Midwest Scooter Enthusiast
Momento Mori
I'm the type who is willing to ride as long as the roads are clear. In years past it was not unusual to find me out in the middle of this month. Days when the sun shone brightly and warmed the pavement and the snow melted into little streams in the ditches.
Time has a way of of marking you. It changes things. It changes everyone. In a sense that's good but in another way it also makes some of us long for times as they were. Memories of rides when we were bundled like overstuffed pillows just to stay warm. Helmets fogging and frigid tunnels of draft wind getting past layers of fabric. Parts of you were sweat soaked and other parts were almost painfully cold. The upper "seal" where your helmet met the clear face shield had a drawing effect that brought icy air right across your forehead. Windburn hurts. It taught us to take strips of felt and glue it to the top of our shields.
As the years have accumulated I notice I have less desire to ride those days which would have seemed worth the effort in my youth. Vehicles have gotten almost exponentially larger, traffic has increased, and cell phones and all manner of insidious devices are taking the attention needed to pilot cars, away from their drivers. Roads once had a little sand and salt to clear the way. They're now layered on with the stuff to the point they look like cookie sheets poured over with cinnamon oatmeal.
Scooters and protective riding apparel have vastly improved. We scooterists learn to become more aware with each advance in the name of safety. These things remind us just how vulnerable we are in traffic. Each improvement, whether it be the cushion and fit of our helmets or the design of our scooters' new brake systems also tends to remind us of our own mortality.
The attention span of the auto driving public has waned with the same kinds of protective inventiveness in cars as seen in the bike world. We scooterists learn to become more aware while the majority of people driving cars seem to think each safety improvement is a reason to think less about driving and more about... multitasking!
I learned to ride in the dirt. In gravel. On wet grass. I know many of my generation started just as I have, graduating to the street when getting dirty or tearing clothes became more of a hassle than just getting on the paved surfaces. So its not a matter of skill regarding whether or not to ride the nice winter days, it's a desire not to become the negative part of the equation to someone else's attempt to do it all while driving.
Will I ride anytime during these winter months? If the sand is drawn to the sides of the streets and people in cars seem to be concentrating on driving instead of thinking of other things, you can bet on it. I know my riding skill level. What I don't know is the driver attentiveness of the four wheeled vehicles around me. And that is the thing that has changed over time more than anything.
Roadbum
Tuesday, January 02, 2007
Tuesday, December 19, 2006
Midwest Scooter Enthusiast
Where the Sun Rises
I wake up each morning to get my kids ready for school. They're three and a half so its preschool and I have to drive them.
When we leave our subdivision on the west edge of this little town we need to drive east. About half way we cross the Mississippi. As far north as we are, The River is not the size most people know it to be.
Each morning the visor comes down to block the morning sun from my eyes. I think about where that star is rising from, over the horizon. I think of all the days of midnight rides that ended watching it break the surface of a Great Lake. Far to the east of the place I now call home.
In my youth I had a different kind of freedom than I have now. A wanderlust and a motorcycle. Hot summer nights dappled with fog in the valleys. Warm springs and autumns. It made for long riding seasons.
I would ride with friends or alone, it didn't matter. It was about the ride.
I remember one ride where Dan and I took an exit off the I94 expressway and found ourselves not too far from Holy Hill (trust me, there will be at least on blog devoted to that place alone) and one of us signaled to take a side road. We were far from anything resembling a city. The sky was particularly clear. We parked our bikes right there in the middle of the road without a second thought and waited for the meteor showers to start. The air was so still you could hear a vehicle coming up on the main road from what seemed to far to be possible. We lay on our backs, right there in the road and watched the streaks left by asteroids, pointing them out to each other. Incredible.
I think about all the rides I took around southern Wisconsin over all those years. How postcard perfect scenery waited for you around every corner. I must've known something even then because I relished those rides so much. I wanted to be in the wind, inhaling pine forests around Madison and blooms in lush German gardens, thick with scents and colors nearer Milwaukee. White picket fences and groomed yards. You could ride by astonishingly sturdy built Polish and German immigrants' homes, marveling at the symmetry of their abodes and never notice the weatherbeaten roads your bike was stumbling its way through. It didn't matter. The roads always got better anyway. The further from a town the less salt and abuse they suffered.
