Vespa prowling tropical tree lined Florida byways. The memories I would have. Warm summer nights in the dead of winter.

I thought about those roads as I began the return home last Saturday. I thought about hundreds more as I passed them in Georgia, Tennessee and Kentucky. For a northerner with his roots in the snow its pretty amazing to think about people riding comfortably in autumn clothing after September. I drove silently into Wisconsin and yet another reason begged me to think hard about a scooter trailer.

A river seperates Minnesota from Wisconsin. The bridges I've seen are all posted at highway speeds and traffic flows at even higher rates. An LX150 is at its limit around 65-70mph. While the bike can ride wide open throttle on country roads devoid of steady traffic, its nearly a death wish to pin the throttle down and try to keep up with cars treating you as an obstruction and an obsenity. A GTS 250 would solve it. It can attain and keep speeds to seventy and above. But I love the bike I have. Getting over the river is just an obstacle to overcome safely.

Four days on the road by myself. The return trip was the more enjoyable one. Recalling things you saw on the way down, for instance. And it never quite looks the same as it does while you're getting there.

I find the road a quiet personal pleasure. A solace. You're moving but you're still. I think I wrote that somewhere once before, but it warrants writing again. Its a big country with a million sights to see and interesting roads from which to see them.

My family loved the resort and their vacation.

Me, I most loved the distance between A and B.

I can't help it. I'm a road bum.

Harv

2009-09-21T15:52:00.000-07:00

Clutch Not Brake

They say you can never go home again. The point being that the distant past can never truly move forward into the present. You can't get there from here.

It all started with a 50cc Honda scooter a few years ago. A 1978 Honda Express in a bright, very lime, green. A diminuitive machine with a top regulated speed of 27mph. They look more like bicycles than motor scooters. And if you take them for what they are you find yourself weirdly enamored by them.

My father in law had a rented storage unit. It was on the edge of the small town nearest his farm. A space filled with all the oddities we seem to keep in the indecision of possibly needing someday and throwing out. Furniture, hoses, you name it. Property purgatory.

I helped him clear the unit out. That's when I saw it. Hidden by sheets of plywood and stacks of wooden chairs. A cobwebbed old scooter which had been through better days. But everything was there. As far as I could tell anyway. Quietly, patiently waiting for someone to bring it back to life.

I dug into it with the advice of a few friends. Dan, who lives in my hometown guided me by phone while Loren, whose ability to breathe life into mechanical things always amazes me, came to my rescue here.

"Well I think there's supposed to be another part in there, there." Loren would say.
"You should be seeing something that looks like such and such between the lorkin cable and the stiction valve," said Dan.

I said, What?

The scooter was showing more and more of its internal glory by the day. Loren had the exhaust to reweld the aftermarket "flow derestrictors" drilled into it. I examined this, poked at that and became more familiar with this most basic of internal combustion engine designs. Little things about two stroke engines started to come back to me. I remembered that I actually liked points back in the day. Saw them as a challenge. Only because I reset them to factory specs. I knew how little I really knew.

Before long the Express was running and road legal. I tooled along the country roads outside my neighborhood. A hint of blue smoke marked my passing. It was glorious. Even if it was the slowest motorized two wheeler I'd ever ridden, it was fun getting up to thirty plus mph on the slopes. Even if it meant huffing like the little engine that could just to crest them. Each ride would end in a little fine tuning. Tensioning spokes if nothing else.

Then I heard that the new Vespas were also constant variable transmission. Auto-scooters which could really get you up to travelling speeds. An LX150 found a home in my garage.

But the maintenance seems more involved than I would like. CVT belts and rollers need to be checked and replaced regularly. About every four thousand miles on the rollers, six to seven thousand on the belt. Let me put it another way. I don't look forward to what it takes to do that maintenance. You need to move or remove quite a bit just to get to the valves, for instance. The whole engine/transmission assembly needs to be detached from the rear shock and tilted, just so you can get the valve cover off to check them. Its the maze ahead of the cheese that gets old.

So why not a four stroke Vespa? Or something reasonably close to that design? Stellas came close but they've been two strokes until now. Hot plugs, soft siezing... They sound magnificent when they're running but I'm no longer interested in the fiddling required of two strokes.

Then I read about the new four stroke Stella and I thought, This, this is the scooter I've been waiting for. Four standard gears and a clutch, four stroke engine and the basic iconic silhouette of the classic Vespa's evolution. The engine is on the right, where I can easily get to it. And the belt and rollers are history.

Maybe coming home needs to be a blend. A proper mix of the best of the past with this moment. I'm hoping the upcoming 4T Stella might be that bike for me.

Harv

2009-09-18T06:20:00.000-07:00

Just Around the Corner

Autumn rides. When you live far enough north that parts of Canada are actually south of you, you begin to cherish these waning days of warmth. You learn to appreciate getting the time to put some tarmac between you and the tires. The forests are changing from their deep green hues to golds, reds and orange. Leaves are beginning to blow free of their hold in the dense cover of summer. A little now, but more each week. Before too long you'll be looking up and seeing the dark bark of hardwood and squirrels scampering to hide food for the winter months.

Have you ever parked by the side of the road just to watch the animals through the trees of a hardwood forest? The kinds of woods that you know were hewn back so the road could be cut through them? Ancient oaks swaying, creaking in the vacuumed silence created by shutting down the bike's engine. The natural world makes all sorts of strange noises.

The air takes on a crispness. Its as though you can smell the change coming. Critters are preparing to hunker down and they're grabbing all the available edible foliage, nuts and tubers they can find.

And you've got to dress for these rides. Not just the safety gear but maybe a sweater, or the thicker gloves. Fog on the visor.

My wife tells me that I somehow manage to radiate both extreme hot and extreme cold upon returning from the colder of these Fall season rides. I dunno, I just feel really great when I get back home.

No matter where you are, there's something about getting the rides in before the bad weather comes to stay. Snow drifts and icy roads, a foreboding memory of last year's winter serves to remind us to take the time while we can.

I've written enough. Time for a ride.

Harv

2009-09-14T13:10:00.000-07:00

Oh No, Not Again

I've been reading motorcycle magazines for as long as I could remember. When other kids were into Hot Rod I was reading Cycle World, Motorcyclist and the now defunct Cycle. Others read Mad and Cracked, I read Cartoons magazine. Somewhere in my posession is a box chock full of old Cartoons issues. Crass and Bernie, Ellefson's creative cartoons. I had Evel Knievel stunt motorcycles. Even went as the guy for Halloween one year.

My parents tolerated my friends bringing small displacement motorcycles over and "tuning" them in their garage. Mini bikes, two stroke enduros. Harley Sprints. Seemed like any given week would find something under four hundred cc's with a story to tell, somewhat torn apart in my parents' garage. We learned about points. We learned about a lot of motorcycle oriented mechanicals by stumbling through trial and error. Sometimes it was frustrating but it was always worth it in the end.

I write this because I did the belt and rollers on the LX150 this morning. Normal maintenance, yet in some way it feels like more than should be necessary. Its a bit of a job to do an auto transmission on these modern bikes. Still a little foreign feeling to me. Odd.

Granted I had the bike up to about 50mph on the country lanes outside my neighborhood , but it wasn't far. Everything feels as it should. Still, I wouldn't mind a four stroke shifty scooter. Only because after years of wishing for one, Genuine Scooter Co. is going to have one out later this year. Less maintenance. Or an excuse to get something new?

I must be in that mode or something. You know the one. You have some unyet unspoken desire to have something new but you just don't know what.

So I visited the Honda motorcycles site and noticed they're releasing a machine that almost made me fall out of my chair when the page opened up. A 700cc liquid cooled V twin with shaft final drive. Built in saddle bags. Its a mid sized touring bike. Honda quality throughout.

So I'm torn. Another scooter, albeit something I would really like and that I could easily afford versus something which could take me out of scooters in an instant if it delivers the way Honda always seems to. The Stella would be less than half the cost of the Honda NT 700.

But I want the Honda more.

Need to find a way to get there from here.

Harv

2009-09-10T07:29:00.000-07:00

Bruno's Basket

The names have been changed in this post, not because the innocent need protection, but because often times, posting on the internet leaves room to be creative. There isn't a BigStickBob who claims some government position, where revealing his identity would risk the safety of thousands in a beaurocratic pyramid of files and personal data. No Warehouse 13, whose propriators secretly engage in protecting the world's most precious artifacts from amoral power mongers but really wish they had the time to ride scooters.

Nope. This is about friends and the coolest little dog you ever saw. Bruno.

Bruno is the buddy of a rider who goes by the moniker Tomcat. A big fellow with a natural calm about him. Sometimes he'll show up at the Wednesday night rides on his olive Stella and other times its an '81 red and white Honda CT70.

There's a basket where a human passenger would normally sit. This is Bruno's place. A milk crate.. sort of. Well it resembles a milk crate but not entirely. Elongated. You get the idea. Bruno is the same make and model as the dog on Frasier. (wink)

There's Prisonprincess. No, she not there for "conjugal visits". She's a nurse at the local state penn. Had a Honda 250 and just bought a Burgman 400. She pickes it up Friday and we're all exited to see her new baby. She's been coming to the coffee house even though she's been between bikes for a little while. I wish more folks felt that way. That they would know they're welcome for the simple reason they like scooters. Or simply because they like to ride.

Zumascoot. This is her first season on a scooter and she's got the bug. She grew up riding mini and dirt bikes. You have to love a girl like Zuma'. Like the sister I never had.

Chauncy comes into the evening ride a bit later. But that's because I spotted him cruising to Byerly's for a caramel apple midnight snack. Chaunc' rides a black Genuine Buddy.

The ride

We meet at a coffee house outside the local mall. Sometimes people ask us questions about our scooters. Sometimes, like last week, we meet people like a local photographer named Josh, riding his '75 BMW R6.

I was early and Prisonprincess appeared by car. She told me the good news and and just beamed. You could not avoid that twinkle in her eyes. She was so elated she bought me a coffee!

Zuma rolled up and the three of us talked about bikes and then came Tomcat with Bruno in his his crate. Smiling as only a dog can. We talked for a bit in case anyone might be late in coming and then headed to Dairy Queen. We met someone Tomcat used to know, riding a big displacement Honda cruiser. Hello, nice to meet you, see you again some time. Then it was off to ride the river road through St Cloud. We stopped at Wilson park. The sun had long gone to bed and we looked at the light from the Hospital shimmering on the gentle current of the Mississippi. Off again. North. Construction made us detour but we came back to it and Tomcat mentioned his niece works at a local fast food joint. And we had to stop because she will often ride a Honda Hobbit.

Well you have to see things like that even if the chances are small. As luck would have it, Frodo or one of his relatives must have been using it. She had her car. Nice kid. A lot like her uncle. We talked a while, snapped a few pics and "doodled" around the back streets of St cloud. I caught Chauncy riding to Byerly's and Tomcat and Zuma took off after him. We talked for a bit and could see how tired the old boy was. We bid him good night and hung out in the lot, just enjoying a great night of commeraderie and riding.

Oh, and Bruno? By the end of the night he let himself doze off in his basket, assured I guess, that we were alright.

I think he approved of us.

Harv

2009-09-02T08:06:00.000-07:00

Old and New

About six years ago my neighbor made a deal on an old motorcycle from a friend. Being the type of father he is, his intention was to keep the bike until his boys were old enough to ride. But the boys chose to get into other things and the bike languished in his shed. One day I saw the machine in his garage and asked him about it. Floyd knows how I hate to see a grand old machine rust into uselessness and gave me one of those Sicilian offers. One you cannot refuse.
I brought Annette over to look at the bike and she was enthusiastic about it. A few days later it was forty feet further north, in my garage.

Its a black breadloaf tanked Japan bred cafe racer. Factory stock (just the way I like them) right down to the near perfect chrome exhausts. Five spoke painted aluminum rims trimmed with exposed surface edges. A slim bike with hair brush pin striping accenting the tank and tail piece. A meek 550cc's by today's standards, it was as good a choice as any sub 750 on the market in 1980.

I called a buddy of mine to tell him about the bike. I don't know what came over me but we struck a trade and I let him have it for what I payed for it. He brought a trailer, took it home and after a period of a few days called me to let me hear it run.

Something comes over me when I hear an old eighties bike breathe and run again. Just the idle is enough to put a twinkle in my eye. There's the sound of the transmission, the sound of the valves. Something distinct and unassuming about that era of machines. Not necessarily a lot of continuity in appearance, the amazing attention to functional and mechanical detail made up for their sometimes quirky looks. They were meant to be ridden.

We intended to ride together since the spring. Long before this bike entered the picture. But his kids and my kids are at and near the same ages so family and our schedules often mismatched our free time.

The other night we finally made up for that. His wife came home and he headed back into town to my place. 11:30 pm and we were just about rolling out of my driveway.

A note about Loren: He's a night owl. And he loves to ride. So am I. Consequently both of us really enjoy the sounds of stock pipes and overall very quiet motorcycles.

Most people like to sleep during the night. Its easier on the eyes I guess.

We slipped through town and over the Mississippi. Taking the east river road we threaded our way down the twisy two lane that weaves past the river for miles. Beautiful homes with immaculate yards and dim accent lighting. The moon shimmering off the big river which can always be seen as you pass. Tall old hardwoods hanging over us, the fog just beginning to form in some of the valleys of the roadway. Forty miles an hour at a low hum as heard from the saddles of a scooter and a motorcycle.

We made it to a little town which sprang up by a main state highway (or maybe they built the highway because the town was there, I don't know) and stopped to top off and enjoy some gas station coffee. A lady pulled up next to us and could not turn away from the Vespa. She asked the usual questions and at one point I thought she was going to reach down and hug it. After she drove off waving, Loren commented, "You told me stuff like that happens. Now I actually saw it." We both laughed.

We rode in the direction of my farm. Because you can catch a great motorcycle road not far from there and its parallels the Mississippi all the way to Little Falls. Charles Lindbergh grew up there. I don't know why I'm telling you this other than its a neat fact. And you pass a couple museums dedicated to him when you reach the south end of the city from this direction. I always mean to stop there but can't seem to beg myself off the bike as I pass the compound of buildings and sites dedicated to him.

We stopped again. SuperAmerica. Fog was in the headlight beams nearly fifty percent of the time. It was getting a bit cooler. Out in the open countryside temps were somewhere around the low fifties. Some of the valleys might have touched the low forties, I would guess. Not shivering cold, but we were definitely gliding through a steady brisk chill.

I saw what might be the dumbest thing I have seen in a while. Didn't notice it at first but Loren was waiting for me to see it.

Conveniently situated side by side were the grated gas grill propane cylinder container and the ashtray/refuse container. I have nothing to say.

We drank up, warmed again and hit the road back south to home. The long sweeping bends, hills and valleys, seemed like riding on glass this time around. I could hear the slight whine of Loren's bike behind me. See his headlight in my mirrors. The new moon gave a crystaline blue hue to the crop fields to the west and a deep dark blue to the Mississippi on our left. Light sparkling off the gentle waves.

We rode that way back to the tee intersection, split off and made our respective ways home. It was nearly three o'clock in the morning when the Vespa's engine was finally shut off for the night. Hearing the cooling tick made me stop as I entered the house. I listened to it for another moment.

Somewhere in a garage about twenty miles away, another guy was doing the same thing. Listening to an old 1980 Kawasaki KZ550 slowly cool down.

Revived machine, revived rider.

Harv

2009-08-22T11:09:00.000-07:00

Balance

When you're the father of six year old twins you have to set priorities. That doesn't mean you give up what you love, it means you look for a proper balance.

In the spring I had one of those wonderful father moments. I had the privelege of teaching the kids to ride their bicycles sans training wheels. It took all of a day.

We have a bit of a sloped driveway. I moved the car to the far side of the drive and told them to let themselves coast at an angle across the tar toward the lawn., Once they felt the bike balance, begin pedaling and then when they hit the grass pedal hard and keep the machine moving. They picked up on it very quickly. Smiles and determination left longer and longer streaks across the yard. It made me proud to see them achieve their goals.

When you believe in something you can envision a profound sense of possibility. You begin to look for the creative ways which might help make the goal you believe you can achieve a reality.

I knew I would ride when the opportunities came.

Would that I could say I've had the time to write about those trips. They've been less often because of the necessary balance currently influencing my life, but they have been great. ANd I've noticed something which I sort of left in the back of my thoughts these last several years.

The best rides are the long rides. You go through so many thought cycles over so much distance. Contemplating everything from the balance in your relationships to the balance of the world you live in.

Between those thoughts though, there's that stillness. That peacefully quiet state of being. The hills rise before you, then they drift away beneath you. The path may run straight for innumerable miles or it may seem to coil back upon itself. But its become a friend. Like those rare relationships which simply accept us as we are.

We should treat the open road the same as it treats us. Its indifferent to its users but its also quite an example of what you see is what you get. In other words, pay close attention. Assumed expectations make demands which usually dredge up confusion. Why did this thing happen between us? Maybe we just weren't paying enough attention.

Relationships aren't limited to human or animal interaction. They exist in everything we do because we treat everything with some level of expection. Living things, inanimate things and most importantly to the rider, The Road.

Management of actions. Balance.

I chose to take the time I had to ride. It can take me a while to put things into words because I take what I write with some degree of seriocity. (see? Me not real good wit da funny funnys)

I ride for balance. I ride because of balance. I wait to ride out of respect for balance.

Just as passing through the city to get to the uninhibited country lanes has always been the effort required to set my rider's spirit free, its merely a matter of a little more time between rides to get me on that saddle again. Nothing more than the joyfully acceptable requirement any father with young children understands.

And the school year is right around the corner... (wink)

Harv

2009-07-16T09:55:00.000-07:00

Kids Grow Up

This has been a different year for me. My twins are now six. Taught them to ride bicycle in the matter of a day. Well ok, maybe it wasn't quite that quickly but bending up the training wheels and telling my daughter that she's really only riding when the rattle of the outriggers goes away certainly helped.

When you have children its no constraint to put their needs and wants above your own. To be there with them and your wife as the family you are. They know that we are more important to each other than any inanimate object. Just as important a lesson for me as for them. It grounds us.

Wacky weather here in the northern midwest has made it a little easier, no doubt. Not to say that there haven't been days when I would have liked to have been on the bike, but as things change you tend to appreciate each of those little gems in life a bit more. The kids, my best friend and of course the rides.

Which brings me to an interesting change in my riding habits.

When I had what I thought was more time, I took more rides but they were shorter. Now that I seem to be more aware of who needs what and to what degree, the rides have gotten considerably longer. Breathing more deeply.

Its something of a return to my very old ways. When I was younger I earned the nickname Marathon Harv. One story from those single carefree (but not better just different) days began with a late Friday night get together of a group of riding buddies. We met at karl's house in Waukesha county WI and they agreed that I should lead.

Now this was long before GPS. Maps still folded out into impossibly large sheets of squiggly lines. Rivers and state parks were often the main feature. Squiggly lines without reference to road construction but detailed enough to help the sojourner find a lonely motel somewhere between here and there.

We met at Karl's with steaks, hamburger meat and bratwursts stuffed into our riding jackets. The grill was fired up while friends and girlfriends trickled in off Davidson Road. Once the sun dipped below the horizon the sky's sparkle began to shine with countless stars. It had a depth. You know how it is when you look up there on a clear night and it seems like some things are closer than others? How the Milky Way seems closer than other stars and clusters of stars? That's how that night was. The moon was clear and bright. I recall so many of those nights.

We talked about the direction we'd like to head. The pace and the types of roads we wanted to be on this night. For some reason only beknownst to the heavens they decided to let me lead. Someone handed me a map while eyes peered over my shoulders. Someone made the joke "Go west young man!" and wordlessly we all agreed. I chose a back door route past the quiet city streets of Waukesha and said, "From there I'm playing it by ear".

Time seemed to slip away. Roads bathed in the high beams of UJM's (universal Japanese motorcycles) flooded open fields on every bend, exiting millions of fireflies to their eery green yellow glow. If you haven't ridden southeastern Wisconsin on a hot summer night its one of those things you don't appreciate until you see it. It looks like waves of tiny Christmas lights blinking across grey black fields. I don't know how else to describe it.

The serenity of the ride, the peaceful hum of the bikes behind me just kept me rolling forward. I had no idea to where or how far I was taking us. We stopped at an all night gas station but no one questioned the time. At least no one said anything to me. So we kept going.

Signs annoucing towns who inhabitants numbered in the low hundreds. Unencorporated.

Weather beaten barns and horses resting in the fields. The sheen of dew glinting from every surface.

Go west young man.

I don't recall any sign telling me we were anywhere near Madison. But we passed the city at some point. And so we came to a river. And we stopped at the bridge crossing the river. A hush was over us. The mood was peaceful. Satisfied. We parked the bikes, opened our sodas and lit our smokes. Scotty broke the silence with a question.

"What the hell river is this?"

He walked up the bridge to a sign on the far side. From the distance we heard the exclamation.

"The Mississippi?? The freakin Mississippi?? He took us to... You took us all the way to the freakin' Mississippi!!!"

I opened my mouth but could only repeat "I... I... " I shrugged and held my hands up.

Someone hollered to Scott that it sure didn't take us that long to get there. He stopped, looked up at the moon and just shook his head.

"Next time..." Said Scotty upon return, his index finger making his point to all of us, "Next time Marathon Harv here, leads us, make sure we have a place we're actually going to. Someplace to arrive or else god only knows where we'll end up."

And you know, I've wondered that a few times this summer...

Harv

2009-06-09T05:34:00.000-07:00

Hand in Hand

Inspiration is the appeal of some ethereal connection a person finds outside themselves, to something else. An influence on life and perspective. Inspiration can focus a person's goals while it sheds the less important clutter we accumulate. Most of which we hardly realized we've been giving space to, until something inspires us to reevaluate if we're on track with who we intend to be and where we intend to be going.

The Emotional and the Physical. Seems like it takes a jarring life experience to move you off center. Some dramatic influence you can't control, pushing you right off your feet. Often it hurts emotionally. Some of us internalize the pain while others lash out without even realizing it. Others draw back until the storm subsides. Till the waters become calm again.

If you're a rider you tend to react to emotional sizemic shift by finding a direction and heading into it. You ask all your questions to the universe, to your god or even your dead relatives in the the free blowing wind. Its something fairly difficult to explain to a non rider regarding why we ride. Everyone wants soundbite answers to everything nowadays.

Non riders see us in it for the exitement. The truth is, we do it for the fulfillment. Going fast doesn't solve it for us. We're not necessarily looking for a head rush. Closed tracks are meant for head rushes. We're finding fulfillment. You would know this but try to explain to a non rider that riding is to us the initiated, our quiet time. You couldn't put it past them. No way they would believe it. That the rider in motion is the spirit at rest.

People who dabble in bikes don't get it either. Its not a hobby and no, you don't "get it". What you're looking for is somewhere else. Not that the rest of us begrudge you riding, but in all honesty, the image you think is legitimate is hung over us like droll humor on last year's runway models. Perpetuated by a non riding public assuming it understands when it doesn't. That's not anyone's fault, but it is a misperception.

Put another way, the bikes I ride sound like music to me. Moreso because I'm a blues musician. Love the blues. Been playing sax since the seventies as a kid. I didn't realize how lucky I was to be playing with a group whose talent and sense thereof was piqued to every player and note we produced. You couldn't just join. You auditioned. You showed your stuff and then you were placed. A year down the road you were reevaluated. We were about the music. We had to play it at its level, not the other way around. And we had to improvise. Not unlike riding safely.

The sax and the bike are skills to be learned. But it takes a certain amount of talent to use either of them well. Newer musicians think about the exitement of playing in front of a live audience. Non riders think about thrills and spills. The uninitiated only see the end results of attempts at music and riding ability. The unwashed imagine the David Sanborns, the concerts. They flip the cable channels and see people performing stunts and sometimes failing at them. Exitement. Adrenaline.

