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
Thursday, September 10, 2009
Wednesday, September 02, 2009
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
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
Saturday, August 22, 2009
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
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
Thursday, July 16, 2009
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
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
Tuesday, June 09, 2009
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.
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.
Friday, May 29, 2009
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
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
Thursday, May 28, 2009
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
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
Thursday, April 02, 2009
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.
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.
Tuesday, March 17, 2009
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
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
Thursday, March 12, 2009
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
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
Wednesday, March 04, 2009
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
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
Saturday, February 21, 2009
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
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
Sunday, February 15, 2009
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
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
Monday, February 09, 2009
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
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
Wednesday, January 21, 2009
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
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
Monday, October 06, 2008
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
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
Thursday, October 02, 2008
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
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
Thursday, September 18, 2008
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
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
Monday, September 08, 2008
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
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
Thursday, September 04, 2008
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
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
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