I miss riding where the sun rises. McKinley Marina at dawn. Those country highways were always incredible.
But times change and memories like these only get sweeter over time. I'll ride there again. Its already been too long. But I'll ride as the man I am today, not as I once was. Where the sun rises.
the Roadbum
Where the Sun Rises
I wake up each morning to get my kids ready for school. They're three and a half so its preschool and I have to drive them.
When we leave our subdivision on the west edge of this little town we need to drive east. About half way we cross the Mississippi. As far north as we are, The River is not the size most people know it to be.
Each morning the visor comes down to block the morning sun from my eyes. I think about where that star is rising from, over the horizon. I think of all the days of midnight rides that ended watching it break the surface of a Great Lake. Far to the east of the place I now call home.
In my youth I had a different kind of freedom than I have now. A wanderlust and a motorcycle. Hot summer nights dappled with fog in the valleys. Warm springs and autumns. It made for long riding seasons.
I would ride with friends or alone, it didn't matter. It was about the ride.
I remember one ride where Dan and I took an exit off the I94 expressway and found ourselves not too far from Holy Hill (trust me, there will be at least on blog devoted to that place alone) and one of us signaled to take a side road. We were far from anything resembling a city. The sky was particularly clear. We parked our bikes right there in the middle of the road without a second thought and waited for the meteor showers to start. The air was so still you could hear a vehicle coming up on the main road from what seemed to far to be possible. We lay on our backs, right there in the road and watched the streaks left by asteroids, pointing them out to each other. Incredible.
I think about all the rides I took around southern Wisconsin over all those years. How postcard perfect scenery waited for you around every corner. I must've known something even then because I relished those rides so much. I wanted to be in the wind, inhaling pine forests around Madison and blooms in lush German gardens, thick with scents and colors nearer Milwaukee. White picket fences and groomed yards. You could ride by astonishingly sturdy built Polish and German immigrants' homes, marveling at the symmetry of their abodes and never notice the weatherbeaten roads your bike was stumbling its way through. It didn't matter. The roads always got better anyway. The further from a town the less salt and abuse they suffered.
I miss riding where the sun rises. McKinley Marina at dawn. Those country highways were always incredible.
But times change and memories like these only get sweeter over time. I'll ride there again. Its already been too long. But I'll ride as the man I am today, not as I once was. Where the sun rises.
the Roadbum
Monday, December 18, 2006
Midwest Scooter Enthusiast
A gift
There are few experiences in life which inspire me to write. The lure of the open road is one of them. I can talk about bikes and scooters as long as a listener is willing to put up with me. I can tell you about the ride I took last week with a gleam in my eye. I can relate how I wound the throttle up all the way while negotiating a banked turn just so I could spit the Vespa up the small rise at the end of the sweeping bend and crest the hill with butterflies in my stomach. The little machine doing its level best to scream around that turn. Looking for enough momentum to shoot up the small hill and open up the suspension to its fullest before flying down the other side.
The feeling of throttling back as I descend down the back slope of the hill just to pull hard at the base as the Vespa transitions from decline to level surface. There's a rush there too. The engine sings delight in a high pitched yowl. A wild mechanical sound. Its that kind of ride which makes ordinary men pick human names for inanimate objects like scooters. You make the connection.
Its those moments when the sweat is trickling down my back, when I'm wondering what possessed me to ride so hard, so close to the edge of my comfort zone. Hey, let's be honest here; I left my comfort zone about a mile and a half back!
I know it now. It isn't me and the bike anymore. Its just me. The bike has become an extension of me. I swear I can feel the stickyness of the contact patch of each tire.
Palms are sweaty inside my gauntlets. I notice how warm my body is as I set the scooter's lane position for the next twist in the road ahead. The vents on my Shoei are gulping air and the coolness of the draft tingles my scalp.
I start wide and drift tight toward the inside of the lane as I open up the draft of air on the carburator. The Vespa gains momentum and pushes itself down on its wheels. More grip. Look ahead, lean and let the Vespa become a natural extension of you is all I'm thinking. Look ahead. Lane placement. The shoulder of the road, the ditch and the cat watching me go by are all ancillary documentation. In an instant so finite I cannot register it as an actual thought, my mind has relegated the safety value of the the cat's position as I zoom past it.