But riding and playing music aren't about that. They fill a need. They satisfy something deeper. Long term. For me riding is a near uninhibited time of contemplation. Phrasing ideas into coherent thoughts, useful in interaction with others. And music focusses my mind emotionally. Playing jazz and blues really lets me see how the inner guy is doing. Without having to ask him. Fullfillment. Peace.

Harv

This piece is dedicated to Micheal Savage, who discussed the subjects of exitement versus fulfillment the other night. The yacht. The bay.

2009-05-29T05:51:00.000-07:00

Back in the Saddle

I've been wallowing in a bit of self pity. I didn't even realize it. Somehow I let other things in my life take precendence and lost sight of what makes me, well, me. Last night my wife took one look at me and told me to go ride.

I never really noticed how much the scooter has become the favorite of the stable. Something about that machine is better than the others. It doesn't have more power than the others. It doesn't have the image of a true motorcycle. Its a conglomeration of things I prefer and things which might not be as favorable as some aspects of a full on motorcycle. I know. I've got a Yamaha Virago, Honda Nighthawk and Harley Sportster to compare it to. Yet its ride is more individualistic than anything the true road machines can provide.

Last night I donned the helmet after reaquainting myself with my Corrazo 5.0 riding jacket. Hein Gericke gauntlets (not the newer line, these have been with me for over twenty years and not a stitch is out of place) pulled up near mid forearm just felt right. Again.

You can change a lot in your life but some things ought never to be lost. Sure, priorities can be rearranged slightly to fit the needs of a period in one's life, but never lose sight of who you are. Never give up that which defines you.

I've heard more than a few friends tell me they've lost who they once were. I can see it in their eyes. I can see it in their wives' eyes. Once you sacrifice some intrinsic piece of yourself for the sake of others, eventually you resent yourself for never returning to who you were before you commited that selfless act for the love or needs of others. Even though it was the right thing to do, eventually times change and times of need pass. Just as a baseball game has two sides taking turns swinging their bats to score, eventually each team has to stand in the outfield and recieve the ball.

Seems like a minor thing, just to ride. But for many of us who blog about riding, its central to our very nature. It changes us in ways our spouses and friends probably see better than we can. It makes us more whole in some way. When Annette looked at me it was with the recognition of a best friend who knows what you need when you begin to drift off your center. You need to ride. Those were her words.

The busy heat of the day was settling for sumptous cooler air with long shadows across country roads. That little single lunger sounded for all the world like it was happily humming beneath me. Bugs by the hundreds were mashing themselves on my windscreen and donking off my helmet. The effects of swamps and woods made the little swarms targets of evening birds and a few bats. As my high beam lit the roads kamakaze pilots of feather and black fur darted through the light, grazing in the temporarily fertile airfield of artificial day.

It just doesn't get any better than that. Only more available time would make it better. Kind of like a slice of your favorite pie only makes you want to buy yourself another when no one's looking.

For some of us riding is like a slice of pie. A treat. There isn't anything wrong with that. For others though, people like you and me, that treat would be a personal epic journey. A tale of two cities seperated by historic persona. Yet the story itself taking place between them. The cities themselves, mere bookends.

That's what we do. What we live for. Its what being back in the saddle means.

Harv

2009-05-28T18:03:00.000-07:00

Spill, Loss of Will

No, not me. My wife has been taking Kythera to work some days. Then it happened. She managed to tip the bike over with her riding over the top. She was fine, but the bike took a mark.

You know how it is when you damage your own things. But forbid it that someone else does it. The world's about to end. Somehow it sticks in your craw. You get over it but you don't, if you know what I mean.

If your father ever took your car one morning, brought it home on a flat so that only about eight inches by an inch or so of rubber was left on the entire rim and then took your other car without saying a word about the whole incident to you, then you understand how I got to where I am.

If your father duplicated the key of your pick up and lent it out to people without your prior knowlege or consent on weekends, you would get an idea of how I feel about ever damn one of my vehicles.

If your father ever took your Super Beetle and never disengaged the parking brake, then complained about how slow a car it was and what the hell was that stink in there, You might gather a sense of how much trust I would have to have in anyone to let that person use my car or bikes.

You know, you'd think I'd have learned with the Duster and that Chevelle... Oh, the VW could have been an honest mistake. But the deal with my F150...

So when the Vespa went over in the hands of someone else, didn't matter who that someone else was, real old resentment boiled to the surface. Like a tar pit churning the stuff it chokes over the centuries. The right situation could bring old bones back to the surface.

Doesn't help that I'm pissed that Karl is no longer for this earth. Guys like him deserve more time with those who they matter to. He's the kind 'made this world a better place.

So the Vespa sits. I can't ride it. Maybe writing this will help me past this bs and I can move on. The Virago has been out though. The Nighthawk is close to finished and the Harley just needs a fresh battery.

Come to think of it Christine has been out quite a bit even for being as busy as I've been. That bike's been with me since 1987. A Virago named Christine.

Screw it. I think I got it out of my system.

Kythera is calling...

Harv

2009-04-02T11:26:00.001-07:00

This post is for the Ziebart and Peters families and friends thereof

Normally this site is for motorcyclists and scooterists. Today I speak to those whose loss was with the Peters and Ziebart families.

Where does one begin? Sunday was a shock to us all. Karl's been a lifelong friend. My earliest memories involve Karl and Bernie. A senseless accident took Karl, little Lukey and Amber's friend. The shock we've endured, the pain we will face is not going to subside anytime soon.

There is no prescribed pattern to how we will all deal with our loss of Karl, Luke and Cara. I won't pretend that we can subdue our feelings with some deeper dedication to prayer or what have you. The fact remains we will mull this over in our minds hundreds if not thousands of times. The emotions which will surface are natural. And Do Not forget that the Almighty designed us with these emotions. Not to deny ourselves what we feel, but to gain glimpses of where we stand, so to speak. To be honest with ourselves.

Scripture tells us to "be angry and sin not". Christ tore the temple apart when he found out what was going on inside the gates. Even so, his response fit the crime.

Why would I write crime? In what way is this a criminal act? In some legal terms it might indeed be a crime scene. Less an accident. From the perspective of the accident itself. The abrupt and misunderstood taking away of our dear loved ones feels like a crime.

But we didn't own our loved ones. What we shared, the moments of our lives together, is ours. Memories of love and friendship, good times and hard. That's what we're really allowed to own.

Seems insignificant doesn't it. Not enough.

You build a life from the soil you're standing on and you nurture the life you're giving your family. No guarantee is set in stone that all this work, here on this rock, will amount to anything we mortals can present to eternity and say Look, Here is my earned key to unlock the Great Gate.

The key we're given is one of mercy. Even in the face of such tremendous loss, where emotions swirl and torment us. Robbing us of rest and peace.

I can't be anything other than honest. This... sucks.

DearLordinheavenKingofmercyandgraceandallthatisgood;

this sucks.

You knew I was thinking it. But I also know that You knew I would be thinking it. Because You made me and them and all of it. How would you not know?

My heart breaks for them. Our hearts are broken, together in a way.

Show us how to be Your hands.

And Your heart.

Harv

But it will in the place where faith is the substance of things hoped for.

2009-03-17T07:29:00.000-07:00

Playing Hookey

After the inlaws left late Sunday afternoon I got that first extended ride in. There isn't much to say other than it was glorious. Cold once the sun dropped below the horizon but still just as I remembered the rides last year. You can't keep a good thing down.

Now on Mondays I usually have a three hour rehearsal with a band. But the weather called out to me. The day either broke or came close to breaking sixty degrees. You just can't pass that stuff up. My wife got home, loaded up the kids for their gymnastics class and I rolled the Vespa out into the driveway.

I headed straight west. A full tank of gas and a smile on my face.

In the matter of a single day some of the country roads I'd been on the day before were changing. Sand was pushed further off the intersections and people were beginning to show life outside their homes. It felt like a kind of revival was happening throughout the farmlands.

I cruised toward my farm initially. Its just a twenty mile jaunt with two main routes to it. If you go north its a straight shot. You just keep driving straight until you get there. But the other route is much more interesting. You can roll along with woods coming right to the road in some places. The land itself rises and falls more than the other path. One thing that makes a big difference is that the Mississippi runs beside the straight road. Within a few acres. The hills are much more gentle than the road I began on yesterday. The lay of the land, as they say.

The wind was calmer on the second ride. Enough so that I could hear the bike's single lung huffing along happily. I cruised at an approximate sixty per and just enjoyed another late afternoon. Sweeping gentle bends let me lean her over the way I like. An evening sun, twisty roads and the scooter have a way of settling my spirit. Some people garden, others cook. I ride.

You get to that place in your mind where you tune out the unimportant things and focus on the ride itself. You look further ahead. You pay better attention to your lane placement. Books and blogs about riding seem to drift in and out of your thoughts.

I think about what people have written in the riding blogs when I ride. I think about how this view reminds me of something Steve Williams has photographed. Or I'm reminded of Dan's words about lane location and speed. I look far ahead and the view gets bigger. I see where I'm going much better in this frame of mind than I might in the other life away from the bike, that I live.

These are the times when the imperfections of the road seem to vanish. Its the ride, the panoramic sightseeing that is unlike driving a mere car. Where too many things are available to influence your mind away from the world you're actually travelling through. But then, we don't take rides like these in cars anymore.

I manage to do it on the best rides. I manage to do it on the early season rides too. I get myself lost. You know how it is. You take an offshoot of the road you're on and meander for no other reason than to see what it looks like from that hilltop however many miles away. But you have to see because its so high compared to everything else. And the road looks like it leads right to the top. So you turn off and head for the view.

And its another great panoramic vision you don't regret deciding to take in. Then there's that other road, weaving down off the main you just came up on. You can tell there's some weaving because what you see spills off at a bend through the trees. Before you realize it you're having to make a quick decision or negotiate a U turn. No cars ahead or in the mirrors. You look over your shoulder. Its clear. Signal, lean hard and blip down a steep hill to explore some more.

I did that for a few hours yesterday. Just following the best roads I came across. I got lost and didn't regret it at all. The surprise of recovering my bearings when I popped out on familiar tarmac is something which always causes me to smile. If I knew the names of the roads I'd been on, I don't think it would matter. I don't want it layed out with that much clarity just yet. Maybe the name or number will matter more when I feel like I've mentally mapped out the places I've ridden in relation to the local landmarks. But for now, there is no urgency to know.

I think the band knows what I snuck off for...

Harv

2009-03-12T16:42:00.000-07:00

Record Setting -15 degrees Fahrenheit This Morning

I had to edit the temp because here at the house it was one degree cooler than at the St Cloud airport where the official temps are taken.

The morning news program I listen to while my kids get themselves ready for school noted that St Cloud reached way down and found a new low temp this morning.

Here's the funny thing; yesterday it was warmer but the winds were stronger. This morning actually felt nicer because the winds subsided. Frankly none of it matters because the roughly four inches of snow we recieved two days ago brought out the blasted salt/sand trucks.

So... tomorrow, they're telling us it could reach thirty two degrees. By Saturday we could rise to what someone decided is supposed to be normal temps for this region this time of year. In other words, we should be melting by now.

I have garage fever. Its like cabin fever except you stare out at the iced roads from your open overhead garage door. You try to mentally will melting. You clean your driveway to the point an eleven degree sunny day is enough heat to melt the thinnest films of ice on blacktop.

I'm not starting the Vespa for the sake of hearing it run anymore. The next time there's spark in that engine, that thing's going on the road.

Unfortunately the last time I rode only made my current bout of garage fever worse. Less than a week has passed since that ride. Still, with the drifts and only salt to initiate melting on the roads, its seems like a lifetime ago.

I can name it though...

Garage fever.

Harv

2009-03-04T08:33:00.000-08:00

A Heartfelt Thank You

More often than not we owe someone else for our good fortune. Sometimes its as large as a hand up in times of need. Other times a profound statement uttered in any given conversation rises up in our thoughts during a time when we're looking for the best answer.

What compels us to move above our current condition is the memory of someone who carved that path before us. Sure, it looks like our own scythe is the the one cutting through the tall grass but if we look more closely we can see that what we're cutting is not as tall as what lies on either side of our goal. The grass may not have been shorn recently but if we really look we can see its been brought down to passable heights before.

Sometimes we remember to acknowlege those who've gone before us. Sometimes we have our own silent ways of respecting those individuals. Other times we simply move forward unconciously taken the less overgrown route through the brush. Looking back we realize someone was here before. Someone broke this trail long ago.

Steve Williams and Gary C. opened this world to me. Dan Bateman has always brought home the need for constant diligence in the ride itself. Others, too many to mention let alone keep track of, helped me believe I could write a cogent ongoing tale of the experience of riding. A group of riders here in the St Cloud area inspired new loose friendships devoted to riding our scooters. My own Friday Nite rides brought people into my world I'd never met before. People enjoying the same two wheeled happiness I have.

This is what I am. A rider. More recently a scooterist because there's something about a scooter unlike any other kind of motorcycle. I'm not alone. Its a new thing for many people. Some who rode motorcycles in the past and found these new machines somehow brought the thrill of the ride back from their memories. Like many before me, scooters bring what made me a rider in the first place, full circle.

Yet the experience of riding is a kind of yin and yang. You ride with a group but you ride alone.

Individualism. But is it really?

I'm grateful to you who write. Who inspired me to write.

I know, I get a bit philosophical compared to some motorcycle and scooter blogs. My writing style and thoughts are not everyone's cup of tea. But its something of an anchor to write when I can't take the ride. And I wouldn't enjoy this heretofore undiscovered venue of the experience of being a rider without all of you who've come before me.

For that I owe you the gratitude of thanks.

Let's ride...

Harv

2009-02-21T11:04:00.000-08:00

Mid February Blues

You can pull a rabbit out of a hat but you can't predict when the spring will come. It doesn't matter how much you stare up at the sky and beg it to stop dumping snow where you live, February is one of those months which is completely unpredictable. Three days of warmth followed by three inches of snow. Bleah.

Now don't get me wrong, I like winter. My kids pile onto each other in the yard, covering themselves with white powder until it turns to slush and they get cold. Its fun to watch them romp. Before long I'm feeling icy wetness down my back too. It feels colder than it did when I was their age. Or maybe memories just get more pleasant with time.

Before long I'm looking at the sky again. Looking at the driveway, wondering how long before all the new snow will melt. Hoping the plows don't pour more rock salt on my scooter haunts anymore this winter.

February teases you. It turns up the heat for a few days then brings you snow squalls bearing gifts;

Drifts.

I think most scooterists are tougher than I am. My limit is in the upper twenties fahrenheit. I've seen more than a few scooters running happy well below that temp in the fall and I expect they'll be back out again once the roads are reasonably passable. Being that this is Minnesota, a few warm days usually melt most of the road snow but not all. And under that snow is ice. I'm not tall by anyone's stretch of imagination. I'm up (or down) to my limit on the LX just to reach the ground. Balls of my feet, maybe. When you can't adequately pad across slick surfaces, you wait for those surfaces to melt and evaporate. Rain is not snow. Puddles react the same whether they're deep or shallow. You just need to get to the surface underneath. Snow, on the other hand, can be treacherous in more than a few ways.

Its the reason I've got one of the bikes I wanted since I was a kid but not the other. Sportsters are low. Sportster Huggers are even lower. BMW R1200R's are not. Although I hear they can be lowered with kits provided by BMW itself, but the local dealer here has never had one set up that way for me to try.

Despite my paltry excuse for an excuse, I don't ride below the mid twenties. Maybe if I had heated riding gear things would be different. So far keeping the furnace stoked (eating a thick meal beforehand and stopping mid ride for another thick meal has been pretty good at keeping me sufficiently warm.

Last night's snowfall has made the roads dreck. Its probably into the teens on the mercury by now. Tonight everything will refreeze and become a different kind of dreck. And all this rider wants to do it ride.

I really want to believe the local weather forecasts but I don't know.

This is central Minnesota and its February.

Harv

2009-02-15T09:38:00.000-08:00

Equality of Scooter

I walked into the kitchen this morning and noticed a large jar-like container. What's this, I thought. Maple Syrup. I turned around and poured myself a cup of joe. Then I had to look again because the jar was of a unique shape. Don't they always do that with Maple Syrup? Maybe, but more often than not, jars like this one signified the product was local. Sure enough, the label said the contents were from somewhere here in Minnesota. A town in the northwoods I imagine. Didn't recognize the name.

I asked my wife where she got it. Craft show. Said there were all sorts of locally produced products there. Even some treats from across the river in Wisconsin.

Now I grew up in Wisconsin. During a time when your family knew your butcher. And your butcher knew your family. And your relatives. And their kids. And the schools you and your cousins were attending. It was a small world and I get the feeling these things happened this way because they were intentionally built upon those sorts of relationships.

We were on the poor side of middle class. No doubt we were making ends meet, but every penny consumed could be accounted. If you really wanted something you found a way to earn the money towards it. Sometimes the parents simply overruled you when you told them your plans. So you kept your money, waiting until you had enough for a need and a treat. Because if you saved enough for a need, your parents were more willing to allow you to spend a little toward something fun. Its not an unhappy life, trust me.

I have an uncle. He's now a millionaire. It was said that when Grampa gave him a dollar, he would turn it over three times before settling on its use.

That lesson is not the only one we carry with us in this family. From each relative there are memories of what was done to eek out a living until finances improved. Yet we were never for want. Not really. Oh, we could have dreams about some new thing like a bicycle (as kids) or new lawnmower (as adults). But the reality was, what we had really never hindered us from doing what we wanted.

The trips to the farms were fun. Like field trips. Early Saturday mornings we'd pack up and meet uncles, aunts and cousins at some farm not far out of the city limits. Thick German and Polish accents but mostly everyone just spoke the languages they were most comfortable with. Bushels of potatoes and vegetables we didn't normally grow in the city were loaded (stuffed) into trunks and backseats of Buicks and Oldsmobiles. Us kids merely sat wedged in where we could between the bounty.

Those are some of the best memories I have.

It all came back to me as I thought about that jar of maple syrup. They were indeed good times. We still get some of those things when we head up to Annette's folks. People who never forgot the best ways to live. Only now we don't have room for a chest freezer or the storage for those things as I remember them. Modern houses have no real basements. Or places to keep such things.

But there's a little room in this modern disfunctionally designed excuse for a house. Enough that I could make special runs for things which don't take up much space and are locally made or grown.

Things which would fit on a scooter.

Harv

2009-02-09T10:51:00.000-08:00

The Dregs of Reliability

I participate on a web forum dedicated mainly to riders of the modern Vespa. Four stroke engines, CVT transmissions. We're the new scooterists on the block, so to speak. That doesn't necessarily mean we're new to riding, but it does mean we're ok with modern appliance simplicity.

The motorcycle world has recently jumped to a new plateau. These modern Vespas with their lack of shifting certainly weren't the first scooters to emply this design successfully, but they've caught on enough to garner attention of the two wheel riding world in general. Piaggio is making some of them full on automatic motorcycles. Bar the fact someone is still calling them scooters, one look tells you a scooter was designed for a specific purpose while these boldy slip into the next category up the ladder.

Four stroke engines have always been the centerpiece of the road going motorcycle. Two strokes served a purpose in that they were lighter for the diminuitive scooter. The right powerplant for a much smaller machine. At the time they fit the package well. An easy to maneuver small "motorcycle" which protected the rider from the majority of the elements. Road grime and engine... stuff... were kept reasonably at bay. Leg shield, engine shield. And light enough for your average post war Italian beauty to liberate herself from the schedules of public transportation.

Time and the scooterist roll on.

Its the heritage the vintage riders are cueing into. The straightforward purpose built simplicity of the era. Small, light, easy to work on.

Not so with the new models. They're shiftless in the derogatory sense. They're four strokes hiding awkwardly under non removable metal bodywork. They have nothing in common with their ancestors other than the fact the same company makes these as made those.

You just put gas in and take yours to the dealer to service it on the schedule. Nothing is supposed to happen in between. No fiddling, no adjusting, no double checking of odd things even above the standard regimen of the motorcyclist. Appliance grade reliability. It somehow means we're not entirely real scooterists. Never mind motorcycle enthusiasts.

I should rename mine Amana. Seems oddly appropiate, don't you think? Amana the midnight blue Vespa.

I think I just bit my tongue...

Yet, that is the direction the entire motorcycling community is heading. A stark reality that these machines can indeed be astonishingly reliable. The preride walkaround will always be requisite. We'll just find fewer and fewer reasons to reach for the tools to tweak something as we pan the seals, bolts and new-to-us electronical thingies of our current era two wheelers.

Its a little bit of every corner of life that we riders seem to be banging our heads against. Unless you live in an older neighborhood, you just don't get to have an unfinished basement in which to corner off a small workshop for yourself. Garages seem to be be the new basement/attic storage areas. Looking down my street I can see cars which never get parked where they were meant to be parked because garages became basements and workshops. Not unlike any other guy who realizes what he's had, I moved from a city house with a shop I built myself in the basement, a three stall insulated garage and a decent sized shed. The truth is it really was a small price to pay for the better school district we moved into some seventy miles from where we used to live. But the instinctual subconscious hunt for where the shop disappeared to, always wakes you up to reality; lack of workspace means a higher reliability requirement out of the things you use. Tinkering is traded for necessary repairs. You just don't have the space or the interest to do things in a cobbled together corner of a room. Any room.

Life moves fast. Time to ride is time to slow life down.

Time to dote around your machine used to slow life down too.

Harv

2009-01-21T10:58:00.000-08:00

A Midwinter Night's Dream

Its been a long cold winter here in central Minnesota. Still is. The hope of getting a ride in on the nicer days was precluded by the need to keep the driveway shoveled out. Or snowblown, take your pick.

I thought about putting posts down many times. Each beginning felt more like a memory of last season's rides than anything new and fresh. That's where the spark is after all. Each ride takes on its own personality. The places you go, the things you see.

I'd write a bit, then realize somewhere deep in the anals of this site were posts similar enough to that the new would merely be a rehashing of something already written. Since all of us north of the Mason Dixon line were experiencing this same cold snowy season harking back to winters of more than a decade past, I chose to leave this site dormant. Fresh experiences are right around the corner. New rides, groups and individuals to ride with are exactly the awakening freedoms of spring I want to be able to share. Two stroke smoke hopefully. The resurgent budding of living greenery along the shoulders of familiar country roads. Old haunts.

They'll be different this time around. Opportunities to ride with my wife just ahead or behind me is something I'm really anticipating. Like a kid waiting to rip into the giftwrapping hiding anxiously awaited toys.

All the years we've had riding together have always put her against the bike's sissy bar. Now she can ride on her own. About the middle of last summer she earned her endorsement. Too late in the season to plan rides. A pair of five year olds take precedence. And planning.

Still, every parent knows how much time is left in the day, the weekend, or the season. You can either try to map it like a rigid calendar ahead of time, or you can creatively adjust as each week takes its turn. Funny balance. Not unlike keeping the shiny side up as they like to say.

So I'll ride and write. I'll breathe deeply and try not to make too many excuses. The seasons throw you curves in the northern climes. Snow and ice is something I wait to pass from the lane before regaining my freedom on two wheels. Traction is as important as it gets. When the roads finally clear and the days get longer, there's still no guarantee it will be warm, though. There's an old saying I hadn't heard until I moved to this sometimes deathly frigid state;

There is no bad weather. Only bad clothes.

Harv

2008-10-06T15:43:00.000-07:00

Getting There Versus Getting There

The ride was scheduled to take us to a place called Little Falls. Birthplace of Charles Lindbergh. Its a little distance from St Cloud. North up highway 15 which becomes highway 10. The speed limit on this state highway is 65 mph. I've done this ride a few times on the LX150.

The funny thing is, you'll come upon cars just toodling along while others are in the fast lane making incredible time. Seems that passing one of the more laid back vehicles driving in the right lane on a scooter incites some sort of indignity. No sooner will I have passed and moved over than I can expect the person I just passed to floor it and "pass me back". Sometimes I can smile at it, knowing these people need to prove something to themselves and other times its annoying. As a general rule I don't have much interest in what others do and I sometimes wonder why it matters to them what I might be doing.

