Becoming Home

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

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

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

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

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

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

And home is where your bike is.

Harv

Thinking About Bikes on a Stormy Night


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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Harv

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

The Return Of An Old Friend

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

And I can live with that.

Harv

Spontaneous Happiness

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

In the country, time moves slower, more deliberately. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Small price to pay for an unanticipated chance to ride.


Harv

When a Meal Tastes the Best

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

I gotta find that place again.


Harv

Prettier With Age

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Harv

Licentious Woman

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Harv

Waiting for the Rain

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

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

"Its like riding across fine marbles."

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

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

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

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

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

So I'm waiting for the rain.

Harv

C'est la Deux

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

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

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

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

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

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

Name ring a bell?


Harv

C'est la Vespa


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

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

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

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

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


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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Just another aspect of two wheeled happiness.

Harv

Thoughts During Hybernation


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

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

Then the conversation began to take its natural direction.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Harv

Time for a Break

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Harv

When You're Prepared


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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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


Harv

American Highway


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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

My family loved the resort and their vacation.

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

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

Harv

Clutch Not Brake

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

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

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

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

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

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

I said, What?

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Harv

Just Around the Corner

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

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

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

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

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

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

I've written enough. Time for a ride.

Harv

Oh No, Not Again

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

But I want the Honda more.

Need to find a way to get there from here.

Harv

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

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

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