Hill and dale, I know where these roads are. Just as the locals know that midnight blue Vespa will someday return. I many not be blindingly fast but as anyone whose ridden long enough knows, its better to take a slower bike to its limit than to ride a fast bike beyond your own limits.
So how does the title of this blog fit in? When I've had a long day with the kids, or my dear wife takes them to visit some of her girlfriends, she will say to me...
"Hon, you've had a busy day. Why don't you go for a ride? It'll do you good..."
That my friends is a gift.
the Roadbum
A gift
There are few experiences in life which inspire me to write. The lure of the open road is one of them. I can talk about bikes and scooters as long as a listener is willing to put up with me. I can tell you about the ride I took last week with a gleam in my eye. I can relate how I wound the throttle up all the way while negotiating a banked turn just so I could spit the Vespa up the small rise at the end of the sweeping bend and crest the hill with butterflies in my stomach. The little machine doing its level best to scream around that turn. Looking for enough momentum to shoot up the small hill and open up the suspension to its fullest before flying down the other side.
The feeling of throttling back as I descend down the back slope of the hill just to pull hard at the base as the Vespa transitions from decline to level surface. There's a rush there too. The engine sings delight in a high pitched yowl. A wild mechanical sound. Its that kind of ride which makes ordinary men pick human names for inanimate objects like scooters. You make the connection.
Its those moments when the sweat is trickling down my back, when I'm wondering what possessed me to ride so hard, so close to the edge of my comfort zone. Hey, let's be honest here; I left my comfort zone about a mile and a half back!
I know it now. It isn't me and the bike anymore. Its just me. The bike has become an extension of me. I swear I can feel the stickyness of the contact patch of each tire.
Palms are sweaty inside my gauntlets. I notice how warm my body is as I set the scooter's lane position for the next twist in the road ahead. The vents on my Shoei are gulping air and the coolness of the draft tingles my scalp.
I start wide and drift tight toward the inside of the lane as I open up the draft of air on the carburator. The Vespa gains momentum and pushes itself down on its wheels. More grip. Look ahead, lean and let the Vespa become a natural extension of you is all I'm thinking. Look ahead. Lane placement. The shoulder of the road, the ditch and the cat watching me go by are all ancillary documentation. In an instant so finite I cannot register it as an actual thought, my mind has relegated the safety value of the the cat's position as I zoom past it.
Hill and dale, I know where these roads are. Just as the locals know that midnight blue Vespa will someday return. I many not be blindingly fast but as anyone whose ridden long enough knows, its better to take a slower bike to its limit than to ride a fast bike beyond your own limits.
So how does the title of this blog fit in? When I've had a long day with the kids, or my dear wife takes them to visit some of her girlfriends, she will say to me...
"Hon, you've had a busy day. Why don't you go for a ride? It'll do you good..."
That my friends is a gift.
the Roadbum
Saturday, December 16, 2006
Midwest Scooter Enthusiast
Sit down and shut up
How many times have you heard that line growing up? It seems as children we struggle with learning to hold our focus. Its taking too long. Its not what we want. Its too hot or too cold. Its boring.
We wrestle against being still. Against observing and filtering out anything that doesn't pertain to the object of importance. Sometimes we try to see too far ahead and miss the obvious right before us. We want to be done with it. We want the answer now so that we can move on because being still for too long makes us itch, makes us nervous.
So we get to a point in our lives when we choose to ride. The reasons are as individualistic as we are, but the point is we want something in our lives to make us breathe deeper, to accelerate our pulse in the peaked moments of the riding experience.
So how do we do that? We start our bikes, sit down, and for the most part, shut up. If our parents could see us now.
The subject of this blog came about sometime around fifteen years ago. My closest riding buddy Whitey and I were stopped at the bridge of a river which was halfway between Brookfield and Rochester Wisconsin. The area is mostly swamp with a short line of river homes on the north side of the bridge. At night the place is loud with natural nightlife. The sky is big and colored that shade of blueish black that only shows up away from light pollution. Stars are so bright there the crystaline glimmer from above bathes the rushes in a soft glow.