But this ride was going to be different. Better. This ride was planned by a fellow scooterist of the group whose familiar with the area and the better roads for scooterists. We wouldn't be taking the quick way up, designed with only getting there in mind. We would be taking a route where the getting there was as good as arriving. More on that later.

We were to meet at the A&W. Remember those? Root beer floats and bacon double cheeseburgers. You'd drive up under a long metal awning and a waitress on roller skates would coast up to your car to take your order. This is not that type of A&W. The food is the same, but the building our A&W is not what you'd remember. Here in Sartell, the A&W is part of the BP gas station. Not as quaint as it used to be.

As I was getting the last gear [on] Tom called.

"Hello?"
"Where you at?"
"Just out the door. Anyone else there yet?"
"Notchyet."
"Be there in five minutes."
"Sounds good."

I arrived and the others started appearing. Tom on his black Genuine Buddy, Keith riding his red Buddy. Sam came on his black and wild Aprilia two stroke 50cc that does an honest 50mph cruising speed. And a new arrival whose name I can't remember but on the website she goes by PrisonPrincess. (She works at a prison. Getchermindsouttathegutter) She's got a bright red Honda 250 of late vintage. All swoopy and looking ready for crossing the country.

But someone was missing. Lucky, the guy who started the St Cloud Scoots website was nowhere to be seen. We scanned the road in the direction he would be coming, but no sign of his Vespa. Tom grabbed his cell and the next thing I knew I was told to get on my bike.

Tom and I rolled up to the house. The garage door was up and the plumb LX150 was hooked to a battery trickle charger. If I remember right, he got it to spin over initially and then nothing. Not even clicking. I tried the kick start. Nothing there. The lever's return spring had its own problems. You had to lift it back into position with your toe.

Now what?

We searched for jumper cables and I mentioned that there would be enough juice running to the little twelve volt from Lucky's car that starting it wouldn't be necessary. Apparently there are a few bad things which can happen should one try to jump start a scooter battery off a car battery while the car is running. We opted for caution. The bike started and ran. I rode back to the group who followed me back to lucky's.

With Lucky's scooter running we could begin the ride in earnest. Taking the east river road north out of Sartell, we would be tracing the Mississippi's wending through the hinterlands of central Minnesota.

The six of us jogged up and down slopes. Around sweeping bends. Relaxed and enjoying the beautiful views. The grand river was always near, even if it wasn't there every time you looked to your right. A slightly brisk autumn afternoon. Leaves just turning their fall colors. A band of six scooterists passing through, taking it all in.

Suddenly things started looking oddly familiar to me. The Charles Lindebergh museum? I'd only seen the place on other scooter rides and only at night. And coming from the other direction. I'm finding daytime riding more refreshing all the time.

We ate at a recommended place known as The Black and White. A very old restaurant serving up some excellent food. But then when doesn't a meal during a long ride not taste better than any other time?

Keith guided us back via different roads than the way we came. He knows some great riding in this area. We were clear of almost all traffic. For a Saturday afternoon I was surprised how quiet the entire ride actually was.

In the past I'd ridden to Little Falls with the intention of discovering some of the offshoots leading away from its street lamps. I'd had it in my mind that first I had to get there in order to get there. I was wrong.

Sometimes arrival happens before you get there.

Harv

2008-10-02T19:01:00.000-07:00

Quick Note:

Friday's Friday Nites ride will be cancelled this week. But I'll be riding with St Cloud Scoots on Saturday at noon. Meeting at the A&W across from Walgreens in Sartell. Its north of Coburns on Pine Cone Rd at the stop light. This is a run up to Little Falls via a route which will stick close to the Mississippi river.

If that last paragraph doesn't sound like the description of a modern day Bedford Falls then I don't know what would.

Anyway, check out the St Cloud Scoots site as they have a new liability waiver policy for the rides and the site.

Harv

2008-09-18T07:42:00.001-07:00

Catch 70

Over the last few days I've been working on getting the rollers in the variator of my LX150 replaced. I live too far to have the time to drag it to the twin cities. So I ordered the parts and waited.

The job itself is not too difficult. What you spend the most time doing is getting other parts out of the way of the casting which is the transmission cover. Then on to the variator. The work would have stymied me but for the gracious help that people share on the Modern Vespa forum. In this case I simply googled the information and found a comprehesive thread explaining how to go about it. With pictures to boot.

This morning I had the chance to ride. My wife reminded me I had clothes to return to the outlet mall in Albertville. The perfect opportunity to see how things turned out. If I made it more than a couple miles on highway 10 I could feel rest assured that the forty odd mile trip down ought to be trouble free. Highway 10 is posted for speeds up to 65 mph. With a strong headwind today I could hardly break 60 mph according to the speedometer. The optimistic speedometer which is known to be off roughly five miles per. Still, a good clip in light traffic.

Highway 10 is a very straight road. Think of it as a back up to I94. The expressway and 10 run pretty close to parallel from St Cloud to the twin cities where 10 turns south. I was fighting strong headwinds the whole way down. Plus I think I had some bad gas from an earlier fill-up at a station I don't often use. The bike worked hard to maintain 60 mph on the first tank.

Near Albertville I jogged off 10 and explored a few north-south offshoots. Highway 14 turns out to be a fun road. Long bends, clean lines of sight. Light traffic for the early part of the day but I imagine much changes after 5:00 pm. Other roads were just as good. Places I want to see more of, hopefully before the snows come.

I decided I really didn't have all day to do this. I needed to get there and return those jeans. After which, who knows? So I darted back up 10 and caught the north side of Monticello. Without much effort I found myself on the south side of town. I passed the property of some friends and kept on with I94 now on my left. Back in open farm land. Now passing a lake, but not just any lake. One which is so huge its part swamp, part lake. Snowmobilers go there to drag race in the winter. Beautiful country to ride in and a nice stretch too. Before long I would see the freeway to my left until I got to Albertville.

Albertville. Its an outlet mall spanning more acreage than I could even calculate. Imagine the Mall of America on a budget and no more than two stories high no matter where you go. That's the Albertville outlet mall. Specialty stores, endless parking lots and people paying attention to everything but their driving. One other thing I noticed; These types of places are the flattest on earth yet probably hold the highest concentrations of SUV's at any given moment. Until 9:00pm that is.

I snuck out of there like a mouse among overfed cats. Sometimes following the perimeter of lots like the baseboards of the brownstones in the cities. Sometimes darting across the open areas before before the felines took notice. Never really sure if I was acknowleged or even seen. Just picking my way through the barrage of curbs and light poles to get to the doorway, the final exit out of the giant car lots.

Quite quickly the traffic subsided. I chose to make the first leg of my return the same as my last upon arrival. This time the wind was at my back. But an aged couple in a Buick was ahead of me. They were driving along well under the speed limit so I had to wait. But the scenerey was too nice on this warm end-of-summer day not to appreciate. They dawdled, I dawdled. Hey, I'm in no hurry.

They turned and I opened her up. Climbing a steep hill I watched my speedometer tickle 65 mph. I ducked behind my windscreen at the crest. No use. For whatever reason the Vespa would not have any more of it. I eased off the throttle and oddly, she held 65 again. More twist, no go? Hmm I'll need to investigate that one. I used to be able to pull 74 mph on the downhills. Not bad for a scooter. Was the cause the new larger windscreen?

The bedroom community of Monticello came and went. I chose county road 75 instead of hitting the desert straight highway 10 again. The bike seemed to stretch itself a little. I would back off the throttle every now and then and wind her up a little. She would inch ever closer to 70. After a fresh tank of fuel, even better still. But not quite there. And well, its illegal to go that fast on the frontage roads so I stayed off it for a while. No other traffic around me for nearly the entire ride right into St Cloud. But every now and then I would open her up just a little more... just to see.

The ride home was as good as always. Me, the bike and a smile under my helmet. Some guy in a convertible Jaguar ahead of me kept eyeing the scooter in his rearviews. I have one of those helmets with the internal sun shade. What you see when its down is the greenish blue reflection of you, looking at me. He only glanced at me once or twice. The rest of the time he kept an eye on the Vespa. This went on for a mile or more of city streets. Then I was home.

Parking the bike, I realized how much I needed today's ride. How it settled me. How the roads and "the wave" from various other riders really put the frosting on the cake today. Everyone seemed welcoming. Even in the outlet mall's Twilight Zone parking skein. If people were in their own worlds, at least they weren't in aggressive moods. You can tell the difference, you know what I mean.

If someone were to ask me what it is about riding that I love so much, any mere description would not do justice to what you and I know. But if they could smile at the reading of posts like this one, somehow I know they would get it.

Harv

2008-09-08T06:49:00.000-07:00

Motorcycle about bicycle

This Friday I continued the weekly ride meeting at the Dairy Queen. The first chilly week of the end of summer here in central Minnesota. I really didn't expect anyone to show. You know how it is. The first truly cooler weather usually makes people stay indoors. Surprisingly, even the traffic on Division street, the main drag through St. Cloud was incredibly light.

I waited, sucking my Pepsi through a straw. I was more in the mood for a coffee from the Starbuck's across the street. The clouds had that billowy Autumn feel. Briskness in the air. Five after seven and I was the only one in the DQ lot. Time to head on my ride.

I filtered south on my way out of town. Instead of taking a direct route I decided to meander through the last of the few southernmost neighborhoods and hook onto the roads which eventually become farm roads. From the back sides of strip malls to apartment complexes. From the apartment complexes to proper neighborhoods until homes built in the seventies gave way to fields, patches of woods and farms near harvest. I always loved the old farmsteads. Thin looking two and three story white houses surrounded by outbuildings and barns. Ancient 40 horse field tractors in tall grass where modern John Deer lawn tractors were maneuvered around them. Pick ups having sat in the same places for so long they were sagging back into the earth. Their tires half sunk under the dry dirt. Sun bleached but stoic. I took in as much of it as I could. Then I promptly discovered I was lost.

I started out with a plan. I wanted to follow some of the route fellow rider Colin had shown me a few weeks back when we followed him on his Ruckus. Only now I was off course and not sure how to find my way back to it.

Sometimes you just go with the flow.

I decided to just enjoy the ride and not worry about where I was. After all, how lost can one really be outside of St. Cloud Minnesota? Certain directions would always take me to a north south artery if I really felt I absolutely needed to know exactly where I was. Besides, there were some great roads to explore. And explore them I did.

Invariably, straight roads lead to places someone thought it was important to get to. Off those purpose oriented byways are the offshoots to more interesting riding. Stretches winding past rivers and through thick woods. The shade and humidity actually made it cold in some places. With the sun far into the western sky shadows became longer and longer. They started to fade into the thinning evening light. Turning into shades of grey outside the headlight's beam. My eyes picking up just the smallest hints of color as night began to cloak the Vespa.

Then it hit me. I don't know if it was the deepening cold, the lack of concern in not knowing exactly where I was or that I was alone on this ride.

I passed through a set of switchbacks at a spirited pace and laughed out loud inside my helmet. I leaned back, kicked both legs straight out past the legshield and howled like the Werewolves of London.

There it was, that same feeling of happiness I remembered from my youth. The feeling of gliding over the road derived from the simple pleasure of riding a bicycle. Like coasting down hill, the breeze whipping past you. Exhilaration.

That's what it is to me. Nothing so complicated as who rides what. Or why certain "social" circles. I couldn't care less for that...crap. It only gets in the way of my enjoyment of the experience of riding.

Maybe that's why I gravitated to the Vespa. The Harley sits in the garage, away from the image mongers who own the same brand or style of bike. The Yamaha comes out at rare intervals. That one's been with me since 1987. Too close in appearance to the first group. Honda needs some work to be roadworthy.

Intersection greetings usually pan out like this:

"When ya gonna buy a Harley?" Like I want to be a sheeple.
("I'll bring mine back out when people like you stop riding them." is what I'm thinking but I'm too polite. I think of something else to say.)
"I have one. This is more interesting. Different." The puzzled looks on their faces turn sour when they realize what I actually just said to them.

Because sometimes you have to pull away from the crowd to please yourself. To find what you were looking for in the first place. The very personal exuberance you had as a kid when little else mattered is supposed to be recovered in an adult's hobbies. That's why we occupy ourselves in them. To return to our center.

Think back to that bicycle. How you enjoyed kicking out your legs and howling at wind.

Werewolves of London

Harv

2008-09-04T15:18:00.000-07:00

Judgement Call

I won't ask him just yet. The time just doesn't seem to be right. He's trying to heal and work through walking and standing all over again. Two back surgeries in the eighties complicate things. Being 72 years of age doesn't help but at the same time he's active and concerned about his overall health. A fairly quick healer.

The choice he made is one which we see on a regular basis. Its the odds on favorite that make it ugly. The consequence of rolling the dice and playing those odds. As riders we make those choices every day. Some of us will ride our entire lives and never suffer for it. Others, for any host of reasons will not be so lucky. The roll of the dice.

I'm not a betting man. To a point. I'll ride whenever I can but I'll ride with wide eyes, as they say.

Its one thing to ride. Another to ride at the edge of your skill and yet another to ride with your mind somewhere else. No one gets to make those decisions for you. Its all yours. A judgement call.

Riding with your mind somewhere else. Suddenly reality rises out of your thoughts and BOOM you're wondering how much time elapsed since you opened your eyes to stare at the sky. No longer part of the horizon but taking up your full view. That's what my dad described to me. His hit, flying through the air and landing on the pavement.

I don't mind slowing down anymore. I can find a reason to put the machine on the boil some other time. I don't mind paying closer attention to the view ahead and to the sides of me than I had in years past.

To those who wait.

I hold a Friday night ride at the local Dairy Queen here in St. Cloud, Mn. We've been meeting between 6:30 and 7:00pm. This last week was the first week I've missed it. The afternoon my dad called to tell me what happened. I'll keep that ride a'rollin. I've met some of the best scooter people on those Friday Nites. And you know, pop wouldn't have it any other way.

Harv

2008-08-29T18:03:00.000-07:00

My dad had a scooter accident this afternoon August 29 2008

He was in about the busiest part of town and a gent not paying attention took him out. As my dad explained it the scooter was hit, my dad went airborn and came back down sort of on the bike, sort of on the road.

Now here's the worst thing. I've told him, I've begged him. Please wear at least some protective gear. His half helmet was under the seat. He was wearing shorts and a t-shirt. He's got a lot of road rash over parts of his body which could have been avoided. Four broken ribs. Air in his lungs. (don't ask me to explain, I thought that was where air was supposed to be) He's got a knot from the bridge of his nose to the middle of his forehead. He's looking at at least four to six weeks healing time and he lives alone.

Here's the kicker. I went to pick up the scooter and the bike runs fine. Not a drop of anything anywhere. Steering was straight, bike actually sounds exactly as it always has. Its a Genuine Buddy import made by PGO out of Taiwan. Considered one of the most durable scooters on the market today. I chose to ride it the eight miles home.

These moments put you into a kind of emotional stillness. Me in full gear with every concievable vent open. Outside temps in the upper seventies. Riding with the flow of traffic. Thinking about my dad. Wondering what's going through his pain med pillowed mind. Will he ride again? Sell the bike? How would I feel if he intended to keep riding no differently than he had today, when the car T-boned him? Sans gear and expecting this not to happen again?

I think the open foot area and leg shield of the scooter probably saved him from a lot more hurt. That his leg wasn't pinned to the side of the bike when the car hit him. Little comfort to the son who preaches wearing reflective protective clothing and full face helmets. Still, what amazes me is the low impact evidence on the panels of the scooter. Only one tab poked free of the other plastic panels on the side that was hit. It almost looked like a push rather than a hit. Yet so much damage to the human upon it.

Seriously, I can't write about this anymore

Harv

2008-08-14T11:08:00.000-07:00

Where did it come from?

Riding two wheels with an engine attached has been in my blood since I can remember. As boy I was into Evil Kneivel. When my parents let me in the toy isles I looked for motorcycle toys. It must've driven my prents crazy. They knew I would someday become a rider. Not everyone grows up thinking that nothing could be better than a bicycle you didn't have to pedal.

But many came to it through influences on their lives. An uncle. A cousin. A movie like The Wild Ones. Maybe an actor simply playing a role like The Fonz. A guy couched in the appearance of being a badass who turned out to be one of the good guys.

When the time came to make that leap, to fork out your hard earned dishwasher's income toward some used and abused motorcycle, you cherished it. You rode it scared and at the same time with a sense of abandon. Dangerous yet liberating.

Call it the cost of living. The price of being more alive. The risk associated with riding could be balanced with good training. Observance and attentiveness. My mother insisted I learn to ride in the dirt before I hit the road. (No such thing as an MSF course back then) Wise woman. I learned all my instincts in those woods on either side of the neighborhood. Those woods where I crashed repeatedly. Bent handlebars and a rear rim told of my delight and my downfalls. A smashed turn signal gave sign to my process of learning what a controlled slide entailed.

It was always there. Always in me. The desire for that feeling of freedom to glide down the road or sail through tall grass and gravel on the backwoods fire roads of southeastern Wisconsin. Wind whipping my hair, some friend ahead or behind me on his own steed of of metal and rubber. Engines whining and clacking from missed shifts. We probably weren't going that fast but it didn't matter. We were in the moment and it was all that counted.

Fast forward to today. A whole new breed of riders are out there. Maybe you're one of them. And you're not so different from those of us who rode "back in the day". Just as scooters became popular because of the rise in the price of gas at the pump, so too were motorcycles found to be a fine alternative in the late seventies through the mid eighties. The last time we came out of an oil crunch. There was a lot more involved in that earlier trend but its easy enough to see one of the reasons being spending less money filling the tank. Although dare I say it, I think on ratio more modern scooterists are actually riding their scooters to work this time around than motorcyclists were in the late seventies.

Conversely, by design people who bought motorcycles had to learn to shift. They felt a dedication to riding that some modern scooterists might not share. I think evidence of that missing element might well spill onto the used scooter market should gas prices continue to fall. Its only natural. Riding is not simply a solution to high gas prices. If one thinks it is, one is fooling oneself. New riders usually don't last two years before they recognize there's a clear cut choice. It comes down to either wanting to ride badly enough that weather is merely a reason to bring proper gear in case you need it or parking the bike between rides for longer and longer periods of time. Then the battery dies like the final chime of a Grandfather clock at midnight. In the middle of the riding season.

Once again those of us who discovered these new versions of motorcycles to be much more than the original reasons we thought to buy them may soon be scooping up gently used scooters at very good prices. Bikes we only dreamt about a year or so ago. Never imagining we'd get to ride them, let alone own one. It doesn't matter where it came from. That need to ride for its own sake. Because the price of the machine itself is at least a year's worth of fuel. Plus insurance which never seems to decrease in cost until you reach some ethereal equation no one outside of the insurance world can even explain. And the actuaries aren't talking.

Its good to try new things and find out who we really are. What we really like. To discover that riding, no matter what style of machine you choose, really is a much broader and encompassing choice than you originally thought it to be. The infusion of new riders due to fuel prices has presented a whole new world to people who might never have considered riding as one alternative their old ways. Some of these people will fade away when they find riding takes a bit of dedication and extra work. A passion exceeding the norm. Maybe a Smart Car is on their horzon. Others will absolutely need that exhilerating experience of being on two wheels. It will be something they found they won't be able to give up.

The question isn't where it came from. The question is, where will it take you?

Harv

2008-07-15T04:42:00.000-07:00

Healing hands, paint and tires

Yield. Watch out for cross traffic. Seems these words have had a greater affect on me than I thought. That intersection meeting has been in my dreams for Pete's sake. Its the incident which actually made me beg away from that weeklong ride. For the time being anyway.

I'm not done yet. I'll make that trek this summer, I just don't know how or when. I can't let go of the images of the state I grew up in, the way they build the roads there. Its like some kind of drug the way they snake you through forests and the distinctly European homesteads. Hypnotic.

The hands are much much better. The paint, well, that's another story. This bike earned its first scratch without me being on it when it happened. I picked up some matching touch-up from Vespa Kansas city (Thank you guys!) and proceeded to do a gum up job on an otherwise pristine scooter. In nearly twenty years this is the first observable mark on one of my bikes. Long scratches down the left cowl below the seat. My "temporary" fix didn't help the appearance other than to keep it from rusting. I bought a small can of clear coat. Honestly, I don't know if that will make it look better or worse.

Kythera's new front tire showed up yesterday. I had a hard time finding another Pirelli so I went with a brand recommended by a poster on Modern Vespa who goes by the name Dongoose. He spoke highly of them more than once. I had to give them a shot. Although the scooter won't need a new skin up front for a bit yet, this Heidenau K58 looks like a very aggressive rain tire. I'm looking forward to seeing how this one handles and wears.

So this is where I'm at. Itching to put miles of smiles between me and this suburban home life again. To pour myself into the concentration of the road ahead of me while basking under a late summer midwestern sky. For days at a time. It crawls up your spine, you know what I mean? It pulls at your stoic family man discriminations, making you think of ways to inject a different kind of life into your veins. One you used to know so well. One I used to know so well.

Hot rubber compound on a road far from home. A body which needs more stretch breaks at the end of each day than at the beginning. You stopped but you feel like you're still moving. Biker butt.

Summer doesn't last forever.

Harv

2008-07-07T10:45:00.000-07:00

Skin Reactions, Scooters That Fall Over, Window Pillars and Bad Omens

Have you ever fallen victim to not listening to that quiet voice whispering to you behind your thoughts?

It started roughly a week ago. I'd laid some fertilizer down. Scratch that, I laid a multitude of lawn care items down. My hands were in the granules as the spreader wasn't working as it should. Shortly after my skin started peeling. It didn't stop. Layers of flesh started drying revealing very pink and irritable skin underneath. Then they started to crack when I stretched my hands. I could stretch my fingers apart and watch the dried skin break open and bleed. From my hands to the base of my wrists. They hurt pretty bad and no ointment seemed to alleviate the constant itching. I wouldn't call it pain though. Pain is what I had when I went through testicular cancer. Now that was pain. They removed the "left one" by cutting a slit wide enough so it could pass through me in my lower abdomen. The slit went all the way to you know where and they pulled that sucker through from the inside where it popped out where the incision began. You know how you can stick your finger in your mouth and if you pull it out you get that popping sound. They told me that's the sound it made. Like popping a cork. That was pain. The three cycles of chemo afterward. Thinking death would be a relief if I had to go through a fourth. That was pain. This hand deal, pff...

Life went on. Then the Vespa fell on its side on a tar snake outside my dad's rented garage. I wasn't five feet from it when it sunk into the hot patch. I couldn't reach it. Plunk! On its side. The left rear panel has some nifty long vertical scratches now and the handlebar was a little off until just a few minutes ago. A little touch up paint to keep her from rusting for the time being. I'm also waiting on a new front tire. Eleven inch Pirelli's seem to be out of stock everywhere so I followed a little advice from a guy on the Modern Vespa site and ordered a brand I'd never heard of before. They're from a German comapny called Heidenau. I wanted a spare front along with me since I've just replace the ten inch rear tire. I tend to ride spirited and go through tires a little quicker than what seems to be the average. The trip I was going to take this week would have inspired some meandering through Wisconsin. From Lacrosse to Reedsburg then down to the southwest corner of the state to catch the Great River Road and take it up past Hudson.

How can a rider not veer off the path to explore in a state that nearly begs one to, what with its impressive sweeping country two-lanes?

Having the front spare would at the very least have been prudent if not necessary. I know that state. I know I can't resist those roads. Sirens of beauty and inspiration. Seldom straight or flat. I would wait for the tire.

But this weekend was the fourth. A time spend with family up at the lake. I was told to bring the boat.

Now you all know its harder to stop car or truck with a huge mass attached behind it. I came home on the back roads. At each intersection I let off the gas and coasted to the stop sign. From a speed of about fifty to a crawl.

