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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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