Somehow we got on the subject of what you think about on a ride. There are phases, it seems, that the mind goes through as it settles into a state of contentment, when the mind is free to wander. Just as the rider loosens up going from getting to where one wants to be to being there. You ride until you achieve a stillness of thought that somehow leads to a heightened awareness. It was Whitey who said it; "There is a kind of stillness when you ride that's like nothing else." Back then if you drove your car the radio was blaring. People were talking to you. You were sucking gas station coffee out of a styrofoam cup with one hand and a Camel or Winston was in the other. You weren't just driving, you were busy.
A kind of stillness when you ride.
I know there's a thing called Bluetooth. I'm not ready for Bluetooth. I'm thinkin' more on the line of starting to wear earplugs under my helmet. (Yeah, Whitey, I wear a helmet nowadays. A full face and I wear it all the time too)
Parents work hard to teach their children what's right and what's best. How to learn. How to pay attention. But when nerves get stretched too thin those five powerful words at the top of this blog could send us reeling.
Nature has a way of getting our attention and teaching us the things we need to know in spite of ourselves. How often have we brought the very lessons we fought learning back home, upon us. To sit down, and to shut the heck up.
...And let that scooter be a lesson to you!
Roadbum
Sit down and shut up
How many times have you heard that line growing up? It seems as children we struggle with learning to hold our focus. Its taking too long. Its not what we want. Its too hot or too cold. Its boring.
We wrestle against being still. Against observing and filtering out anything that doesn't pertain to the object of importance. Sometimes we try to see too far ahead and miss the obvious right before us. We want to be done with it. We want the answer now so that we can move on because being still for too long makes us itch, makes us nervous.
So we get to a point in our lives when we choose to ride. The reasons are as individualistic as we are, but the point is we want something in our lives to make us breathe deeper, to accelerate our pulse in the peaked moments of the riding experience.
So how do we do that? We start our bikes, sit down, and for the most part, shut up. If our parents could see us now.
The subject of this blog came about sometime around fifteen years ago. My closest riding buddy Whitey and I were stopped at the bridge of a river which was halfway between Brookfield and Rochester Wisconsin. The area is mostly swamp with a short line of river homes on the north side of the bridge. At night the place is loud with natural nightlife. The sky is big and colored that shade of blueish black that only shows up away from light pollution. Stars are so bright there the crystaline glimmer from above bathes the rushes in a soft glow.
Somehow we got on the subject of what you think about on a ride. There are phases, it seems, that the mind goes through as it settles into a state of contentment, when the mind is free to wander. Just as the rider loosens up going from getting to where one wants to be to being there. You ride until you achieve a stillness of thought that somehow leads to a heightened awareness. It was Whitey who said it; "There is a kind of stillness when you ride that's like nothing else." Back then if you drove your car the radio was blaring. People were talking to you. You were sucking gas station coffee out of a styrofoam cup with one hand and a Camel or Winston was in the other. You weren't just driving, you were busy.
A kind of stillness when you ride.
I know there's a thing called Bluetooth. I'm not ready for Bluetooth. I'm thinkin' more on the line of starting to wear earplugs under my helmet. (Yeah, Whitey, I wear a helmet nowadays. A full face and I wear it all the time too)
Parents work hard to teach their children what's right and what's best. How to learn. How to pay attention. But when nerves get stretched too thin those five powerful words at the top of this blog could send us reeling.
Nature has a way of getting our attention and teaching us the things we need to know in spite of ourselves. How often have we brought the very lessons we fought learning back home, upon us. To sit down, and to shut the heck up.
...And let that scooter be a lesson to you!
Roadbum
Thursday, December 14, 2006
Midwest Scooter Enthusiast
In the Mirrors
When we ride we check our rearview mirrors to be sure a car isn't tailgating or trying to pass. We may be going the speed limit but there always seems to be a driver who has to move faster than the scooter ahead.
Other times we catch a glimpse of the sun on its decent in the western sky, or the rain clouds we're trying to beat to the safety of the garage.
Checking those mirrors protects us. Its a defensive maneuver that's especially critical to scooterists. We're riding the smallest vehicles on the road.
I've taken the pleasure of glancing in the rearviews just to see where I've been. A stretch of long straight country road will seem like it goes on forever when you're viewing it through a little circle of glass which tells you the "objects in mirror may be closer than they appear". Moments before all I thought about was the next turn which would bring me to the beloved knotted stretch of tarmac that I crave to lean through.