Now here's where the caviat comes into play. And I can see this happening much more often now that I think I understand it.

Any other vehicle crossing that interstection would maintain the speed limit which is fifty five. They have the right of way. They need not slow as they have no stop sign. Only the people crossing my way or opposite of me have the stop sign.

So I come to a stop. There's no one that I can see in either direction. Remember that I've been rolling to a gentle stop with a sizeable boat hitched to my petard. Pick up truck, similar sized boat. I go slow, got it?

I'm about to go when I see this guy puttering across the intersection with his broad on the back. Some sad looking UJM turned cruiser and this idiot was matching me for speed to hide right out of my view by the truck's window pillar. I mean this fool had to be slowing down at exactly the same rate I was in order for me not to have seen him until the moment I took my foot off the brake.

Had I hit the man, it would have been my fault by the books. The reality is his lane placement and how he chose to enter the intersection had more to do with his nearly becoming the grease spot.

Had he ridden toward the intersection in such a way as to maintain a view of my upper body in that truck, guess what. I would not have thought about Depends undergarments as my foot stomped the brake back into the carpet.

So I learned a new lesson. I'll keep my compadres at the intersections in my fullest view so that they might see me better than the nutcork who almost became my hood ornament this weekend.

Three for three. I'm not leaving the state on two wheels this week. That's certain.

Harv

2008-06-21T05:26:00.000-07:00

Riding with the Old Man

Its been about two years since my father got into scooters. He's going to be 72 this year and a lot has happened in his life during that time. He started out with a TN'G Venice. A 50cc two stroke buzzer which could hit an amazing 45 mph. Since most 50cc scooters are regulated to go no more than 30 mph, I think that's pretty impressive.

More importantly, his health became a major issue a little over a year ago. He'd had bypass surgery. During last winter he underwent treatment and took the road to recovery.

I've spoken with people who'd had the surgery. They said their lives changed for the better after they healed. No different for my dear father. The fact that the heart is able to pump blood throughout the body more efficiently had far reaching effects. Before that surgery, he'd been forgetful. Lost his train of thought easily. Sometimes he did things which honestly, scared me.

After the surgery his doctor made it clear he needed to eat healthier. He listened. He's very careful about what he eats and when. The difference in his demeanor and cognitive skills have definitely increased. I can speak of this now because even he expresses the difference in how he looked at life then compared to now. He's calmer too. But there may be another aspect of his life now which influences his peace of mind. He's got a girlfriend. A sweet lady who very much reminds me of my deceased mother. A sweet woman with a spitfire attitude just below the surface. I think it keeps him on his toes.

Helen owns a little over twenty acres a good distance from our city. You take the road out of town and when you think you're pretty much in the sticks you take another right. About the time the woods on either side of the weathered two-lane begin to encroach the road, there's a house set back off the way a bit. A warm ranch home under ancient oaks. A sixties era Ford pickup off the side of the driveway, waiting for someone to restore it. Still runs, I'm told.

It was the other night that I called my dad to see if he was interested in riding on one of the first truly warm evenings we've experienced this year. When I called he was at Helen's. They were just finishing a late supper.

"Hi Dad, its me. Are ya busy?"
"Hi son, we're just finishing up here. Why? Were you thinking of going for a ride?"
"Well it sounds like you're busy. There'll be other times."
"No, no. That's fine if you want to ride a little later. We can go."
"No, I don't want to interrupt. In fact I already have. Sorry 'bout that... I'll talk to you later."
"Hang on a minute..."

(Dad talks it over with Helen. All I hear are muffled voices.)

"Tell you what; I'll come by and we decide what we want to do from there. How's that sound?"
"Oh my gosh, Dad, no that's fine we can do it another time."
"No no, son. Let's play it by ear, ok?"
"Ok, I'll see you when you get here then."

Soon enough I heard his Genuine Buddy rolling up my driveway. Big old smile on his face. We talk about where we want to go and he mentions I should see Helen's place. That set the plan. We were off and down the road, back to Helen's.

Now I've ridden shorter distances with my dad this season. But you really can't tell a person's skills as well as when they're on the road for longer periods of time. This ride would be a lot of different types of roads. From clogged city streets to a stretch of 55 mph state highway to worn out country asphalt.

We "packed it in and rode it hard" as they say. I led until we got to that right turn onto the This-Really-Leads-Nowhere road.

While he led, I thought about what a change its been riding with him this year. How I felt assured about his position in the lane. How his eyes looked forward. I could see him scanning oncoming intersections and watching his mirrors. It wasn't just experience in the saddle, although that has as much to do with it as anything. It was the first timemy dad really looked like he anticipated potential threats instead of me wondering if he would have enough time to react to them.

We arrived and I had the honor of seeing Helen's slice of heaven. Truly it is. A widow, a daughter of farmers, this lady has a garden the size of my front yard. She's got an orchard, two barns and whatever it is they call it when you plant grapes the way they're supposed to be planted. And that only comprises a bit more than the extent of most peoples' suburban yards.

We talked and laughed and simply enjoyed each other's company for a while. Then it was time to head on home. The skies had grown dark. Stars awoke to begin their twilight watch over us.

The ride up was as good as the ride down. Much as experience teaches us, I also know that health and nutrition play a part in being the consumate rider. So does getting enough sleep.

I need to remember these things. That plan fomenting inside my helmet about riding the shores of Lake Michigan and the Great River Road (Highway 35) next month, demands that I come home safely.

Forever the roadbum...

Harv

2008-06-10T08:16:00.001-07:00

Frontage Road, Back Way, Charlie's Cafe

The weather Sunday did not look promising. The skies threatened to open up as clouds would break apart and reform within an hour. But I had that urge to ride.

The initial plan was the direct route to Eden Valley. Slip in the back door to the little town of Avon and head south on Highway 9. The roads on this route are broad and sweeping. Hills large enough to make a 150cc four stroke Vespa work to get up them. Between those roads and the final destination the road is flat and not exactly smooth. Near the end of the run, within a few miles of Eden Valley, you take a right turn off the direct way in. Suddenly you're on one of the greatest set of sweepers and minor hills I've yet found in this area.

I was past the first section of great riding and into the early stages of the flat stretch. Not fun. The bike hopped and jostled its way south. Filler patches and buckled tar. The skies were growing darker again. Sorry, but I'm not in the mood to do this kind of ride today.

Plan A was summarily ditched. At the next country interesection I turned around and humped it back toward Avon. There is no clear indication where the frontage road actually runs through that town so I stopped at the Shell to regain my bearings. The nice person at the counter told me where to catch a nice road north. It happens to be right where I turned south to head down Highway 9. Had I gone straight, I would find a new unexplored path.

Avon is a neat little exit off I-94. A quiet place with some great looking lakes to fish. From what I could tell a tight little community is built right off Mainstreet. There are a few turns which look interesting just at its outskirts. Future blogs...

Once outside Avon, the roads became straight. Naturally I hit another section of bumpy tarmac only this time I watched the side roads with more interest. This ride would be dedicated to getting "from here to there". Subsequent jaunts would explore the branches. The sights to see, as they say.

The drizzle found me. Somewhere along that stretch of bumpy asphalt. Just after the angry looking man in the pinkish purplish Dodge minivan passed me at a rate of speed I didn't think minivans were capable of moving. My speedometer read 62, 63 mph. He wasn't closing on me very quickly. When I could tell it was a minivan behind me, that's about the time the guy started to pick up velocity. Not much, certainly nothing that I thought seemed unusual.

In Minnesota farm country some people drive blindingly fast and others are blind and driving slowly. Probably the same thing you can observe no matter where you are. So I thought nothing of it.

He was a good ten car lengths behind me when I eyed the rearview. I swear the guy gunned it right at that moment. The sound of that minivan's engine was almost destructive. He must've flattened the carpet underneath his accelerator pedal just to stomp more miles per hour out of his testosternone free albeit logically brilliant Caravan.

That thing suddenly bore down upon me in a way that made me understand the Biblical account relating Jona's perspective of the fish that swallowed him whole. Only this time the fish which looked more like a giant lure, veered. Not too closely, but definitely making a statement.

As the angry man in the minivan/fish lure passed I saw that growly sideways stare. He made his point. Let him have it. I'm not the one stuck driving that thing everywhere I go. Not that it would be all that bad, minivans are supremely useful. Just not in that fish lure color...

I got to Charlie's cafe and thought about going in. As I parked in the lot across the road I saw a newly roiling sky. Ominous and dark. Building in intensity. Being the fool that I am, I tested nature's fury and stopped for a break anyway. The drips became steady. I heard the water sizzling on the chrome exhaust accent. Paper and embers got wet. Back on the bike and homeward bound.

A new path discovered and lots of potential rides to springboard from this trip. A Sunday ride I'm glad I took.

Roadbum

2008-06-07T21:03:00.000-07:00

Aprilia in June

Like the title? I couldn't help it. I was smitten by an Aprilia 50cc scooter which I witnessed cranking it up to over 50 mph today. A liquid cooled two stroke monster which looks like its moving even when its parked. Its master (if you saw this thing you would know such a bike cannot be owned) proved that looks are not always only skin deep. Sam rides one heck of a sweet machine.

Today's ride came about to help fill a need. St Cloud Scoots does a yearly run for the local food shelf in St. Cloud Minnesota. Our leader, Lucky, had the vision that our little group should do something to help the local community. He came up with the appropiate title, Scoot For Food.

We met up at a little cafe here in Sartell. A group of scooterists with money in hand so that others could feed those less fortunate. I don't know how much came in total, but I know these people need people like this group to help them. The cost of food isn't going down and the people who need that assistance is growing. Every little bit actually does help. A ride with a mission.

We talked for a bit and held a raffle. Then we prepared ourselves for another great ride. Before long we were on the road, heading out of the suburbs (can I really call Sartell that?) and into the farm fields of central Minnesota. The sun was high and the breeze warm A perfect day.

Choosing the sweeping leisure of less travelled tar, we found a back door to the town of Avon. Not much more than an exit off the freeway. There are a couple nice lakes I've fished outside that town but not much else except for the friendly people. Welcoming folks are the norm in this state, and they're memorable once you get lost outside the limits of the twin cities. In five minutes or less and we were across to the other side of the I-94 superslab. Two quick jogs and the busy highway traffic was gone from our rearview mirrors.

Sometimes it amazes me how quickly you can be in and out of small towns in the country. Snap your fingers and you've almost forgotten what you just saw.

We wove our way past quiet lakes and valleys. Up lightly travelled back ways and around winding bends. HecksAngel peeled off and headed for Spring Valley whence he came. We said "See ya later" and swung toward the college nestled in the woods. More tightly winding passages under canopies of oaks and maples. Past an orchard and climbed the hill.

We basked in the sun shining down on us. Reprieve from a week's worth of near record setting rains. It was more than we could express and Chauncy rode past me with his arms spread out wide to hug the air. A huge grin on face. I knew just how he felt. We all did.

The return ride is as good as getting out there. One of the advantages of living on the edge of civilization. You don't have that feeling like the ride is really done until you're virtually home. St. Cloud is large enough to have all one needs and small enough to escape its strip mall main roads before traffic on a Saturday can really make you grit your teeth. Usually anway.

We split our ways where we started. Some heading off to Mongo's Grill and me, I headed back home to see how my wife and kids were. Sam and his Aprilia stopped in for a bit and we talked bikes and motorcycles. Then it was time to say goodbye until the next ride. And to think about what to write here.

Year two of Scoot for Food is now in the history books. A great ride for a great cause. Its nice to be able to do something worthwhile for people you may never meet, now and then. A little humbling too.

Roadbum

2008-06-03T09:58:00.000-07:00

Taking the Express Home

Not by train. Not by boat or car. Not by any method which would get me there in record time unless you consider the slowest constant moving rate some kind of record.

After two years of puttering around the outskirts of my town it was time to return the little Honda Express scooter to the man from whom it came. The bike was sort of a gift to me. With fuel prices looming toward the stratosphere it was time to give back. My father in law had an interest in the little machine. What better way to take that last ride before the title switched back to him than to hop on and take her on one of her longest known excursions.

Saturday morning my wife and kids piled into the truck. I rolled the little green scooter out of the garage. We said our 'see ya laters' and they were off.

I checked the fluids, let the engine warm and prepared to head out on my quiet way. Something told me to put on a jacket. The hall closet is packed to its gills with riding apparel. That's what happens after all those years of riding. You accumulate... stuff.

The bike is of 1978 vintage so I grabbed a jacket which hadn't been worn in I can't remember how long. An old Levi's denim number of classic style. I reached into a pocket to find the obligatory buck and change I always leave myself in case of gas emergency. That alone should be a pretty strong indication how long its been since I've worn this thing. For any other bike I have, a buck and spare coin would be almost useless. A Honda Express can go a long way on a dollar and a half.

Back in the garage, I listened to the satisfying two stroke sound of that little motor. Grumbly little beast. Sounded nice. A cell phone, wallet, and multi-tool were all that went with me. Either I was going to make it on this fifty mile sojourn or I wasn't. Worrying about it would take the fun out of the whole experience.

I'm thankful my driveway has a slight grade to it. I puttered down its length and headed west. A few blocks later and I was in farm country. Other than some outcroppings of homes and passage through towns of a hundred or so people, it would be wide open cropland. People hearing the little 50cc working its darnedest, smiled and waved. You sometimes feel a certain vibe as you pass people or other motorists. Each person who acknowleged me made me a little happier.

There were some long slopes. High hills that tested the little Express. From a top speed of about 27mph this little engine proved that it could. It held enough torque to keep it chuffing up the inclines although the steepest brought it down to 19 or 20 mph. It didn't caugh or sputter either. With the throttle wide open that little banger pushed itself right along.

The wind was brisk Saturday morning, in the hinterlands beyond central Minnesota civilization. Pickups loaded with farm impliments gave wide berth but their gusts and the passing clouds made for a sometimes cold ride. Even at a constant 25-26 mph. I felt a little naked on what amounts to a stout bicycle frame with a little two stroke engine hung beneath it. At the same time it felt really good.

For a little more than two hours the Express chuffed along, carrying me to my family. While my feet buzzed on the hard rubber footpegs, that thickly padded oversized pear seat did me just fine. Instead of being in a hurry to get somewhere, I enjoyed the scenery at a pace few people want to go anymore.

It went too quick. Before I realized it I was closing in on the house on the hill. My inlaws' home. I rolled up the gravel drive feeling triumphant for finally having done this ride on the Express. I also felt a little sad. It would most likely be the only time I'd get the chance to ride that thirty year old scooter that kind of distance.

I can't explain it. To ride something of that limited speed for longer distances is a kind of experience you'd have to have had yourself to understand. It is absolutely its own kind of fun. And you really can't compare it to any other type of two wheeled riding. Going slow on something capable of going quicker isn't the same.
Harv

2008-05-29T07:52:00.000-07:00

Wife Becoming a Rider?

Since the weather has been warming my wife has been talking about taking her bicycle to work. She's done it the last few years when the weather has been conducive. Any temps above fifty degrees and she'd leave early for the six mile "commute".

Once or twice she's taken my dad's scooters. She could've used mine but she also knew I had too much attachment to it yet. The kindness of the woman and her understanding is a blessing I cannot relate.

This year she took the bike once. After that she mentioned how early she had to get up just to spend the extra time on the bike getting there. In a round about sort of way she got around to the point without actually saying it. She wanted to take my Vespa.

Take my Vespa?

Annette let me simmer with the idea for a while. Let me get used to it. Logic tells me this ought to be a no brainer but I'm male. You just don't foist that kind of request on a guy without letting him come to terms with it.

A woman always has the upper hand. And half of another deck up her sleeve.

After a couple days of her using the scooter to go to work, she passed an ace from out of nowhere.

"You think I should get my own scooter?"

Somewhere deep inside me a caveman was hooting and hollering for joy. Dancing around like the fool he truly is.

"If you think its something you really want, let's see how well you like taking the scooter after a few weeks."

"Hon, if we had to, I don't see any reason we couldn't dip into our savings..."

Captain Caveman is now doing backflips. My head is reeling.

This morning she woke me to ask me one of the most important questions a wife could ask her dimwit lucky as hell somewhat biker husband. From what I can recall I awakened from my slumber to hear these comments in no particular order:

"The weather channel says its supposed to rain. Actually three channels say its supposed to rain but you know how right the weather is. They say most of its going to pass south of us so the chances of it raining here are slim. Should I take the bike? I'll bring my rain gear and I'm not made of suger. I won't melt. So do you think I should take it?"

So its raining lightly and she's got the Vespa. She also has a healthy respect for inclement weather. I know she's be safe, but I'll still worry. She's my best friend ya know.

You think this could be a sign? (wink)

Harv

2008-05-19T06:47:00.000-07:00

Parking the story, Riding the Bike

I intended to keep the blog going with a tale about a young scooterist. It wasn't long after I thought about writing the fictional story that news came an old dear friend took his own life.

When someone close to you passes on it takes a strange toll on the things you do for enjoyment. I don't know why. You feel drained of your creative energy. The things which must be done are done, leaving little interest in much else. It was a cold winter in more ways than one.

But time never stops. Life leaves little opportunity to overthink these things. You have to put them aside. My friend made his choice and I have to live with it. The effect it took on a story which could have built on recovery seemed utterly contradictory to what I was living through. Knowing my friend took the easy way out.

Over the winter my life moved forward. While Mel is still on my mind he's chosen to move on. I suppose there's a convoluted lesson in there somewhere. A simple knowledge that you can only do so much in some cases and then you need to let go. So I have in my own way. Winter is not much of a time for thinking about riding anyway. There's a proper season for everything in life if we just stop and pay attention. So I'm back to the world of riding. Makes me happier, makes my dear wife happier and keeps this blog one of the things I truly enjoy giving you.

New rides on familiar roads.

Yesterday, Sunday, some friends of ours had a birthday party for their youngest daughter. Now I could have been with my wife and kids in the truck. But that's not the way of a rider is it. My wife offered me a way out.

"Hon, I have to stop at the mall to get a few things for the kids before I head to the party."

When you're married that's a Go! The equivalent to being told Take that ride. You remember the Get Out of Jail card in the game of Monopoly? That's the card she held in front of me.

They left and I settled in for prep to go. The first decent ride. A rambling frontage road trek of a little over forty miles. Man this was going to be great!

I hit the garage, raised the seat and took stock of what I might need. The heck with it. This Vespa is reliable enough. I don't need to pack anything but an extra sweatshirt. By evening the temps might drop to the high forties but with a legshield in front of you and a small wind screen to cut the draft, I would be just fine. The walk-around gave no indication of anything of concern. Rear tire needs to be replaced but I'm not past the wear marker. I readied the bike, dipped into my lawnmower gas to to her off and headed through the city of St. Cloud towards my friend's place in Monticello.

Have you ever reserved the use of certain back roads for your motorcycle or scooter? Its as though you would diminish them if you used them merely for passage. That's how I feel about this road, except I never really realized I'd made any such internal 'proclamation' about the routes I choose. There simply are roads for getting there and roads for being there.

That doesn't mean every part of the path is smooth and perfect. In fact a stretch on the Monticello side of this route can be downright jarring. You live with it because coming through that section seems almost heavenly. When the road is rough any improvement is huge. Better when that improvement involves some long sweeping bends and the sights of the freeway herds across the fields not a hundred fifty yards to the side. I watch their jumbled masses inchworm down the great concrete slab at seventy plus.

Cold and windy Sunday rides.

Harv

2008-03-10T10:14:00.000-07:00

Legshield Rider (3)

Bits and pieces of dreams came to memory as he stumbled out of the mental fog. The hospital bed reeled back and forth while his mind tried to hold onto something his eyes could focus on.

Oh god, not the TV. The box itself would have been fine had the machine been turned off. The flash of the commercials made his head ache. When the program came back on he knew his father was somewhere near. Alex Trebeck was answering another question someone had yet to ask. This was the type of show smart people really paid attention to.

There. He could latch onto the box but not the images inside it. Too blurry. He eased his head to look to his right and two shadows hovered against the blinding sun of mid afternoon. That glance hurt way too much. He recoiled, sun spots on the insides of his eyelids.

"He's awake!"

His father's relief and joy could barely be hushed. The boy was tough and withdrawn. You had to read him by small shifts in his movements. The ways he tilted his head.

A son who knew that at that very moment his father had an overly firm grasp on his mother's forearm and was shaking her out of joy. He could hear her weight shifting. Could hear her feet scuff the floor as she scolded Dad for being unintentionally rough. But it was alright. His father was the strength of a ten pound sledge. And his mother knew just how to swing such a hammer. The shared relief of Mom and Dad was enough to answer the important questions. No matter how this ultimately would turn out, he believed he was coming out of this fine. Just get through it. His parents' presence in the room virtually eminated those words. He cracked a smile and raised his eyebrows. Signs he knew they were there. It was all he could give at the moment.

For two more hours a mother and father sat in their son's hospital room. A quiet solace of knowing their son was still the same kid they knew more than a week before. Relieved and drained they went home in peace for the first time in eternity.

Harv

2008-02-18T10:38:00.000-08:00

To the individual copying my work. I know who you are. I've been waiting patiently to see what you would do when I left you hanging.

Its one thing to give credit where its due. Another to take someone else's efforts and use them as your own. Especially for personal gain.

I've been watching you with interest.

Harv

2007-12-10T09:40:00.000-08:00

Legshield Rider
(2)

Soft illumination passed from above his head to his feet like the dotted line seperating lanes on a highway. He heard the gurney's loose joints shift as a crew of specialists wheeled him through the halls of the hospital. Someone punched the automatic doors and a draft of air cooled his face.

He was aware of people prodding him with surgical tools but really didn't feel the needles. Someone asked him a question and he nodded a reply. For the life of him he could not pull the words to his forethoughts much less how he knew what to reply. Out of the corner of his eye he saw the computers quietly giving the doctors signals to define his condition. Then, a mask was placed over his mouth and nose. He drifted into induced sleep.

At some point he thought he could hear his angels talking in doctor-speak. Syllabic nonsense. Eyes fluttered open but the light was too bright to see anything. He flinched and sensed urgent movement by the team concentrating on his broken body. Before they managed to induce another round of sleep he believed he could feel tugs around what must have been his injuries. How strange, he thought, that one could feel the skin being pulled only from the points beyond where the actual work was being done. The areas where he imagined his injuries to be seemed not to be part of him. He meant to ask someone if he was going to die but before he could, a quiet cloud covered everything a second time.

Harv

2007-11-15T16:55:00.000-08:00

Legshield Rider

Sirens. Flashing lights and wet pavement. Feet kept crossing his view at wierd angles. He would see them and then things would go dark. Strange voices and unknown faces would rouse him from a slumber he so badly felt he needed, asking questions he couldn't answer.

Was it that he didn't know or that his mouth wouldn't cooperate? He tried to move and sharp pain shot up his left side. His bladder released when his body couldn't curl itself into a ball from the pain. It hurt so bad his mind shrieked in place of his lost voice. All his energy seemed to be wicking out of him.

Someone in a uniform shot something into his arm. He looked up in time to see men and women getting the stretcher in place. They didn't have high hopes. Everything in their actions looked too dour. They moved efficiently but he sensed they didn't believe he had much chance. Someone lost his footing and the stretcher tipped. His head rolled and he saw the residual effect of what was only a flash in his mind. The 150 Sprint was on its side against a light pole off the corner of the intersection, the cowls blown off both sides. The bike was totalled but his mind only registered the missing side panels.

The gurney was lifted and two figures climbed in the ambulance with him. More sirens as another needle pressed itself into his side. Everything went dark again.

Harv

2007-11-06T14:14:00.000-08:00

Where Is This Going?

When the season gave opportunity I rode when I could. When family and home needed to take precedence I put them first. This blog suffered for it. But this little part of my life has to fit into its place. Doesn't mean I'm leaving, but it does mean I prioritize accordingly.

I have been riding. Don't get me wrong. But the rides written about here aren't helped with the beautiful photography that others can add to their blogs. I worked in private labs until I was thirty two and one thing I can tell you is that my camera work will never measure up to what I know is a better image. I write. Its as much a part of me as the music I play. Or the bikes I ride. Or the family I love so dearly.

Which brings me to a question. What direction should this site take over the winter months? I live in central Minnesota. When it snows they pour a mix of salt and sand on the roads. I will no longer ride in that stuff. Too many people in cars drive a little to obliviously even when the roads are iced or sanded over.

So what does a writer do when the subject matter is... drying up, so to speak?

First of all any decent writer knows good writing depends upon creativity. Lots of it. You're also obligated to pour yourself out onto the page and be able to critique your own words objectively. You have to be able to recognize when stuff just reads badly. Then you have to remove it. Nothing any writer ever puts on a page or screen is sacred. Good wordsmiths know the waste paper basket (and delete key) is a friend.

See how many mistakes I've made above?

(hang on, I just deleted two more paragraphs)

So I'm thinking of writing a juicy little story of no real importance other than it might be a nice way to keep this blog rolling and the creative juices flowing. These Minnesota winters can freeze a man's synapses in mid thought if he's not busy thinking of something.

Its got to be about some guy who rides scooters in the upper midwest. Let's call that guy Dave. Maybe Dave has a girlfriend, I haven't decided yet. But Dave rides and he's a bit of an outcast. Dave has issues. They could be his downfall if he's not careful. He's also a little manic. And he's willing to carry a grudge.

Let's see where this goes... shall we?

Harv

2007-10-17T10:26:00.000-07:00

Live With It

I just walked back into the house from my garage a few moments ago. What I saw was something that's been laying heavy on my thoughts of late. I have too many bikes.

I hold to an older school of thought. The school which teaches that you own a thing and use it. You don't keep stacking another similar thing on top of what you already have for reasons of absolutely having to have it. You either replace the one with the other or you keep what you already have.

How many times does it need to break before I replace the thing?

This is an age old question. One that really takes on relevance to this age of automobiles and motorcycles. Years ago people kept what they had instead of constantly eyeing next year's new models. We used to believe the differences were too small to justify the time, money and effort to go through getting the "next big thing". We also spent time working on our own equipment. Things were built more simply in years past. Computer aided fuel and exhaust mapping has changed this for almost all of us, for example.

Life expectancy for many of the vehicles we own may never be realized under our own ownership of them. In some ways progress is indeed good. We even have the good fortune of car and bike manufacturers creating "retro" versions of the bikes we rode or remember. All the looks, none of the functionality issues of generations past. Sometimes though, that new model's design easily surpasses what the repair shops could reasonably be expected to be know about its new and improved design. Changes happen almost over night. Its the price of exclusivity. We become the test mules so to speak.

I did the same thing back in 1987 when I bought the first year Yamaha Virago 535. Granted its a bike from a reputable motorcycle manufacturer but I could easily have been struck down under the test mule premise. Luckily (or not) it was then that I started hoarding when I should have been a little smarter. I bought the bike I wanted when I was but a wee lad. A brand spankin' new Harley Davidson Sportster. In '93 they moved up to belt final drive and an actual overdrive gear. And they had a newfound reliability! I was sold when I realized I could fulfill a kid's dream.

I took to riding that Sportster more than the Yamaha. Even though the Virago was smoother. Oh, and it has better acceleration and brakes. And a better seat. Its lighter too. I can take my hands off the bars and negotiate sweeping turns the bike is that well balanced. Still, nostalgia kept me riding that HD. It was our honeymoon vehicle of choice. Who says an 883 Sportster can't take a couple from central Minnesota to Sturgis and back? Ok, my speedometer broke on the way down. But that's it!

Another time the vibration ate its way through the wiring harness under the seat. Fix and reroute. I learned to use a little felt between the zip ties and the wiring in the hidden places. The bike has had little... ideosynchrasies. Not-so-new Harleys tend to shake themselves apart.

So why ride that one when I've got a better machine?

The answer is in the right riding accessories. I bought a king/queen saddle. A tall sissy bar. Highway pegs. An unbelievable choice of bags and a very strong dealer network was available to me. If you add in the aftermarket parts and accessories network you can easily change your bike into as many different variations as you could possibly imagine. I'm thinking I'll morph it into an XLCH next time around. Yeah. That'd be bi... never mind. Quirks? Sure, but the possibilities made it easier to live with.

New bikes develop age and use related problems. You either trade up or fix them and live with it. As has happened to our friend, dealerships also have a heavy hand in weighing that decision.

I looked at the six bikes in my garage. I thought about how I've been trying to justify selling a few off in order to make room for the "next big thing". A thing I really don't need. You see, I've always wanted to pile the miles onto just one machine. Since I was young, I dreamt of that one bike with a tome's worth of chapters in it. Like the use-worn spine of a book worth reading, I mean to wear that bike into a road earned patina.

The others collecting dust have to go. I'll miss em, but I have to break free.

That one though, if it's got minor issues in its future, well... I've resigned myself to just live with it.

Harv

2007-09-11T07:03:00.000-07:00

Autumn Tribute

Labor day is now past us. Every morning I see children waiting for the bus at the corner as my own kids prepare themselves for preschool. In a few short days we recieved a reminder of the autumn weather now upon us. Some of the best riding of the year.

The air gets brisk and takes on a new scent. I can't describe it very well except to guess that it might be the lower humidity combined with the cooler winds which makes it so.. vibrant. You really wake up on these Fall rides.

The roads are less travelled between now and the beginning of the snows. Although those have been fewer in the recent past, making for some interesting looks from people I know who will have put their motorcycles away while I'm still out there on that midnight blue Vespa scooter. Same thing happened last year. Guys alone in big trucks with HD stickers and wearing leather jackets have the most startled looks. If they would just ride a little longer, even another month, they would know what they've been missing. How can you fault riding a big twin in the Fall when it throws so much heat across you?

Then there are the decorations of the season. It begins with All Hallow's Eve and continues with Thanksgiving. You start seeing strange things like witches appearing to have ridden their brooms right into trees. Jackolanterns in neat rows on porches. It used to be that counting pumpkins on the front steps told you how many kids lived in the house. I've always loved baking the seeds and eating them while watching the Packers take it right to the very edge. Autumn Sunday afternoon traditions.

Thanksgiving plans and dinner with the family. A weekend which begins with a hunting rifle, has a gut busting highlight feast of the traditional birds and ends in another hunt. Usually the following day because that stuff inside turkeys causes you to fall asleep in a recliner whether you meant to or not. Thinking back I realize I always take a long ride a day or so before we go to Grandma's. I guess I have my own traditions.

Best of all is the smell of the burning leaves. The air is crisp. You're riding along looking at the trees adorned in all their color and drift into the blueish cloud of someone's toasting leaf pile. You can't help but wave to the good folks as you pass. You're smiling but they'll never see it inside that full face you're wearing. Still, you know that they know.

Six years ago this morning there were no smiles. There was fear and grief. A nation with revenge on its mind. A subculture which uses religion as its vehicle tried to take away our joy. Emotionally, it was the coldest winter most of us have have ever lived through. That day we all changed whether we wanted to or not.

But we lived on. A resolve to do so seems to be in the spirit of the people of this great nation. I count it a blessing. We remember but we also move forward. Men and women of steel courage take on the fights for us in lands far away. Just so we can hold our heads high in spite of an enemy most of us have never faced. We can lift our faces to the east and know there are those who would give their lives that our and their traditions would continue to be observed.

So I will ride today. I will ride with resolve that I support those men and women in some small way. That my freedom bought so many times over by too often unheralded acts of will and determination over these generations is not forgotten. I write these words with tears in my eyes. For the traditions of our people and this freedom. For those who earned more than enough of it for us all. The dying of autumn, the numb cold of that winter six years ago. But always, always comes the Spring and rebirth.

This nation shall not be broken.

Roadbum

2007-09-07T16:01:00.000-07:00

Opening the Medicine Cabinet At 10:00 PM

Its not that often I get headaches. Less often that I take anything for them. If a headache can mysteriously appear then it can just as mysteriously vanish. They fade away and you suddenly realize you can think clearly again. Whether it takes a day or a couple days, the one thing to be careful of is one's demeanor during the episode. Some people suffer migraines which could literally wipe them out physically. You can see it on their skin, the expressions of their faces. My mother, rest her soul, rode out more of those than I can remember.

While headaches are physical and painful maladies, there are other conditions which can leave us in similarly lethargic states. The absence of an addiction for instance. The loss of an opportunity to do something you really looked forward to is another. The only medicine seems to be to get back in the game. You won't feel "right" until you do.

It was in this state of mind that I found myself thinking about what ails and cures a person. I hadn't had a headache in a while but something somewhere must've triggered the thought. The house is near completion, the yard is passable and family is taken care of. My wife suggested it was time to take care of me.

I walked into the bathroom and looked at the guy staring back at me. A tired face. Not overworked but drained. The face of the guy I know morphed into the one who seven years ago fought cancer. I remember that face all too well. In those days I kept on breathing and staggering and puking and not giving up for the the people around me. My own fault I never take my own life seriously. Or of some special value. What kept me going in those days was that people wanted me around. They believed they needed me.

Something from the past fired into the present like a shot. Like a blazing bullet and it stung the image in the mirror right between the eyes. What is the worth of life if one does not relish in the living of it?

I'd made a promise somewhere in the suffering dying days of treatment. That if I were to live for a few months or past this, or to a full life beyond, that I was going to live dammit. That I wasn't going to be just another ant willingly subserviant to a groupthink hegemony.

I took that woman's advice at ten pm that night and got myself seriously lost on a scooter in central Minnesota. I headed west to start and had to head west to get home again once I regained my bearings. I rode with abandon. Not wild as a young kid with a need for speed, but as one whose mind is purposefully unencumbered. I regained myself in stages. The stars seem closer on nights like these.

I met a guy on a fly green chopper with Eddie from the metal band Iron Maiden airbrushed ripping through the paint. We talked about life for while. Then we rode on. The clock read three thirty when I finally brought the garage door down.

For whatever reason a ride brings me back to center. I'm a better person when I take the necessary time to be who I am. More useful to the people around me. Keith, riding his Vegas built chopper said he was glad to have met me. The depth of what we spoke about and the smile on his face, the weight which appeared to be sloughed off his shoulders, means I did something more than just ride that night. I helped someone who happened to need someone like me. I guess that's all that's really important.

If you have the right medecine, share it.

Roadbum

2007-09-03T21:43:00.000-07:00

80% Rule Revisited

When you ride a motorcycle or scooter you learn you can operate the machine a few different ways. You can barrel through the turns at the edge of your capability with sweat popping out of your forehead and tingles running up and down your spine, or you can take another pace which puts you near the edge with options.

When I was younger I thought I was in high gear. I leaned her hard. My footpegs were sprung and I tapped them to the tarmac regularly. Sometimes I held the edge, playing with my life. The sparks I knew were rooster tailing on the dropped side a cool visual shower between the front and rear lights of the bike. People following my line told me so.

But every now and then that spooky moment would occur. Just a few pebbles in the path and the shimmy of death began. In that moment you either ham fisted it into the ditch or you instinctively relaxed and rode it out like a good dirt tracker. My parents insisted my first bike be an enduro and I learned it well. Still, I played too close to the edge for street use and bravado.

Over time I began experimenting with how I rode these wonderful beasts. Holding lines and pitching into the turns. How much countersteer seemed best when combined with different lean angles. I became smoother. I certainly felt more in control.

Then one day a man I knew, a collector of Nortons and Triumphs, spoke of something he called the 80% rule. Simply put, he said there was no reason for a street rider to flirt with disaster by riding to the limit of that rider's capabilities. He also spoke of the bikes breaking down less below eighty percent throttle and tach. He said you could hear a bike's preference if you just listened to the machine run.

In order for music to be played well, a musician adjusts against what the musician hears.

Somewhere above eighty percent throttle the natural pattern of engine sounds becomes jumbled. The notes in the engine's song as you ride seem as though the various sections of the orchestra are playing different rhythms. When the drums outpace the horns and the woodwinds can't suck enough air to keep up something's about to give.

If you're lucky, instruments in the mechanical band beneath you simply stop playing. There's a minor flash, an epiphany in the rhythm section as the bike dies a quick death and you roll to a stop. But what if the players articulate the tune and your own skill in conducting puts you two measures behind?

Allergando

You slow the tempo down. A more deliberate pace, a broader potential. Should a car cross the center line in a right hand sweeper you can flop the bike and move from the left third of the lane to the right third because you've given yourself at least twenty percent to work with in a dire moment. Its knowing a shortcut but not living by it.

In a world where all forms of inattentive driving can be encountered we have to take every advantage we can. Eighty percent throttle (or rpm's) lets our bikes run the way their designers meant them to. That remaining twenty percent usable throttle can make the difference in squirting out of a jam if need be. But we can only use that twenty percent if we leave ourselves the room to make it available.

A bene placido

Roadbum

2007-08-03T11:02:00.000-07:00

The Eighty Percent Rule

In this day and age you find a lot of people concerned about their bikes and scooters breaking down on long rides. Day trips to extended tours. The reasons for asking how (or whether) the bikes will hold up comes from a great sea change in the attitude of what one needs to know to be a rider.

The early days of my riding experience still carried a measure of personal responsibility. It was expected that a rider knew a few things about his or her bike and carried a few essential tools to get out of a jam. The least you could get away with was a basic diagnostic understanding of what happened. Knowing that much, the average rider could keep derision at bay if another rider stopped to help at the side of the road.

But things have changed. The cell phone makes your favorite mechanic easily accessible. The bikes have changed. Even a good set of tools won't solve a problem in this age of computer controlled motorcycles. Your mechanic will simply plug his computer into another on your bike. A readout will explain just about everything he needs to know and the bike will more than likely be hauled off to a "repair center". You just can't fix em at the side of the road like they used to.

Granted the routine maintenance schedule is stretched so far that riders from thirty years ago would not believe it. Never mind the "walk around" most of us were taught to perform before we even kicked those old machines over.

At the heart of every motorcycle is an engine. It might be tuned with the aid of microprocessors but its still a spark, combustion and a mess of hard parts all working together which make these wonderfull steeds propel us in ways no other type of machine could.

But we must be mindfull how we ride. Failure of the rider or the bike spells disaster.

A greybeard passed his wisdom to me and its about time I did the same. Its kept me and several bikes alive for over twenty years.

"When you ride, don't ride at your limit. Whattayagonna do if you need a little extra an it ain't there? Keep it under 80% kid, and you'll live.

"When you ride that bike, you hear where it starts to sound different? It ain't meant to run at those rpm's for long, kid. Ride em too hard too long and you best have tools and spare parts with ya. Cause its gonna happen."

Advice from a sage. It applies now as it did then. Mechanical things which fail often give warning about being stressed. Knowing how a particular bike runs and listening to what its telling you, how its talking to you in its mechanical voice, can be a better conversation than the small talk at any social function.

The Eighty Percent Rule.

Harv

2007-07-27T09:52:00.000-07:00

Past Meets Present

The early days of my riding experience involved people who were in social and emotional transition. From a youthful unencumbered outlook on life to an adult perspective. Often times those periods involved a great deal of uncertainty. Experimentation and far too often, failure.

We were connected by our love of motorcycles and the rides we took on them. The bikes were anything a rider could afford. The rides often began with a basic idea (head west) but no real destination. As much as we weren't sure where our rides might take us, most of us had no idea where our lives were headed.

You think you're special when you're young. That what you do is unique to your group of friends.

Gradually our lives found direction. Our rides became fewer as getting ahead in this world took precedence over wallowing in self contemplation. We were growing up. A few faded from the group while others stayed on. Occasionally a new rider would appear but never stay with us for long. Familiar faces long absent from the rides would return and it seemed that while life had changed us the rides were our constant. Sometimes someone's old girlfriend would return.

That could create a mess but that's all I'm going to say about that.

So we went on to school, got real jobs and moved all over the country. We found enduring relationships and still laugh about how damn lucky we are to have found her when we talk over the phone.

The past is gone, the memories remain.

Each year those memories get a little sweeter. Seem a little better than they really might have been. Try hopping on the same bike you did twenty years ago and you'll see what I mean. Walk down the same street you cruised in your youth. Its not the same. We inhabited that time in our lives. We can only visit those places and hope to see the old landmarks still in place.

But you can't talk to a building.

Its hard not to gravitate to the same kinds of folks you grew up with. You know where you fit in the mix. If you're lucky you meet someone who understands much of your own past on a level of personal experience. You find out that this guy rides and another connection is formed. So you go for a few rides. And then it happens. That... synchronized riding thing... I don't know what to call it. It just happens. You look over at your buddy and he's turning to you at the same moment and that freakin' grin is on his face. The same stupid one you know you're wearing. Its like the old days all over again.

The clincher is this isn't just about riding with someone you got to know and like. Its about riding with someone you feel safe riding with. Someone whose habits and style are like people you're familiar with. This friend of mine is great to ride with because most importantly I feel safe around this guy. Even when he's having a little fun I know how to react. Know what to expect.

The freedom to relax a little on the rides is what I remember from years past. To ride with someone else and be free to think about whatever crosses one's mind. Because I knew what to expect in the other's riding style. Its a freedom in itself to be able to predict the other's moves.

Maybe that's all the past I'll ever need in the present.

Harv

2007-06-30T23:25:00.000-07:00

Rides and Friends

For years I've always thought about those guys with whom I've ridden in the past. We all seemed to live a harder lifestyle back then. It might have been what life foisted upon our shoulders, it could have been circumstances which left us thinking there were only so many choices. We all had our demons. Some survive, some are just memories now.

The Ride itself was an escape. Not unlike a drug, but better. We ran from ourselves, met one another on the road and kept on going. Without much needing to be said, we knew the basic plot lines of each man's book. The storylines ran similarly for every one of us. How we handled those demons was each rider's own problem. But when we were on the road we were together and yet completely alone.

It didn't matter what you rode, just that you rode. Each hour on the bike meant precious time to mull over a day or week's transgressions. Both your own and others' toward you. For some the miles seemed endless. Tortured souls trying to get it right, I suppose. Maybe I was one of them.

Others cleared their minds much quicker. Loose ends tied neatly without much fuss. They stayed with us on those rides. Maybe by their sheer presence they willed us to untie the knots which frustrated the rest of us in our own personal lives. Simple questions, simple answers. But to get from here to there, the place where the answer lies is one thing. To use that answer wisely is entirely another.

So the rides continued.

Gradually we rode away from our problems. We let them die. And when we did we were able to return. Not just from a day on the bikes, but to our emotionally more balanced selves. Because no matter how far away you go there is a place where you should park the bike and stay. Whether it be the old homestead you choose to see in a new light, or a new home you've never seen before. The ride itself was the way to get here from there.

I think about how those rides saved us. The way they let us run from ourselves and gave us the opportunity to return. If you've ever felt the anxiety of just... getting... on with the ride, the Let's get going already(!) and returned as one who found relief, you know what I'm talking about.

While I no longer suffer those states of mind and spirit, tonight's ride with a good friend over longer than the usual distances (of late) reminded me that I can still savor what those rides once were. This time without the tumultuous baggage I meant to sort through on them years ago.

Part one

Harv

2007-06-22T17:47:00.000-07:00

On the Way To Eden Valley

There is a road which leads out of a small town just west of where I live. The name of the town is Avon and the road is a numbered highway. Highway 9. It leads to nowhere and everywhere. As far as I can tell it won't lead you to any place that would be considered a destination but wherever you're headed, this road is its own reward. These horses were eyeing me with suspicion. I don't think they'd ever seen Vespa before.

This photo is actually from the first set I took today. Its a poor composition (and lighting) but it gives an idea of the beauty of the areas I'm priveledged to ride. You can see that here in the central part of Minnesota we have vast tracts of open farmland. In the distance you see the forests.

There are sections of this trip (which I should have captured for you) where you ride through forests hanging over the road. Gnarled giants hold their arthritic limbs high overhead while you ride underneath, feeling like you want to scrunch down in your seat because there's an ominous feeling about them. They remind you of the kind of foreboding you felt reading good fairy tales as a child. And its hard to shake a Brothers Grimm fairytales feeling. Their whispers of apprehension in the middle of the story. On long stretches beneath a tattered tent of dark leaves and thick branches you can't help envisioning the memories casading over your "adult" thoughts. The slight tickle of fear that ran up and down your spine the first time reading them.

The road is dark and dropping away in steep decline. Sun behind angry clouds. There, on the right. If that crazy girl from the Grimm tales was ever to step out from the shadows it would be from behind those monstrous trees. But the canopy breaks up and you emerge near the bottom of the slope to open fields. More twists and turns and the memories of the fears of children is long gone.

The road rose and fell. It banked a lot harder than most of the roads I've been on around this area. Must be the lakes. The map show this region to be more blue than any other color. A sign the road would bend to nature's dictum. Glorious.

Suddenly, without any fanfare I'd found a back door to Eden Valley. It didn't look like much, but sometimes that's the beauty of these sleepy little places. Or it could be I simply arrived on the wrong side of town. I won't know until I ride back there again. Maybe tomorrow.

I saw a man on a scooter go by. But this thing was not like any I'd seen so I tracked him a little and we stopped. It turns out he bought a few Chinese models to sell and this was his last. It was interesting looking to say the least. But we spent time talking about history and the military. People of his generation have a wonderful way of weaving stories within stories. While the scenic beauty of the road to get here was incredible, it doesn't hold a candle to the people I meet on these rides.

I don't know what an Adley is, but its definitely one of the most unique looking scooters I've seen. I know what you're thinking. There are moments when you can bring up safety gear to a rider you just met, but this wasn't one of those times. And I'm pretty sure someone has given him that advice before. With greater freedom comes more choices. And more responsibility. It also demands a level of tolerance and respect in order to be true liberty. People know the gear is out there if they want it. Let them choose what they will and be who they are.

The ride back was just like the ride down, only in reverse. Maybe little faster paced ....

Roadbum

2007-06-20T09:11:00.000-07:00

So What Do Motorists Really Think of Us?

Those of us who take riding seriously on any level wear our helmets. Some of us choose to wear them but not all the time. Helmets can and do save lives. More importantly, helmets in combination with the rest of the protective riding gear help to save lives and lessen serious injuries and recovery time.

But what do those folks in cars and trucks think when they see a person riding a two wheeler? How do they react to a rider wearing a helmet? How about riders not wearing helmets?

This question has plagued me for years. You see, I'm one of those riders whose attitude is focussed on being aware of your surroundings first and foremost. I rode for twenty years without a helmet. Never got into a scrape. I rode Milwaukee, Chicago and outlying areas in all kinds of weather. I firmly believed as I do now that anticipation and riding within one's ability is paramount. I'd seen generations of families who rode sans helmet. Rarely was there ever a crash. I can only think of one which involved a head injury and that person was drunk. Most often people wore leathers neck to feet and while you heard the occasional stories about people going down, a broken limb was about the worst of it.

I can hear people's teeth grinding as they read this.

STOP!

This is not about the usefulness of wearing helmets. This is about how we are percieved by non riding motorists we share the road with.

Not too long ago I decided to ride without my helmet. I did it for about a week or so. I discovered something truly odd. Something which stuck with me and made me ask all sorts of questions.

Why are people in cars and trucks behaving like this? Am I reading something into what I seem to be experiencing or not?

I told a few people what I'd been doing. Non riders acted like they had a say in the matter. Some riders really got mad at me for not wearing a helmet. Others considered what I said and actually made the connection I'm trying to make here. For you. I feel the last group of respondants were the most objective. Looking at this from the perspective of the average motorist, you start to get an idea of the safety risk catagories they choose to put us in by their perception of the situation.

In other words, when they see safety gear on a rider, their perception is more likely to be that the rider is safer to drive in closer proximity to. When they see a rider without safety gear they recognize, such as the ubiquitous helmet, they might think that rider is crazy and give the person more road space.