No matter what you do, there seems to be a cost, a toll, before you get to the fun stuff, the thing you're moving toward for the simple sake of selfish pleasure. We pay our dues one way or another.
Sometimes I look back in those mirrors and wonder why I'm willing to ride this far out for the really good roads. The ones which never seem to have any traffic. But up ahead is the clearest reason. Up ahead there are twisted blacktop ribbons that follow the hills instead of cutting flat through them. There are streams passing under ancient bridges, rickety by today's standards. There is the the cleanest air, scented by spring's bloom and the occasional farmstead. In the summer and fall, cut hay and burning leaf piles.
If one were to examine the effort it takes to get on that Vespa and ride to these places, the time getting there compared to the time spent being in those moments, it might appear an imbalanced wager. Not worth the effort.
Once I'm riding through those country hills, up and down the abrupt slopes, leaning hard through those wonderfully sharp corners, it all becomes clear. The deep breaths, the tingling not just on my skin, but rippling through me from my head to my toes is a period of time when I feel most alive. Totally alert and vibrant.
When the rpm's begin to sing out that little exhaust and the bike is being hammered into deep lean angles and I squirt out the exit of the apex, its then that I'm wider awake than I was all week.
After the last set of crown jewel roads unravel into the first long straight I look into those rearview mirrors and just grin. I've been waiting all week for this ride and its been worth every moment spent getting here.
Its winter now and the chances to get back on the Vespa this season are slim to none. And so the scooter sits in the garage, patiently still. I stand beside it and look the bike over. Waiting. The mirrors reflect a memory of last summer's ride. All I can do is look inside those rearviews and remember why I came all that way to begin with.
Anticipation
the Roadbum
In the Mirrors
When we ride we check our rearview mirrors to be sure a car isn't tailgating or trying to pass. We may be going the speed limit but there always seems to be a driver who has to move faster than the scooter ahead.
Other times we catch a glimpse of the sun on its decent in the western sky, or the rain clouds we're trying to beat to the safety of the garage.
Checking those mirrors protects us. Its a defensive maneuver that's especially critical to scooterists. We're riding the smallest vehicles on the road.
I've taken the pleasure of glancing in the rearviews just to see where I've been. A stretch of long straight country road will seem like it goes on forever when you're viewing it through a little circle of glass which tells you the "objects in mirror may be closer than they appear". Moments before all I thought about was the next turn which would bring me to the beloved knotted stretch of tarmac that I crave to lean through.
No matter what you do, there seems to be a cost, a toll, before you get to the fun stuff, the thing you're moving toward for the simple sake of selfish pleasure. We pay our dues one way or another.
Sometimes I look back in those mirrors and wonder why I'm willing to ride this far out for the really good roads. The ones which never seem to have any traffic. But up ahead is the clearest reason. Up ahead there are twisted blacktop ribbons that follow the hills instead of cutting flat through them. There are streams passing under ancient bridges, rickety by today's standards. There is the the cleanest air, scented by spring's bloom and the occasional farmstead. In the summer and fall, cut hay and burning leaf piles.
If one were to examine the effort it takes to get on that Vespa and ride to these places, the time getting there compared to the time spent being in those moments, it might appear an imbalanced wager. Not worth the effort.
Once I'm riding through those country hills, up and down the abrupt slopes, leaning hard through those wonderfully sharp corners, it all becomes clear. The deep breaths, the tingling not just on my skin, but rippling through me from my head to my toes is a period of time when I feel most alive. Totally alert and vibrant.
When the rpm's begin to sing out that little exhaust and the bike is being hammered into deep lean angles and I squirt out the exit of the apex, its then that I'm wider awake than I was all week.
After the last set of crown jewel roads unravel into the first long straight I look into those rearview mirrors and just grin. I've been waiting all week for this ride and its been worth every moment spent getting here.
Its winter now and the chances to get back on the Vespa this season are slim to none. And so the scooter sits in the garage, patiently still. I stand beside it and look the bike over. Waiting. The mirrors reflect a memory of last summer's ride. All I can do is look inside those rearviews and remember why I came all that way to begin with.