Think I'm the one whose crazy? Here's an honest to goodness study done bearing out the average perception of the non motorcycle riding motorist. These road tests were done in traffic. In situations with and without helmets. While the study was done with bicyclists in mind, I think this correlates perfectly to motorcyclists. Again, I'm not questioning the benefit of wearing helmets. I'm interested in how we are percieved and treated by non riding motorists we share the road with.

http://www.drianwalker.com/overtaking/overtakingprobrief.pdf

The above study was done to collect data about drivers who actually see the bicyclists they share the road with. Anticipating hazards and riding accordingly is still our, the riders' full responsibility.

One of the most potentially harmful situations we face while riding has more to do with whether we're seen by other motorists and how we're percieved by those motorists.

If they see you, will they "respect" your position on the road?

Does the gear you wear give them any reasons to choose whether or not to give you more riding space?

If they don't, are you prepared for it?

In general it seems people in cars and trucks think we don't belong on their roads. That we're crazy to be riding our motorcycles and scooters alongside them. And for some reason, they're willing to believe a mere helmet must mean that guy on the bike is safer than the one they saw earlier without a helmet. My experience seems to be in line with the above study. It would appear motorists equate a helmeted motorcyclist having enough protection that they (motorists) can drive into our legal space without worry. After all, that rider's helmet means they're safe and we can use a little of their space if we want to.

Scary.

Roadbum

2007-06-14T21:00:00.000-07:00

If you ride a scooter, you might imagine your father having been like this guy above. If he rode, it must've been something. I mean he's your dad, right? We all try to see life being larger than it might have actually been for that wonderous generation before us.

Maybe your dad was a little more like this guy. A little edgy... maybe the type of father you're... more likely to be careful about what you say to him. It could be he's a nice and generous fellow but you question his choice of friends. The one with the glass eye the others seem to protect. The one who likes futuristic cars, a stiff drink and the hourglass figure.

Your dad and his friends might like to sing. Sort of like a barbershop quartet, but not. A barbershop quartet with taste. And "protection". You always wonder but you'll never ask. Truth be known, you don't want to know.

If your dad seems like a wiseguy sometimes, maybe you could say he is. Or was. But its better not to know. Don't follow the rumors. Trust me.

He's a lot older now. Slowed down. But that laugh. How can you stand there with a straight face when the old man cracks one off. His sense of humor is definitely intact. Even if his joints sometimes ache and he's more careful than he used to be. He's still got guts though. At seventy he took up riding motorcycles. The last time he did that, he was in Germany over fifty years ago.

My father arrived here on Valentine's Day 1957. Like millions of immigrants before and after, his first sight was of that fair lady holding the torch by whose light and words the invitation rang out across the world. Just as it does today. He settled in Chicago on the south east side. As was the custom you blend into the society you join. The stories abound although he himself will not give me details. There are some things he might say but they're not connected to anything... if you know what I mean.

So now he's a retired widower with enough to keep himself busy. Volunteer work at the same hospital my wife works at. He likes to make himself little wood and metal projects. A journeyman blacksmith by trade (Grampa ran a very successful horse operation the war had great effect upon) my dad can make things in ways that are hard to describe. I wish he did more of it.

But he seems to be spending time riding. (I wonder where he got that idea from?) Here he is with his '07 Genuine Buddy 125.

Its taken him a long time to learn/come to grips with, some of the basics in riding. Vast improvements have come within the last month or so. Lots of miles and a change in attitude about riding overall. He sees it as fun but I now sense the same seriousness about it in him that I have. A good balance.

My dad is more like the guy in the second picture. How much more I don't want to know. Chicago is far away except for the family get togethers. Most of the guys he knew are moving on, so to speak. I think my father has a kind of freedom they don't. Or didn't...

Its fun to ride with yer old man now and again. Just don't ask... certain questions.

Roadbum

2007-06-07T04:50:00.000-07:00

Midnight Rider

You know its late when the truck stops are quiet. Its the type of ride I'm famous for. Getting out there when everyone else has gone to bed. The roads are more peaceful and I spend more of it watching out for the nocturnal animals. Its the ride I genuinely prefer.

Its especially nice on clear nights. The stars are bright and the breeze has a little bite to it. You tend to feel more awake on these types of midnight rides. The humidity settles on things at rest. After a warm day its refreshing.

When my wife and I first met we took long rides after band rehersal (yes, I met my wife while in a band) which would sometimes last all night. We rode the Milwaukee area and one of our favorite things to do was watch the sunrise over Lake Michigan at the McKinley Marina.

Predawn and the lake is still as glass. The sky takes on mottled blue and pink hues. The air remains calm until the sun breaks through a distant wall of thick clouds which always settle on the eastern horizon, just above the quiet waters. Then, the sunrise.

When it happens its a brilliant display of hot rays of color spraying up over the cloudbank. They break through the edges of billowy vapor in streams but the water remains calm. Once our personal star comes into view in vivid reds and yellows its a matter of time until that first wave of air moves across the Lake's surface to greet us. A breeze that feels like the sun itself has released its first deep breath of the morning. I miss it. Granted I now live in the land of ten thousand little lakes but its not the same. I guess I can vist but as they say, you can never go back.

I still have the need to ride in the dark hours. Not as much as in my youth but every once in a while. I make no pretense about choosing to never completely grow up.

So it is that The Night and I still know each other. An old acquaintance. While the hustle of daylight sparks sleepyheads to clog their lives with getting places en masse, these hours are for the contemplative few. And the occasional drunk, lost and contemplating something else to himself.

The hours past bar closing and dawn are for the few of us who don't need the banter of talk on the am dial. Or music of any era or style. The sound of an engine. Wind trying to find its way under a helmet are enough... Medication.

Not so much as in my youth when my only responsibilityies were the rent and insurance, but enough not to lose myself. These midnight rides bring me back to center. My quiet time.

Its the lake house for some. A day at the ballpark for others. The hunt or a well written tome. It could be a garden or a visit to the museum, we all need to have it. A thing we engage in which somehow seems to settle our spirits.

For some its the unwinding slipstream after work. Others dissappear off into the hillside, the drone of their motorcycles leaving that fading sinking hum until even that note evaporates from our senses.

Its what we do. We don't ride to become something, we already are. We merely choose the vehicle and the hour.

Midnight rider

Roadbum

2007-06-02T22:48:00.000-07:00

When It All Comes Together

This picture could not have happened were it not for the vision of one man. The leader of our pack of two wheeled gypsies, St Cloud Scoots. Even though its out of order chronologically, it just seems to belong at the beginning.

Lucky (Jeramiah Pearce) was looking for ways to get involved in the community through the club. He had the idea that we could do something to benefit those in need. I believe this thought had been fomenting in his mind for a while before he commented that he and Chauncy (Tom Fritz) had been tossing ideas of benefit scooter runs around.

Some time last year the three of us were talking about directions the club might go. We knew we could grow, even in this little college town. The price of gas could almost insure people buying scooters. And looking for reasons to ride with other scooterists is why Lucky started the club in the first place.

I think we really started bantering about charity rides sometime in the fall. We were planning our Double Dog Dare Ya ride for the the first weekend in January and naturally the ride plans for the summer season came up. Were we going to set up in town and countryside rides or have a bigger vision for the club.

I'll be honest with you, I thought the basic idea of riding with other scooterists would be a pretty big deal in itself. Especially as an actual club. But Lucky, bless 'im, had bigger and better ideas.

Before long Chauncy was talking with Lucky. Then Lucky was talking to me. Quite often our schedules meant we were relating earlier conversations with one or the other, with the third. Lucky pushed us along to get things accomplished and before long things started taking shape.

Everyone getting ready to ride.

It all came together today. An ad in the local paper and support from Scooterville of Minneapolis, Corazzo scooter clothiers, St Cloud Suzuki and The Meeting Grounds coffee shop and all around scooter trash hangout joint. You are the folks who made our club and guests feel welcome by the gifts you gave us that we passed on to them. If you coulda seen the smiles at the raffle...

Oh wait! Yes you can! haha

The ride was about forty five miles. Through some beautiful hilly and just lush with shades of green, midwestern countryside. A few came on 50's so we kept the pace at about thirty two mph. Boy did people stare as our scooter caravan went by. Some waved, some smiled and other did the obligatory double take.

We couldn't thank people enough for the donations to the food shelf. The ride, well, icing on the cake. Scoot for a cause, eh?

The Roadbum

2007-06-01T08:41:00.000-07:00

Something different

So the weather got a little strange up here in the northern central Midwest. Then a few calls trickled in. Duties I enjoy are calling when the seasons are ripe for them. You see, I'm very much into the sport of shooting. Its a discipline like any other but in its own right more of a matter of achieving as close to a perfect stillness in a very small moment of time.

So you pull the trigger and the "gun" goes boom. Bigger gun equals bigger boom equals more fun, right? Wrong.

The shooting sports, no matter what aspect of the discipline you choose to be involved in, is only about one thing: Accuracy. It applies to paper targets, silhouettes, field target, ten meter, hunting and culling. If your reason for picking up any rifle, pistol or shotgun isn't becoming more a more accurate shooter then firearms aren't what you ought to be involved in.

Some folks like the big boom firearms make. The bigger the boom the more they feel like the alpha. What they always seem to forget (maybe they never knew because they really aren't alphas) is what makes the alpha the alpha is equally about power as it is about control. What's the point of the first without the second?

Some people would like others to believe power and control are the same thing, but the discipline of shooting firearms [well] neatly separates the two concepts to their rightful designations. The firearm has the power, the shooter learns to control that power.

There is a certain elegance in using the least amount of energy to accomplish a given task. We call it conservation. Its actually a lot of fun to find the best way to do things with the least amount of expended effort, whether it be by machine or human activity.

Its this thought process that led me in a new direction from shooting firearms to shooting precision airguns. I found the difficulty of training to be equal and yet much more enjoyable and available to my circumstances. Well okay, I can shoot what I want any time I want because I own a farm, have public ranges nearby and have many thousands of acres at my disposal throughout the year. So what made me choose precision airguns if I can target shoot, hunt or cull when I feel like it?

Air rifles and pistols like the ones I own are fine European designs. They have match grade barrels and multi adjustable triggers. I have a rifle I once rested which produced a five shot group that fit under the diameter of half a dime at thirty yards. I've come close to that many times but that's the best I've done with my HW77K. When you can shoot a rifle not louder than clapping one's hands, takes high grade pellets at under ten dollars for five hundred pellets, doesn't send an errant shot a mile and a half towards the horizon and takes critters up to gophers with the same pinpoint accuracy as firearms, its a lesson in the elegance of the conservation of energy. Accuracy reigns supreme. Control should always have the utmost influence over raw power.

Does that mean I gave up shooting my 7.5x55 Swiss made K31? The offspring of the venerable and insanely accurate Schmidt Rubin? Hardly. By the training these airguns allow me I can tell you that straight pull bolt and honest to goodness Swiss watch predictable two stage trigger are that much sweeter because of the ability to transfer what I learned from the massive amount of time I could spend shooting the air rifles as in a sense, preparation for the larger arms I use.

To be honest the big boom is just not that exiting compared to the sublime experience of shooting a precision air rifle. Its somewhat a matter of scale. Once a shooter understands [that] then the limited range and scaled down hunting experience of .177-.25 caliber air rifles becomes the better experience. Of course there are air rifles in the 308, 50 and 20mm calibers also, if you still need that big boom to satisfy your tastes.

In case there are some doubters about the accuracy and capability of air rifles these days, here's a little link to confirm that Daisys and Wally World Gamos are not the only airguns in town. If you go about half way down the replies to Cecil you'll see my friend Gunny Ric Douglas posts a video of yours truly taking one of the first shots of this rifle when it was still a prototype. Bob Dean is the creator and the barrel is off an F-16. Watch closely as the recoil ripples across me and literally draws me off my stance. This rifle has more recoil than my K31, which incidentally, has a steel butt plate.

http://www.network54.com/Forum/79537/thread/1180402822/20+mm+canon--kicked+in+face

I can say I've fired some pretty wild stuff. Both in firearms and airguns. By far the fun ( for me)resides in the conservation of energy attributed to the air powered arms. I've taken English sparrows out to ninety yards with a Paul Watts ADV tuned R11 in the "lowly' airgun caliber of .177. That's one morning I won't soon forget. Kind of a zen situation. Most often the ranges are between thirty and fifty yards. Sometimes more but not less as I prefer a little distance betwixt me and the targets.

So how does this correlate to anything having to do with scooters? When you develop a broad experience in a certain area you tend to gravitate toward "poles" even though the thing for all intents and purposes seems benign and pretty basic. Like riding two wheels with an engine driving them. We sometimes divide ourselves based upon the images of power versus what we truly want. If we seek the image of being powerful its most likely someone else is setting the ground rules for what is accepted as powerful. And some will seek to have that which gives them that appearance.

On the other hand those of us who prefer to determine our own standards possess something we never sought. Ironically, if you're looking for it you may never find it.

Roadbum

2007-05-20T22:32:00.001-07:00

For Cody

Today, Sunday, turned out to be a bust for Gary and I to ride. My wife was on call at the hospital this weekend and had a boatload of patients. By the time she was able to get home the hour was already much later than we had anticipated. So this very short post is for my friend Cody whose heroic career is firefighting. Its rare enough to see the boats Gary and I had the chance to find but even more rare is the sight of this vintage fire engine.

When you ride up to the lot the first thing you see are the boats. Some small and others enormous. They take in your attention immediately. Its not often one can find a shop dedicated to the wood finishing of historic sea going vessels. Even less so to find a company handling the complete restoration of them. The shop itself is dwarfed by the size of of quite a few in the yard. What's amazing is these boats are located quite a distance from any water capable of supporting their size. I would love to see how they got there in the first place. You would have to use semis for many of them. I can't think of another way.

You're thinking of all these huge wooden boats. That's where your focus is until you realize the only thing on the lot is partially hidden by a fairly young tree and a very modern aluminum fishing boat up for sale.

There at the center of the small plot of grass centered in the front of everything is an incredible machine. I couldn't date it. I'll estimate thirties to forties (how's that for a broad guess?). As far as I could tell this engine still has about everything it came with when it was in use. What caught my eye about this old workhorse is the fact is a ragtop. A convertible. If you look closely you'll see it. Just click on the picture and enjoy.

Cody, this one's for you, bud.

Roadbum

2007-05-19T20:52:00.000-07:00

Its Just a Wooden Boat

Gary and I had been thinking about riding together. Some way or another we were going to meet, ride and talk scooters. The thing that held us back was the fact Gar' was having trouble getting lined up with his Vespa. Then he pulled the trigger. If you haven't seen one of these bad boy GTS's in the vintage red, All I can say is the color works. The damn thing looks alive.

We set out on the east river road toward the shop which restores the larger wooden boats I wrote about in a previous blog.

You roll along beside the river. A row of homes between you and the slow moving waters. The two lane snakes under overhanging trees and past hobby farms. There's a stable of some wealth along the way. Some day I'm going to stop there and see what there is to see there. The place seems just right nestled in between homes lounging beside the Mississippi on their outstretched lots. In a few places they were closely knit, like small seaside towns. Little buildings jostling for a few more feet of space. Everyone likes to be on The River.

But we were here for the ride and a destination. The wooden boat restoration shop.

When we got there Gary was surprised. Just as I was the first time I'd seen it. A half moon of incredible pieces of floating history, beached for now, with restoration in their futures and a chance to sail again someday.

I was still taking in the view when Gary motioned me to guide my bike into a certain angle. From there it was all about looking for the framework to catch the big boats in their glory. To find glimpses of the ghosts still aboard these vessels.

You see, when you look at pieces of history, tools of another era, you sometimes tend to imagine the people of the time, around them. You can picture what someone might be doing, or the kinds of people who might have been sightseeing aboard these boats so long ago. You wonder about the people who built the boats and the ones who were on them.

The last set of pictures Gary snapped were of an almost overlooked fire engine from the thirties or forties. A beautiful original condition machine with an honest to goodness ragtop. A convertible fire truck!

It was time to move on. We rode back down the east river road from the boat restoration shop on the outskirts of the town of Rice to St. Joseph where we finally had a bit to eat. I'll let Gary cover that for you. Its his specialty.

But the ride. To me its what its all about. The weaving lanes beside the river or past Minnesota lakes. Through farmland and pastures and little towns whose church steeples break up the green skyline horizon. Its always been the ride.

Roadbum

2007-05-03T20:23:00.000-07:00

I know its blurry but I had to get something up here to see if I could finally get this to work. The plate says BKOFF and the sticker (for Bill) says "Don't Hold Strong Opinions About Things You Don't Understand".

I've actually got two of those plates from good ol' Wisconsin and have applied for the same here in Minnesota. You could say its the final piece of the puzzle set in place to make this place home to me.

The plate resided on the Virago and the sticker is on the Sportster. This year marks twenty years of owning the Yamaha and fourteen for the Sporty.

I'm telling you now, my pictures will never be of the quality of any other blogs you might read. But they may, to some degree, help get an idea across. I guess we'll just have to see.

Roadbum

2007-04-27T08:20:00.000-07:00

Two Sides of the Same Coin, Vespa's the Edge

Heads (Part two)

There are few situations in life that can't change in an instant. Its a matter of creativity and resolve not to accept defeat in order to make some things happen. Most of all its a matter of being prepared to change course in mid stream. One has to set in mind beforehand that there are more options than might seem apparent at first glance. Creative people persevere in order to succeed.

A bit of rest and good time with my family set my mind at ease after the trek to Minneapolis. A call the next day filled the cup of cheer to the brim.

I put the word out per our club's website that I was interested in a local ride. A jaunt into the hills surrounding St. Cloud. No sooner had I put up the post than a call came from a friend. A member of our local scooter club, St. Cloud Scoots. He mentioned taking a spin out to Rice.

Now Rice is your average nondescript country town. Its got all the local color one would expect, but its also got a few surprises. The first surprise was a new way to get there.

I'd always taken the west river road. A meandering path along the Mississippi with some calm switchbacks but nothing outstanding for the average rider. This is the route I thought my friend had planned for that evening. I was off by slightly more than the width of a river.

Chauncy was in the lead but he wasn't going where I thought he would. We crossed the river by the paper mill and turned left. I'd been down this road a long time ago. I still thought I knew what old Chaunc' had in mind.

Its good to be wrong sometimes.

Suddenly his left directional started blinking. Where was he going? We crossed the tracks and almost immediately leaned into a sweeping bend. The speed limit was thirty five miles per hour. Better yet, I couldn't see far ahead for all the twists this road was presenting me. This was already better than the west side river road. How long would this kind of fun last?

The road went on and on this way. I never looked at my odometer because one tends to forget about those sorts of things when one is having fun. The road drew us along with ancient trees hanging over it. There were classic river homes on either side, well cared for with deep yards and too many scenic views to take in all at once. Late afternoon sun shimmering on water's surface. You kept seeing the Old Man behind the homes to the left, his waters lazily sauntering south. No hurry.

These were the moments when I would risk a glance on a path I'd never been before. One eye on the scooter ahead and the other trying to capture the images around me.

The first time you travel such roads, your passage takes on a timeless effect. You're so deeply in the moment it could take minutes or an hour but it doesn't matter. You're here. Now.

We hit some straighter stretches where the speed limit opened up to fifty five. Perfect timing to uncoil the body and the bikes. Then around a sharp left ending in a sloping bridge back over the Mississippi. We climbed again and the turns took on the same pattern they had at the beginning of this adventure. One last long straightaway took us into the town of Rice. At the (only?) stop sign Chauncy said he wanted to show me something. All I could respond with was "Lead the way." We crossed the tracks which were now beside us and he pulled into a strange lot.

Have you ever seen a place where they restore old, wooden boats? I mean the types of boats which live their lives on a Great Lake? These were of ocean worthy size. Huge dark mammoths whose hulls were stripped of color. Only the long planks of wood were seen on all but a few. One especially long seafarer reminded me of Kipling's Captains Courageous. Who knows, it could have been there. The whole lot, several acres worth, was lined with landlocked travellers waiting their turn at the hands of master woodworkers. Rows of them.

After being awestruck by the eastern river road and then blown away by the boat restoration company, we stopped for coffee and a little break off the bikes. Then it was time to turn back for one more pass down that lane again.

Had to watch that speedometer a little more closely now. I guess you could say I got a little too enthusiastic at times, a little accelerbratory.

Roadbum

2007-04-19T20:24:00.000-07:00

Two Sides of the Same Coin, Vespa's the Edge

Tails (part one)

Like the distance the east is from the west, the only separation lies in the perspective of the individual staring at the sky. Its only the human element, standing on terra firma, who can look to the horizons and say one direction is east and one direction is west. Then it can only be what we ourselves call something which determines its value.

Plans that had gone awry as they sometimes do, gave me a reason to become creative with the use of my time. The LX has a small issue which could potentially become a large one. I've been thinking about when I would be able to get the bike down to Motoprimo to have it looked at and evaluated. I thought about riding to the twin cities from the sleepy little town I live in.

The direct route is I94. An hour and a half by car. I wasn't going by car, I was taking the bike. Mapquest for a start, then on to the good old fashioned Atlas of Enormous Size. This thing equates in size to an adult the way laying the family Bible on the lap of a two year old for that oh so cute photo to go in the family album. Huge.

I found a circuitous route and told my wife my plans. I hugged and kissed the family and headed out. A chilly morning but bright and inviting. It felt good to know I'd be riding some distance for a change.

I crossed a few small towns along the way. The freeway always beside me, never straying from view for very long. Finally the path bent south. Highway 101 at last. A long stretch but from what I'd remembered, a higher speed loping along kind of road.

Not so this time. 101 was under construction. Miles and miles of switchback arrow signs. More traffic than I ever remembered. To top it off, twenty to thirty mph winds were from the east and they were raising this country main thoroughfare higher than the rest of the landscape. The speed limit signs said 50 mph and were summarily disregarded by everyone. Mack trucks hauled stuff and the wind whipped some of it over everyone behind them. This leg of the trip couldn't be over soon enough.

A left on highway 81 made things much better. About a fifth of the mount of road construction here and very little traffic. Here again they seemed to be raising the roadway on places for some reason.

In Robbinsdale I found a little solace. I lived in north Minneapolis not that long ago. The Vespa followed the parkway to the little home I had on 44Th and Morgan. The area looks the same. Quieter than the reputation this side of town carries. Briefly onto Lyndale, a swoop over the River and the freeway, through the industrial area and into the city proper. I caught another parkway to the heart of Minneapolis and dodged my way south and east until I hit my destination.

I love the folks at Motoprimo. They'll remember you even if you've only been there once. And they'll do what they can to take care of you. The guys took pics of the transmission (CVT belt) cover and told me they'd do their best. I know they will.

I made one more stop at an old friend's store. He just laughed when he saw how I'd come down from St. Cloud. I turned Kythera toward home.

I've lived in or on the edge of metropolitan areas all my life but the street pattern of the twin cities befuddles me. I grew up riding Milwaukee and a bit of south Chicago (Calumet Park area). These are no small towns but I could navigate them even with a few wrong turns and still get back with a smile on my face. I have never been able to relax on Minneapolis streets.

The way out of town was nothing but stop and go traffic. I caught rush hour. More traffic, more people jockeying for lane position and more of everything that gets on the nerves of every commuter. By the time I made it out to 101, the five o'clock surge was pressing everyone even tighter together. Two lanes in both directions stuffed to the gills with people racing to get anywhere but here.

I was tense. Not that the actual riding conditions presented any issues, but I'm not fond of riding in so much blessed traffic.

I hit 39 and things eased a little. Once I was back on 75, things were almost quiet again. The tension released a little but not enough. I had to finish this ride in order to refresh my senses. A cooling down period.

When you don't do it often, riding through a city the size of Minneapolis and its western suburbs during rush hour can feel like some demented autobahn wannabe blitzkrieg. You would think by watching the cars that everyone hits the gas and brakes with the same voracity.

I would have been a wreck had I been in a car for that trip. For as much of a nerve wracking ride the return became, I was glad to be riding that Vespa. The coin may flip tails, but you still have to play the game to win.

Roadbum

2007-04-18T07:29:00.000-07:00

Motoprimo

Just a quick note to anyone in the twin cities area. I'll be heading from here in Sartell to Motoprimo in Minneapolis in just a few minutes. I don't really have a clear route in mind but I'll get there. I have a little "issue" with a crack which has developed at an unusual place on the tranny cover. No, not from kick starting but further back. The bike is still under warrantee so...

I'll get back and reply to stuff and check all the new inspiring blogs when I return. This could be a short distance all day-er.

Be well, ride hard and ride happy.

If I could get the Vespa on the Harley this trip could be done alot quicker haha.

Roadbum

2007-04-15T07:54:00.000-07:00

Three Quarters to Happy (addendum at bottom and noted)

Things have been busy around here. Opportunities to ride have been few. I spend a lot of time thinking about the rides. Places to go, my neighbor's new Moto Guzzi Grizo (sp?). On a whim my wife bought me one of those ultra cheap tire changers from Harbor Freight or something. The Vespa needs a new rear skin.

Following Vanslam's excellent video I got the tire off the bike and off the rim. Half the job right there. I even managed to use the tool to get one side of the new tire under the rim again. Now we're at three quarters. But bless it, I cannot for the life of me get the last bead inside the rim.

OK, its Sunday so I should be able to play with it, right?

My wife's birthday is tax day. That's right, today is her birthday. I have the time to write this because she's at the hospital and won't be here until sometime around noon. That's the plan anyway.

So here I sit. Vespa resting on its front tire waiting for the rear. I suppose I could take the Harley out but I really don't feel like riding that one today. Annette enjoys hanging out behind me but I really was hoping to take a spin with both of us on separate machines.

I have to say I got further than I thought I would with that tire changer from the catalogue. But I didn't finish the job and that really bugs me. I may try again this evening. If I can't get it by tomorrow morning I'll take it to a local shop.

Tube tires were much easier.

(addendum)

I took a nap yesterday afternoon. The in laws came over and they all went for a little stroll in the neighborhood. My wife woke me to tell me my father in law had seen where I was on the tire and decided to help. He got the thing on pretty much the way I was working it but the guy is easily twice my size. Suffice it to be said Al won that battle haha.

Annette and I celebrated her birthday with a little trip to the mall and then to a restaurant called the Stone House tavern and eatery in a little town named St. Joseph. The waitress handed us a card which read... Scooter Wednesdays along with the dates 6/13, 7/11, 8/8 and 9/12.

I know what you're thinking. Could there be so many scooterists in the St. Cloud Minnesota area that a restaurant would hold a night of discount food and live music for them? Some of you already know the answer. Naturally its for motorcyclists but I've had good reception with the bikers met on the road in that area. And I do own a Harley if I really felt the need. Still, its a prospect which deserves further inquest.

After the good food we caught the film Wild Hogs (or is it Hog Wild?). This is a truly funny movie. It does a fine job defining what real enthusiasts are looking for and the words come from the cameo appearance by the biker's film godfather himself, Peter Fonda. It made me laugh for the truisms that define a part of our riding culture. There's a satisfaction in how the movie wraps up. Hard not to like this picture.

Home fairly late I decided to wait until this morning to finish up. The tire was inflated at the local Shell station and reassembly was completed about thirty minutes ago. I am very happy with how things turned out. Although I'm the kind of guy whose first attempts warrant concern because I usually manage to botch something, I think I did pretty well.

But the best part came just after discovering my father in law had helped me out. That made my day. Just as incredible was the phone call not minutes later. It was our own Gary Charpentier calling to see where I was at and if I needed help.

What's so amazing is that Gary was ready to come up to my place all the way from St Paul! Just to help a fellow rider see his way to getting back on the road. How incredible is that! Scooterists and riding enthusiasts in general seem to have their own code. We will do what we can to help each other out. This time it was my turn to receive and I did, in a very big way. From the unexpected help from Al all the way to Gary's offer. From a call just a bit ago from our local scooter club's own Chauncy. From Combat Scoot John and some good ideas from my dear old dad.

I owe you all thanks and you have my gratitude. Let's all hope I jiggled this thing together right haha.

Roadbum

2007-04-12T14:46:00.000-07:00

Patience

The weather is finally turning here in central Minnesota. We're into the forties now. Snow is now found only in the shadows. By this weekend I can imagine everyone will be out sightseeing whether by car or bike.

This presents a new issue. As each spring arrives there is a kind of relaxation in the air. Driving habits change. There is a new batch of youngsters who waited out the winter months, their parents having limited the family sedan's use to minimalist levels during the snowy months. Now the snow is gone and the roads appear safer.

Relaxation.

Kids with a new lease on life are travelling to friends' houses, cell phones surgically implanted into the sides of their heads. In years past, a relatively quiet motorcycle still allowed the rider to hear high decibel amplification coming from juggernauts piloted by the young. (I have to admit I was one of those kids with the loud stereos.) Today its different. Can't hear the person on the other end of the signal if the radio is too loud. And they aren't watching the roads any closer than their parents who they most likely emulate.

Don't worry about them noticing you, they won't. Its your job to be aware they're just around the corner. Or right beside you. They may even slide into your lane and then flip you off for being in their way. We've all seen them. We've all wanted to deal with them in less than cordial ways.

The thing to remember is it isn't personal. Their driving "habits" aren't purposely focused on scaring the bejeezus out of motorcycle enthusiasts. They're just notoriously bad drivers and may never change. The best thing we can do is try our best to predict and avoid putting ourselves in harm's way.

I have a few simple rules which have saved my life. They're basic enough that any skill level rider can apply them.

Ride as if you were invisible.

No one can hear or see you. Ever. You're simply not there. Riding in this frame of mind, you will be less apt to roll along in someones blind spot. Intersections won't make you wonder if anyone sees you because any time you feel like you were noticed will feel like a nice surprise. Another important point; if you're waiting for the green at the front of the line and there are two lanes of traffic (same direction), ride in the right lane. The reason is the car in the left will act as a potential blocker for people running the light to cross the intersection. Also, if you can't see through or over the car to your left beside you, don't pass it until its blocked for you across the intersection. Staying beside a car makes you blend with the car but people will see the car meaning you're more safe riding inside its silhouette even when you and the car cross half the intersection.

Two exits besides brakes.

Somehow we train ourselves to think only of the brakes in a dire situation We forget we can accelerate to safety if we need to. Always remember, when it gets bad, the best riders never stop riding until they're out of harm's way. The shoulder is a viable option just as squirting between cars can be, if necessary.

The point is once you stop riding, or stop trying to ride your way out of a bad situation, in most cases you've given up. You're not done with the ride until the bike and more importantly you, stop moving. Take advantages wherever you can. Predict as much as possible. Choosing lane positions which provide more and better options can save our lives.

And keep an eye out for the weaving cell phone users. They win every time. Even when they lose.

Roadbum

2007-04-02T20:20:00.000-07:00

Yes, Deer

Spring has arrived across most of this great nation. Along with a fresh riding season straight ahead in the minds of so many enthusiasts are the very real dangers of animals which step onto the roadway and into our paths. Stray domesticated pets and wild animals mesmerized by the single and paired twin beams piercing dusk shadows and night.

Deer appear out of the darkness.

They spook you. Out of nowhere they appear from the darkness. Your panoramic view of the scene ahead instantly constricts into tunnel vision, involuntarily focussed on the reflective eyes moving towards the roadway. Broad tan bodies. Full grown. One (or is it two?) is moving down through the ditch. Too close. Will it (or they) run to the bike's headlight?

A shot of electricity bolts through you. Every inch of your skin crawls but you won't notice until this is over. By then the shivering from your body's instantaneous surge of adrenaline will be mixed with a cold sweat and the immediate need to void that bladder.

React.

You yank the clutch and the front brake simultaneously while your right foot bangs hard on the rear brake. The instant before you've given too much, you moderate pressure in order not to skid. Every bit of concentration you have is trying to keep that bike going in a straight line. Nearly six hundred pounds of metal in momentum and not-so-great brakes to control it. You're praying in tongues. Out loud.

Before you're aware of it your left thumb is mashing the horn button. At this point you maybe utterly speechless or you're adding your own voice to the wailing siren at the front of the machine.

With everything going on, time somehow goes into slow motion. Thoughts not connected to this dire moment suddenly grip your mind. Overload. Your scalp feels like its sizzling. Some sort of internal switch activates. Brain is flipping the important cards in your mental Rolodex. And you can't do anything about it.

By the time you're allowed to see the real world around you again, the lead deer is frozen at the shoulder and the bike is heeled safely. Shaken and scared, you roll on the throttle looking for the nearest available place to get off the bike. Once stopped you realize the feeling in your hands is gone and your limp legs can barely hold the bike up in order to put out the kickstand. You're grateful because you know what could have happened. Even now, after standing a moment the convulsive shaking still ripples over you at odd intervals. The internal thermostat alternates between too warm and a hollow cold.

Back in 2006 one of motorcycling's greatest safety advocates met that deer at speed. Lawrence Grodsky, whose column in Rider magazine addressed every habit, skill and riding condition, died hitting a deer.

When you consider that a man who devoted his career and life to teaching motorcycle safety could still have lost his life in one of the most common night time accidents, you realize it could happen to any of us. Few of us are as skilled as he was but most of us believe we are.

All it probably took was a false sense of security. A moment lasting not much longer than the blink of an eye.

Please be careful out there.

Roadbum

2007-03-31T19:10:00.000-07:00

Bygone Days

In the previous era things were different. For many riding enthusiasts, memories of that era are filled with times when groups of friends would join up just outside the neighborhood and ride all manner of dirt bikes on trails worn by preceding generations of young riders who had done the same.

Why would I call it an era? Because if you observe motor cycling's heritage, its first era can be defined as a time when communities were smaller than they are now. Cities and towns weren't surrounded by the unbroken sprawl of new homes. There were spaces. Farms and unimproved land were inviting places where kids could tear through the woods on trail bikes. Some of us may even remember things call fire roads, which were simply mowed paths through unimproved fields and woods so our fire departments could attack brush fires during prescribed burns. The beauty of it was, these roads really didn't require much mowing for all the kids who rode their dirt bikes along them. Imagine riding through the woods, your bike rolling along at the about the pace of a horse's gait. You don't see any other human activity unless its of the kindred spirits out enjoying the same things you are. No pavement. No signage.

Farms and local woods begged a young rider to roost a little. The fire roads were a different story. Although they were not that far from home, having something go wrong while on a fire road meant you were on your own.

Sometime in my late teens or early twenties chained signs began blocking off those roads. Forbidden. It became harder and harder to find places to ride which weren't farms owned by someone we knew. Then one day they were gone.

I'm sure even as I write, there are still places with open fire roads, or pastures and lots where today's kids are still able to bang around on their modern equivalents of our two stroke high pipe two fifties. But they're not a mere block or two away in most cases. In my own youth, either end of our subdivision boasted well worn trails and fields. I'll bet every modern kid with a dirt bike knows its just a matter of time before another farm disappears and the place once ridden becomes a hundred new homes in additions with names like Broken Trail or Daybreak Ridge. All I can think about is what it must've been like to actually ride Broken Trail or see daybreak atop that ridge.

The end of the era is defined by the majority of people who once did those things and no longer can. If you view this from another angle what you also realize is how its affected how people learn to ride. Where an older brother's dirt bike was put into service to teach you how to ride, those options aren't readily available to the majority of us anymore.

What follows is a new era. One where people with real road skills teach the rest of us how to stay between the lines. How to feel and negotiate every possibility. The fire roads and prairies are gone for most of us. Along with them an experience in riding that cannot be duplicated. But that is, as they say, how it is.

Even though riding farmland is still available to this rider, its not the same thing as those fire roads were. Those paths cut their way through places we intended to explore but never did. Conjecture of where those trails could have taken me is all I have now, and it in no way matches what the experience would have left with me.

So in a sense, this is about missing what was once available to most of us and in another sense it reminds me that the effect of change reaches us in sometimes unexpected ways. That there were no rider's safety courses then, but getting out of traffic and learning the basics in the woods was as common as having the bikes themselves. Wet grass, puddles and streams. Riding over dead falls or through gravel. Thick, tire sucking mud. Snow and its steamy sizzle after being spit back on the engine from the front tire. A different era for the majority of us.

Today, getting out of traffic means riding an hour just to be out of Megalopolis. Never mind leaving the tar and concrete ribbons. Someone realized how drastically things had changed and knew it was time to do something new. The rider's safety courses were born. Designed to instruct the best ways to handle any given street riding conditions, they will serve millions of riders now and in the future. Thus began this current era.

The Roadbum

2007-03-27T06:59:00.000-07:00

Avon

The other day a member of our riding club had purchased a new scooter. He wanted to put some miles on and get out on the open road. There was a chance of rain. The weather channel ominously told of the potential of heavy rains, large hail and straight line winds. Tom's intent was to show me his new scooter and hopefully miss the bad weather in his less than five minute ride home.

After he hung up I went on line to get a better picture of what was coming in the skies. While the Weather Channel screamed warnings the radar site I use showed the pattern splitting to the north and south right over our town. Once Tom got here I showed him what I saw and we agreed we would clean the bikes and talk a while to see what transpired.

We cleaned the bikes, talked about bikes and spent about an hour just hanging out in my garage. More clouds moved in from the southwest. Black thunderheads, the kind that roll in fast and seem to boil their way across the sky broke a line of trees to the south. Tom thought this was it. There would be no ride.

Again, the clouds split wide soon after they appeared. It was like an invisible wedge blocked them from finding us. Some stormclouds moved north of us, and splitting eastward they stayed well to the south. We went in and check the computer again. It appeared this thunderhead was the last in a strong line of storms. We walked back outside and into the back yard to see to the southwest better.

Blue sky. Behind the roiling lightening sparked darkness was clear sunshiny blue sky. In moments the storm was east and while the deep thunder was clear, it was past us.

The two of us grinned as we donned our gear and started the bikes. In moments we were riding the countryside that begins just outside my neighborhood.

But it gets even better...

After we returned we talked about the ride. We decided that the next day (yesterday) we would ride again when Tom got off work. At about five he was here and we were ready to go.

I wanted to ride the Avon area. Its a small town off the expressway. Surrounded by lakes and quite a bit more hilly than some areas around here it boasts some incredible riding potential for early weekend mornings. I just haven't been able to do it yet.

The sun was hot yesterday. It actually set a record. Upper seventies and bright clear skies. We rode in a general direction and found a back way into the town. Gassing up at the Shell we talked about which way to head out of town. Town being oh, approximately a mile long give or take. Back north we went.

At this point its any one's game and Tom picked some great roads. Long sweeping bends climbing hills through still bare stands of trees. Rivulets and ponds. The sun heating the black fabric of my Corrazo.

There's a term the classic rock stations use when they play a number of songs in succession by a certain band. Getting the lead out. I'd say that's a fair description of what this ride felt like to me.

From Avon to St. Stephen and back home again. We put on roughly fifty miles and it felt so good. Tom said this is only the beginning and I believe him. How could I not? There is so much to explore in the Avon and surrounding area. We have only just begun.

The Roadbum

2007-03-26T09:35:00.000-07:00

Whose Ride is It Anyway?

When learning to ride we all probably dealt with people who told us how dangerous motorcycles are to ride. Suicide machines. Hondacides. Name some derogatory term for the machine or the sport and I bet I can recall a time it was said to me. Without fail non riders' eyes would get suspicious and some advice or story about someones brother, cousin, or friend of a friend would fill my ears.

Oddly the reason for the crash or accident wasn't given. I had to ask that question on my own. Because we all know people don't cause accidents, the machines they're using suddenly take over and operate independently of the user. It happens all the time and motorcycles are notorious for displaying this characteristic normally reserved for living things.

People rule the majority of things and situations they find themselves involved in. They either take control or relinquish it. Its that simple. The responsibility lies with the individual.

When people relate these fearful stories about how Bob sent himself into a ditch some early morning sometime after bar closing they always leave out the part about the bars closing. Never mind that Bob helped close a certain bar. Bob was the victim and his dastardly motorcycle forced the liquor upon him.

They might tell the story with vivid detail but ask a few questions and chances are you're going to make them angry because they just got caught in a half truth or a flat out lie. If you point out Bob relinquished his control of the situation voluntarily or that Bob just assumed he could operate a motorcycle the way he would anything else in his life, they'll walk away angry.

People tell me how dangerous motorcycles are all the time. I tell them in all the years I've owned them, going into my teens, I've never walked by them in the garage and had one jump out and try to bite me yet.

Is that a dumb reply? No it really isn't. Because it always reminds them responsibility lies with the operator. Before they can utter another word the gears in their heads are turning. They stop talking and start thinking. The common response afterward is "just be careful out there" and that's something I appreciate hearing.

Now something new is happening and I can't seem to get past it. Riders who normally understand the individualism imbued in the spirit of riding motorcycles are giving faux warning about riding in bad weather. Here's the point those folks are missing: When someone tells you about a ride in bad weather and they're still a fully functioning human being, it means they rode well enough to get through it just fine. Regardless what the naysayers whine about, it already happened. Its a done deal. It happened without incident. And its up to the teller of the tale to decide if such a ride will be undertaken again. The person begging them not to do it again is forgetting two important things. First, Teller of said Tale doesn't need any one's permission to ride any time anywhere on the public roads of these United States. Secondly, Teller of said Tale probably learned a few things about being safer about riding in any conditions that the naysayers may need to know for their own safety someday.

When someone makes the choice to ride, they already took a leap against the grain. They've determined its worth the experience even if becoming the focus of naysayers' attention is drawn to them. Why? Because they really don't worry about what other people think. And they shouldn't, either.

People have ridden truly bad weather and did more than survive they found they enjoyed the experience, they explained to others how they got through it and then others learned to be better riders. Some riders have been in those same conditions and said they would never do it again. But from what I've seen both groups will share what they did and how they got through it.

We all have our limits where we feel we can handle a given condition well enough to get through it with relative comfort. Its not the same bar for any two people. Trying to bring anyone to our personal level of operation or comfort is an exercise in futility. Some riders will lay a bike low through the turns even on wet pavement. Others will baja off through the woods, beginning at the fire trails and working their way deeper and deeper into the steep terrain of canopied forests. Some take a go at snow while others like me enjoy riding in the rain on a warm afternoon.

It all starts with the idea that you or I could actually get through this situation. After all, none of us in this generation are going to be the first to do it. Millions have done it. They remember riding motorbikes through the woods. Or across fields, soaking themselves in muck. They remember the fun it was, the little two strokes tooting at high rpm for all they were worth.

No, before the naysayers condemn us for riding in bad weather or deride us for the way we're "influencing" the riding public with our disregard for safety and the "image" we present, they should remember some of us did these things before. Maybe as kids. They should also take notice that we ourselves are using all of our fingers to tell the stories. What riders who've done these things know, the rest of us can learn.

The Roadbum

2007-03-20T19:19:00.000-07:00

What's in a Name?

In October of 1900 sponge fishermen in the Mediteranian were trying to find safety from a storm. They ducked into the shelter of an island until the storm passed. After the skies broke they decided to try their luck in the area. The first diver went down and came up with fear in his eyes. With what must have seemed a halucinating fear to his mates he described a sea floor littered with bodies. The captain was next to dive and he returned with the arm of a bronze statue. The men of that small fishing expedition brought everything they could carry to the surface.

Two years later an archeaologist returned. Much more was found but the crowning interest he discovered on that sea floor was a mechanism in which he could see a gear. The machine was cloaked in mystery. There was not the one gear but several. No one was able to tell this machine's purpose. Originally believed to be an early clock, it was later presumed to be some kind of analog computer. Later studies would show it to be an astronomical tool. You could turn any of the three dials on its surface to calculate the position of the sun and planets for a past or future date. Astoundingly accurate and containing over thirty gears, the tool is credited to have been made by Posidinius around 150-100BC. More amazingly there are two more mentioned in the scrolls of Greece and later the great library of Alexandria. The first is said to have been made by Archimedes.

Now this brings up another point of interest to scooter and motorcycle enthusiasts. Archimedes made the first odometer. There are still mileage markers in existance which were built during the Roman empire. Their distances apart were measured by the same device Archimedes invented. Until recently it was only by evidence of some scroll that such a tool was even thought to exist. The problem was that each attempt to build Archimede's odometer met with failure. Recently a scientist of antiquity discovered how the thing actually worked and built a working model. One interesting part of the design was as so many gears followed a certain pattern of rotation, a stone would drop into a lower box, or tray, signifying one mile for each stone that fell.

Archimedes, father of the Antikythera Mechanism. He who also created a way to measure the distance we travel. Were it not for those fishermen off the island of the same name, would there be any way to know of the genius within this man's thoughts? To imagine just how much depth of understanding lay in his hands, consider that these functioning tools were made how many generations before Da Vinci? A full fifteen hundred years between on great mind and the other.

In this day science is still trying to work out the solutions left by the great authors of design such as Archimedes. If just for another page of discription then we would have what he did, what he meant by thus and such. Just one more scroll or parchment and we could solve another ancient mystery.

That name reminds me of my own insignificance. It also reminds me of the greatness man can create. A tool to set the place of the stars. Another to tell us how far we've come.

Tonight the Vespa has been given a name.

Kythera

The Roadbum

2007-03-19T16:21:00.000-07:00

Everyone Needs to Eat

Therefore our young and small club is going to have a food shelf run. All the details are here: http://www.stcloudscoots.net/

Part of the ride will take us through orchards and by some lakes. This is a countryside ride over, as they say, hill and dale.

The Roadbum

2007-03-16T14:32:00.000-07:00

Spirited not Dangerous

When I was young I sometimes rode dangerously. Well by my standards today I would think so. Back then it was nothing to rely on quick reflexes and utterly trust my motorcycle to come through in the clinch. I would skip the tires, pour the bike into turns and throttle out with the dual forty millimeter Mikunis sucking in as much air and fuel as they possibly could. I hung her low and I was proud of it.

Over some years I mellowed but on occasion the young me, the former Rb would need to take the controls and set the tone. I've always been reading and listening to what skilled riders taught and I employed more and more of it. One day it felt like I was trying to duplicate the edge of my seat feeling I used to get, but it wasn't there. I realized I'd crossed some invisible line where I employed skill instead of hope and a little prayer. I was doing the same things I had in the past but the fear was gone. I also felt smoother through that turn. Confidence and more knowledge caught up with sheer youthful bravado. I'd made it this far with a bit of grace and luck. My style changed and improved over these many years and instead of the gritted teeth and bare knuckles, I was reading the information the bike and road were feeding me.

This was new...?

I began paying attention to the feeling I was looking for. The sensation of the right lean angle combined with the right entrance speed. Ahhhh that's the thing I was looking for!

When you do it right you get that same rush without the adolescent's anxious impatience. Sound familiar? A boy.. a girl... a passionate embrace leads to... (ahem) where were we? Oh yes. Attention to detail and practice brings about skill. Skill leads to being able to draw out the moment with (hey, you... stop thinking about the two young lovers. It was just an illustration) better self control.

I learned to slow a little more and build up more gradually in the turns. As my confidence increased I realized I could pitch the bike per speed and ride through the way I wanted. Not that all out crap, but really soak up the moment in a broad sweeping bend. Make it last.

Kids swill beer and coffee. Adults know what it tastes like.

I used to pour it on in the straights too. Looking for a natural high. But there's something about going the speed limit. You know, it really is about the right speed for this road.(ohmygoddidIjustwritethat?) Well, I suppose my attitude is improving and that's a good thing.

Spirited.

I bet in some ways I ride as hard as I ever did but those times are farther in between now. There's more skill in the saddle and its employed being smooth rather than trying to be blitzkrieg fast. Scooters are nimble little machines but they're not "fast". You can swing them into decent lean angles without much effort and throw them around a little bit. Its that near effortless compliance which allows me to enjoy them so much. Like the little bikes I grew up around. As happy with the ride now as I was then.

The Roadbum

2007-03-16T07:40:00.000-07:00

Second Hand Happiness

Old Scoot mentioned having what's now becoming thought of as a classic old model, the Honda Helix. His bike has lots of miles meaning its getting ridden. Far too often I hear about scooters from the mid eighties on being sold for a song with three to five thousand miles on the clock. Bikes which are probably due for a tune up and good going over from sitting in the back corner of a garage somewhere.

These bikes were fun while their owners used them but some reason caused them to be put aside, relegated to storage. Maybe the owner decided it was time to move into something larger or life just changed as often happens. Great scooters, low miles.

You can find these machines for a song by listening to the grapevine. They were running when put aside. Gummed carburators, oil and brake fluid changes usually accomplish enough to get them back on the road. Oh, and this is important; you will require new tires. Going over the details starting with a good cleaning could show a nice gem underneath. Just some loving care. If the prospective seller finds the title, you might have just found yourself a very inexpensive ticket to ride.

A friend was recently given a Yamaha Riva 180. He literally sprayed some carb cleaner through it, changed the oil, drained the tank and added fresh fuel just to see if it would run. He replenished the old battery with distilled water and trickle charged it. You can thumb the starter and that old '83 Riva will fire and run every time. Cost of the Riva? His time into it so far.

Japanese scooters have been in the states a long time. They made their mark here with an ad campaign that anyone over thirty can quote. "You meet the nicest people on a Honda." Suddenly everyone wanted to ride the little Honda scooters. They had larger wheels, a version of legshields and they had a look all their own. Because of the placement of ads, everyone had seen the 70cc scooters. Honda placed the commercial in mainstream magazines. Everyday people riding and smiling while riding. The company founded by Hoshiro Honda had had created an icon.

Since the early seventies Japanese scooters developed their own reputations of reliability. They became thicker looking. More plush. They boasted good power and larger models could get above sixty miles per hour. The little 50cc models were seen hanging around college campuses, waiting for their owners to take them to the local watering holes. The bigger models had their own niche. People who rode them might've started on the smaller and just enjoyed them so much they had to have the next model up. Even in the seventies and eighties the Japanese scooter manufacturers carried automatic scooters. They were stone simple to use and pretty basic to maintain. And they were dependable.

I like to surf the internet looking at all the different scooters that have been made since the seventies. Different designs, interesting solutions to one thing or another, they all had something worth taking a second look at. There are websites dedicated to common problems one model or another had and the solutions to those problems. Most often its really not expensive even by today's standards. For a fraction of the cost of a new scooter you can be into something you used to think was pretty nice. For not that much more you can have it running as new. Hard to beat that logic against the rising cost of virtually everything in today's economy.

I'm developing an interest in finding a certain model Honda I've always liked. This thing was considered plush in its time and still looks it today. Those bikes have never looked "cheap" to me and they still don't. They're out there. In a garage, basement or barn. Waiting for someone to put them back on the road.

Is there a model you remember that caught your eye?

The Roadbum

2007-03-15T08:31:00.000-07:00

Time to Slake Your Thirst

I've always had an unspoken distance I needed to ride in order to feel... rested. I don't know about you but I feel more refreshed after a proper ride than after a good night's sleep. Since I can remember I could never sleep more than six hours unless physically ill. Sleep is a non active sort of activity. You're not really involved. You sort of have to trust that nothing will happen while you're "away".

Riding on the other hand, is a hands on in the moment experience. You control what happens and so you ultimately control most of what you feel. Pick the road, the third of the lane, the time of day or night or the company you choose to ride with. Its all yours to tune to your liking.

The only variable left is how long do you need to be out there, to be riding at your own pace in order to feel like the ride has reached its fullness? How long a ride will it take to satisfy your lust for the experience of The Ride?

When I was a single Roadbum it had to average a good thirty miles to even qualify as a ride. With groups it seemed the ride had to be longer. Much longer. I was given the nickname Marathon Harv after a certain nighttime sojourn I led brought us to the Minnesota state line. This was back when I lived in Milwaukee. Some riders complained I'd gotten us lost. My friends knew I was loosely following the stars.

So what comprises a satisfying ride? I think its being in the moment you'd planned for when you started. Sometimes creativity needs to work in one's favor but the general rule is we have expectations for each ride. If we meet them it becomes a memorable experience.

I'm married. I've got soon-to-be four year old twins to think about. Time is less my own than it ever was. I've resorted to skimming a little time here or there in order to get some time in the saddle. Subconsciously I must have come to the conclusion something about the ride had to change if I was to capture the same satisfaction I used to find in the longer rides.

I had to rediscover what it was about the ride which has always drawn me in so completely.

When the Honda Express came along the little scooter turned out to be a hoot to ride. The little bike's bare minimum capabilities not only brought back the livelihood of the ride it somehow managed to compact fun into shorter distances and thus shorter spans of time. It felt like starting over again. Fresh.

When I got the Vespa LX150 I could have gotten the GTS250. I passed on it because it crossed an invisible line which would have put it in the same category as the other full on motorcycles I have. If it can get on the expressway its a motorcycle as far as I'm concerned. I've got several of those. I don't need another. No, the line had to remain or I would be confusing the issue. And I'm not selling the others. The Harley carried Annette and me on our honeymoon nearly eleven years ago. She loves that bike for sentimental reasons. The Nighthawk is hers and her decision alone regarding whether it stays or not. The Yamaha has been with me twenty years. The only bike I've ever named. Tamera is "the other woman". She looks as good as the day we met. The GL is something I haven't decided about just yet.

Tamera.

The Harley.

These bikes require being ridden longer distances on principle alone. They warm themselves into the ride in a different way. Some people say bikes like these need to "stretch their legs". Short rides on Tamera and the Sporty just don't feel right. Unsatisfying.

The Vespa can be ridden short distances or long because it distills the whole riding experience in a different way. It imbues a sense of getting back to the roots of why we ride, in each ride. Its just fun whether you're going to the grocery store to pick up odds and ends or riding straight through a couple tank fulls worth on a Saturday.

A new cup filled with good vintage wine. Not like the adolescent thirst I once had, a craving to just go go go, but a more mature interest in the full body of the ride. Lesser roads on the way to better roads. For me this Vespa puts more fun into all of it.

It goes to show the ride is what you make it.

The Roadbum

2007-03-14T09:35:00.000-07:00

Genuine Success

About a week ago my dad picked up the Genuine Buddy scooter he'd ordered. The reason he bought it was the scooter he's ridden until now is a 50cc. While it'll run an honest 40mph and 45 if you strain it down a hill, traffic generally moves a little quicker than the posted limits. Keeping up with traffic flow can become a safety issue.

We brought it home in his Tacoma as my work on making my boat trailer a dual purpose design hasn't begun.

The other day it was beautiful here. In the fifties and light winds. Dad was itching for a good day to ride his new prize. I called him and said I thought this would be a good day to take it on a little spin. Kind of get the feel for it and break it in a little. You could hear the anticipation in his voice. Within half an hour the little red truck was parked in the driveway.

I rolled my midnight blue LX and his ruby red Buddy into Annette's spot and began wiping them down. It's the little details which surprised me about the Buddy. The fit is nicer than you might expect from a Taiwanese import scooter. By looking at the quality of the fit and finish a person might be hard pressed to come up with the actual price of this bike.

My dad commented that I didn't have to wipe it down but it's a habit I developed somewhere along the line and I'm not about to quit now. To me it's part of the fun of owning a motorcycle or scooter.

We rolled the two scooters out of the garage and onto the driveway, each of us starting his respective bike. Both started immediately. Both worked themselves down to a warmed idle and settled into that familiar one lunger loping sound. So nice.

We went over the switches again and decided the route. A familiar loop we'd ridden all of last summer. Some straights, some hills and a few sleepy bends to round out the ride.

Compared to last summer this first ride with pop was already better. We weren't limited by his speed. Cautious and a more spirited ride is what this turned into. My dad rolled his throttle and moved through the rpm's and the bike never stuttered. When we turned I could only smile as once we were rolling again he remembered to flick off the signal. The audible clacking of the switch is a great feature to remind us to thumb it off. Dad could hear it again. He never missed a beat.

Now there is a section of plumbline straight road. Pockmarked and rippled its a sore spot on the run but it gets you to the better stuff. I sometimes think of it as the price you have to pay for what's coming afterward. Something I hadn't thought of before came to mind as I watched my dad riding ahead of me on this road. You really get to see how a bike deals with rough pavement. You don't visialize it like you might when you critique your own experience, you actually witness it.

I don't know why but for a split instant I saw my dad on the old 50cc. I blinked and there he was on the Buddy. As strange as this was it also caused me to notice something. The Genuine Buddy's supension works extremely well. It's rider wasn't being jostled but the feedback appeared to be about as close to right as I would suppose one would want from a scooter. My dad wasn't fighting the ride, he was rolling with right along with it. He certainly appeared comfortable.

Once we got to the roads where a little lean angle is employed he moved right along through them. Instead of the wandering line he used to follow, using the whole lane to negotiate each arc, he held the line consistantly. When he started in the left third of the lane he rode that third all the way through and maintained it on the following straightway. After the ride he spoke of the Buddy's design inspiring his confidence. Hey, I can't argue, I witnessed it.

The true testament to the Buddy's quality and attention to details regarding how it works came in the words my dad spoke upon shutting the bike down. He looked me square in the eye and said, "Son, if it was a bit warmer I would say let's just keep going."

The only thing he thought the bike could use is a wider legshield. Coming from him that's pretty impressive. We'll revisit his thoughts later in the season once the newness of the bike wears off and he's put some miles and time in the saddle.

That says enough about how my dad feels about his new Buddy.

The Roadbum

2007-03-13T07:30:00.000-07:00

When Owning a Chinese Scooter isn't so Bad

Let me preface this by saying I have nothing against Chinese scooters if they're brands like TN'G or Schwinn. Actually both are the same scooters with different badges but that's another story. TN'G has been making scooters for decades overseas and has entered the US market with a fairly decent support line. Unfortunately unless the trend of sales remains strong they too may fade away. I hope they stick around because from what I've seen locally dealer support is pretty darn good for this particular Chinese company.

What companies like TN'G offer is an inexpensive scooter which fits a small niche of people just getting their feet wet. Unfortunately there are many [used car] lots selling Chinese brands I've never heard of, even in this college town of St. Cloud. These lesser known companies have gained a sales network of people willing to make a quick buck and it bodes poorly for those of us who are scooterists first and foremost. When a no name brand comes along for a season or two of spiking gas prices the money is made on the sale. Once sales decrease the no name scooter brands fade away, leaving buyers with machines needing only slight maintenance from sitting quietly through a winter, without anyone to turn to. People who would have been avid scooterists are left with regrets and a sour taste against the sport in general.

But what if you're a new scooterist? What if you've never ridden a motorized two wheeler before?

You might be one of the millions who plunked down anywhere from an unbelievable 700 dollars to under two grand for the better models. The bikes have done what you asked. You're learning to ride and you're have a blast in the breeze and sunshine.

The day of truth arrives. The day you discover if you're a rider or someone just testing the waters.

You have your first spill. It could be a slide, or something as simple as what my dad did just two days ago. He started the bike for the first time after a long winter without riding. He managed a simple newbie mistake and the bike rolled away from him. He tried to grab it but by standing on the wrong side and not keeping a hand on the brake the little 50cc "scooted" away from him and went over on its side. Damage was a cracked upper legshield along with a turn signal bracket snapped off. In the accident he tripped and fell but no injuries. Just a little pride and a (thankfully) gentle reminder that these things need to be taken seriously. I don't think he even suffered a bruise that's how light this little tip over was.

My dad has no intention of giving up. He loves to ride. As I mentioned in an earlier post he now has the new Genuine Buddy. He wisely intended to run in the older TN'G to get himself back in the groove before getting on the new scooter. After his little mishap he checked the 50cc out as well as he could and even took it for a little spin. Seems there's nothing wrong with the bike other than a chipped plastic legshield and a snapped turn signal bracket.

To me the TN'G runs exactly as I remember it last season. But it suffered a little cosmetic... individuality. My dad made some fairly common new rider mistakes. He assumed a few things and now knows not to. But I have to tell you he's thankful it happened on the little 50cc rather than his brand new Genuine Buddy 125. Mechanically the TN'G is no worse for the wear. Neither is my dad.

I can't imagine how upset he would have been with himself had it happened on his cherished ruby red Buddy. I'm just glad the little low speed scooter was the bike to remind him to always think about every detail of what he's intending to do when it involves two wheels. He's set in his ways and there's no changing his patterns from the son to father perspective. Sometimes he just does things his way and learns on the uptake. I wish it didn't have to be this way but its his choice. In that respect an inexpensive Chinese scooter was the better of the two he owns upon which the lesson was to be learned.

The Roadbum

2007-03-10T16:41:00.000-08:00

Splashing Around

This is the time of the year when I've always had the least patience waiting for the roads to become "passable". As a motorcyclist, spring always made me wish the snow would melt in the span of a day or two. A week at the most and then during the work days so you could ride by the time the weekend rolled around.

Was the weather too cold? Too much sand on the roads? You would think either of these things could be dealt with easy enough. No, these weren't the reasons to wait. Its been easy enough to wear proper gear. We knew how to stay warm. And the sand has been taken with extreme caution with our routes planned around areas where heavy traffic meant the plows had spread alot of it.

Do you know what keeps the majority of motorcyclists off the roads this time of year?

Water.

Puddles large and small. Pools of water which anyone on two wheels will eventually be unable to avoid riding through. The front tire hits, the water splits and sprays. It goes in directions that seem unnatural. It sprays everywhere. To put it bluntly, it really sucks to get slushy, dirty, sandy water up your pant legs only to run back down and soak your socks. I don't know what the laws of physics are that cause this strange pattern of flying muck to fan itself the way it does once a tire's force splits the puddle, but it'll manage to hit you in the most inexplicable ways.

I've hit puddles and had water shoot up my nose. Inside my full face helmet! With the visor clamped shut no less. You want a good reason to pull over? This is one that definitely makes the Late Night with David Letterman Top Ten list.

But today I thought about one of the great features of scooters. They have these wonderful design functions known as legshields. And they work as advertized.

Today I went for a glorious little roundabout into the countryside a cup of coffee. In the next town. Actually a few towns away but that's not the point. The point is I traversed large puddles of standing water and was not sprayed once.

Ahhhh the joy. The simple pleasure of finding yet another reason to appreciate these little gigglemachines called modern scooters.

Not that I went out of my way to split the waters, but where I more or less needed to, I crossed them cautiously and slowly. Sure, the Vespa shows its been ridden. The bottom is not so much midnight blue anymore as it is a splattered canvas in shades of brown. Like a Pollack using only earthtones.

For the true riding enthusiast the design of the legshield and floorpan ought to elicit praise. Its functionality provides comfort where other designs might force the rider to choose between putting on extra gear, or waiting for the roads to become dry again. I've ridden hundreds of miles with blown out rain pants. Soaked to the point of numbness and unable to stop because there was a storm ahead of me and another creeping up behind. Where I was it was not raining but the roads were beyond capacity to move the water to the side. While we were not being hit by the rain we were definitely being hammered by the spray coming up to greet us from the surface.

To think of having been on my Vespa that day. Yes, I believe I would have been drenched just the same in the end. The difference being water plowing its way up at you from the road, drenching you the way it had versus the new experience of the scooter's solution to the problem. What comes up to you with such force meets the legshield and floorpan. The mist of it will get you in the end if you need to be riding long enough in the stuff. Think of it as getting hit by a Supersoaker full of very cold water versus a seeping mist, a gradual heavy dampness.

Scooters are incredibly well thought out machines. If form follows function they may be the best for the average riding enthusiast.

The Roadbum

2007-03-09T05:02:00.000-08:00

Scooterville equals Happiness

My father has a TN'G Venice. He wanted a scooter to occupy his time. As a retired widower he's got lots of it and he'd like to stay active. The scooter was a fun machine but it does a steady forty mph and forty five if you're willing to push it. It lacks some features which make it less the kind of machine he wanted to live with for too much longer. First, the location of the gas cap is in line with the rear rack and Dad likes to carry a few extra things besides what fits under the seat. Second, I've not seen a workable windscreen for the model. Here in central Minnesota the flying insects in your headlight beam can seem of plague proportions in the early morning and evenings. He lives two blocks (the short way) from the banks of the Mississippi. I live about a mile from it. There are days when cars and bikes can be covered with little six legged carcases. A wind screen is almost a necessity around here.

So dad began thinking about faster scooters and wind screens.

Like my dad I'm no giant but he's even shorter than I am. He tried my LX150 and didn't like the height. He needed something with a lower seat height. Apparently this riding bug really took hold of him. Every couple of weeks he would tell me about some motorcycle dealership he'd gone to looking for scooters. Nothing really appealed to him.

I told him I was going to a place in Minneapolis for their winter swap meet. A store dedicated to scooters and accessories. His eyes got big so naturally I invited him along.

Scooterville is near the "U". Its located in what used to be a factory of some kind. Once you're inside the place is big. There are three main rooms chock full of all manner of scooters, jackets, helmets, accessories and literature. A scooterist's mecca.

The week of the swap meet had crowds of people coming and going. Scooterists and soon-to-be scooterists filled the place. You know something is really good when everyone around you is smiling or laughing. There were great old Vespas and Lambrettas for sale. Stellas, The Genuine brand imports that look near identicle to the Vespa PX series. New Kymcos and TGB's.

There was another brand of bike there which has been making quite a splash among scooterists. The Genuine Buddy. Due to a little priveleged information (I won't say whom) came to me that a red Buddy was on its way to America. It turned out to be the color my dad wanted and he put an order for one of the red ones.

Yesterday we had the chance to make it to Scooterville to see the bike. Its beautiful. Dear old dad is completely enamored with it. He got the front and rear chrome racks and a mid sized wind screen. The guys at Scooterville answered all our questions and set the bike up. They even helped us load it into dad's Tacoma. We talked about the fun we were going to have this year.

That whole ride home the smile never left my dad's face.

Thank you Scooterville.

The Roadbum

2007-03-07T06:53:00.000-08:00

The Shop

The shop is an actual shop. Up until now its been a section of a building in an industrial park less than a mile from my house. No, the shop doesn't belong to me but its a kind of hangout for a few guys. Better than any bar and chock full of tools. The Shop has been owned by my friend Loren for the last year or so. The rent was cheap and he set the place up very nicely.

Loren started the shop as sort of a giant hobby room in which to work on his ever changing assortment of snowmobiles and motorcycles. He's got antique sleds and bikes dating from the seventies. Two stroke engines are what he loves.

I've done some very minor work on my own things there but mostly it was a place to hang out and talk about anything that came to mind. Motorcycle design, parts he's made to fit a certain need. Snowmobiles especially. Scorpions are his favorite. He's got a couple of those too.

There's a Yamaha Riva 180 waiting for a variator and rollers there. A CT70(?) and some other ancient red 65cc or 90cc Honda. Cool bikes. He gets them in trade for work he's done for people fixing their everyday rides. People want new everything so they give Loren what they think is pretty much useless and within a short time he's got some early seventies small displacement machine running smoothly again. Its fun to ride them and see what it was like when these were the only machines people had to choose from. Back then it seemed bikes were designed around real world needs intead of looking or riding like they were track bound. To me they were more honest in that fashion. You can see it today in the insanely fast sport bikes and dirt machines. Ya gotta look like a pro. Credibility on the street is all about appearance.

Maybe its why the market for cruisers is so huge. You get to sit on your bike in a very normal almost ergonomic position. People do what they have to in order to ride and they'll take the best they can find. I wonder if another standard four hundred cc Japanese motorcycle would stand a a chance in today's market. Would people accept it?

When I look around Loren's shop its a very different history lesson. We always hear about the venerable Honda CB750. A motorcycle which ushered in a new era in motorcycling. But while the magazines and that guy down the street were singing its praises, many models were still in use and variants appeared right along side the CB. There were large displacement two strokes like the H1 and 2 by Kawasaki. These machines tipped the displacement scales at around 750cc's. Huge in those days. But people were still riding and loving the little screamers. They were just fun.

Loren constantly has offers to take some small displacement UJM from someone's barn or shed and he gladly does every time. By today's standards the way they ride is definitely timeworn but at least he's getting them rideworthy again. Back on the road to someone whose been hoping to reconnect with something they remember.

The shop is going away at the end of this month. To be seperated into storage units and Loren's garage. It's taken a tremendous amount of time away from his riding both his sleds and his bikes. Not to mention some of his family time. You just don't get those things back.

The Roadbum

2007-03-06T02:05:00.000-08:00

Snow, blown furnaces and Cycle Empire

Its been a harrowing week in some ways. My kids are a little under the weather and they passed it along my way. Must be some part of the homework program I'm unfamiliar with.

The upper midwest got some snow (finally) which also put me in gear to get a certain 29 year old Allis Chalmers snow thrower here and running again. A lovely safety orange beast sporting an old iron Briggs and Stratton five chuffer.

Then my furnace decides to cough nothing but cold air. Turns out it was a minor fix and if I'd looked a little more intently I could have saved quite a bit of money. Insulation fell into the fan negating the sensor to allow the thing to ignite. Point of the insulation? You got me...

Which brings us to Cycle Empire.

If you live in an area conducive to motorcycling, chances are you'll eventually find a strange store in your general locale. Usually on the outskirts of town. The kind of place which doesn't sell any particular brand of actual new motorcycle but its loaded to the rafters with out of date parts for any model you can think of from the last thirty years. Its also the kind of place where the owner puts out one of those huge chrome coffee makers you find at outdoor parties. Styrofoam cups still in the filmy plastic are stacked upside down next to it. Coffee Mate products on the other side. If he's a generous man there are little stir sticks but usually its a spoon on a napkin for everyone to use. He's got some local papers on the counter and if you're as lucky as we were, you showed up after work every Thursday for your own copy of The ONION. If you've never read the ONION its satire I rank with some of the finest. In those days it was incredible.

Behind you were some of the used bikes for sale. On occasion there would be a Vespa or two. I never knew where they came from and I wished I'd picked one or two of them up over the years. Less often would be the Cushmans. More like tiny motorcycles. The Vespas were cooler. We knew it even back then. The scooters were always put along the wall. The bikes more haphazardly rolled into sort of a line. Anywhere from five to ten motorcycles were for sale and they ranged from mid eighties UJM's to the occasional true antiques. It was there that I saw my first Indian Scout. A small machine commanding alot of money to part from its current owner. Apparently there was a little bidding war going on with that one as master was on vacation and told the store to give him the best offer when he returned.

Once you'd had your coffee, ONION, and a cigarette with the guys talking by the bikes and scooters, you moved to the right of the coffee counter and into another room. Saddle bags, oil, and literal stacks of parts seperated by brand and not much else greeted you in the isles. Old grey men lost deep in thought, hunting their own strange grails.

Turn right after the register and up a half flight of stairs brought you into a large room filled with every kind of riding gear you could imagine. Jackets, rain gear, protective gear, every imaginable brand of helmet.

Heading back out, you had to look up before you went down the steps because there hung the strangest brown Triumph custom motorcycle you may ever see. This thing looked like it formed itself out of a bad acid trip. They might do some interesting shaping on the discovery shows but they've got nothing on this thing. Its been hanging from the ceiling since at least the mid eighties and was present in the nineties when I last was there. I can't begin to describe it, you have to see it for yourself. All I know is the engine is definitely Triumph. The rest? From the mind of an insane visionary.

The beauty of Cycle Empire was it drew creativity to itself. It carried parts for the Harley crowd, the UJM crowd, sport bikes and things that sometimes left you wondering to yourself. Its lot could be filled to capacity with every concievable style of ride, the picnic tables crammed with people just hanging out and enjoying themselves. It was a mecca of bike-ness on the south side of Milwaukee and I miss it.

The Roadbum