Anticipation
the Roadbum
Wednesday, November 29, 2006
Midwest Scooter Enthusiast
The next few months will be consumed with taking care of my father, whose double bypass surgery went well. As long as he does what the doctor tells him things should go well. Between the kids and taking on some of his needs I'll be a little busier than expected.
The next few months will be consumed with taking care of my father, whose double bypass surgery went well. As long as he does what the doctor tells him things should go well. Between the kids and taking on some of his needs I'll be a little busier than expected.
Friday, November 17, 2006
Midwest Scooter Enthusiast
I've been waiting to post here because I wanted to be able to post pictures along with the articles. Well that time hasn't come yet but my itch to write has been dormant too long. I need to tell the stories.
This site is about the ride. Its about getting out there and seeing the farms, the open lands of central Minnesota. Its about riding on quiet mornings, during the midday when the sin is high. Its about the evenings as they cool and leave open skin tingling in late autumn. Whatever machine its been upon it has always remained about the healing nature of riding.
In the past the rides have been with close friends on large displacement machines. Sometime in large groups and other times with that one close bud whose riding style you knew so well it became second nature to react to some situation with him in mind. As if two guys on seperate bikes were somehow linked. I miss that since I moved away from eastern Wisconsin. Time will tell whether or not I discover such a riding partner again. Maybe this time around my wife will get into the spirit of the ride along with me. Until now she's been behind me on the Harley. But times change and I found I new type of machine that brings back all those feelings I used to have about the ride. I suppose its age and a changing opinion of The Ride that caused me to look at what I ride in a new light.
For years I had stored away an earlier version of the Brand I've come to love so much. About fifteen years ago I found a '64 GL in desperate need of care. I've been a sucker for orphans and this one turned out to need more work than I had time to attend to when I bought it. I did little things here and there and one day just decided to rip the whole thing down, box it up and work on it when I could.
This spring I was given a joyous little green monster commonly known as a 1978 Honda Express. It also needed much to run again but I figured if I could get that one running I would have the confidence to commence work on the classic Vespa. The Express became a fun project and the goal was achieved. With a top end of 27 mph I soon discovered it was never speed that held me to riding motorized two wheelers, it was the ride itself. I had so much fun on that little thing it surprised me. I began looking at the old Vespa. I brought it out and began sorting parts. Then I started researching websites. The new Vespas grabbed me and didn't let go. I had to see these new era machines in person.
Before long I had my own LX150. Every time I went to the garage to work on the GL the little men on my shoulders began whispering in my ears. Get the classic running. No, go for a ride. The little devil won out so many times I just stopped listening to the other guy.
The GL is patiently waiting yet again for my attention. I don't really mind. What does need to be done is not as daunting as it once was. Rebuild has been in baby steps. Attention drawn to finite aspects of the classic scooter instead of seeing it as a whole, or in this case, staring at all the boxes of sorted parts at once.
Will the GL see the road next summer? I'm looking forward to it. But I can say this; my taste for the machines I've ridden in the past has moved away from the traditional motorcycle to the classic and classicly styled scooter. I could easily sell off the others and keep the two Vespas. They give me everything I've always enjoyed in The Ride.
There is something inherantly pure about riding a Vespa. Something stark and liberating.
A Vespa is a marraige of Italian beauty and function that isn't like the Japanese brand scooters. While they may do some things differently, or logically better... you're not riding one of these based upon how the numbers added up in the end. You're riding a Vespa because it is all that it is.
I've been waiting to post here because I wanted to be able to post pictures along with the articles. Well that time hasn't come yet but my itch to write has been dormant too long. I need to tell the stories.
This site is about the ride. Its about getting out there and seeing the farms, the open lands of central Minnesota. Its about riding on quiet mornings, during the midday when the sin is high. Its about the evenings as they cool and leave open skin tingling in late autumn. Whatever machine its been upon it has always remained about the healing nature of riding.
In the past the rides have been with close friends on large displacement machines. Sometime in large groups and other times with that one close bud whose riding style you knew so well it became second nature to react to some situation with him in mind. As if two guys on seperate bikes were somehow linked. I miss that since I moved away from eastern Wisconsin. Time will tell whether or not I discover such a riding partner again. Maybe this time around my wife will get into the spirit of the ride along with me. Until now she's been behind me on the Harley. But times change and I found I new type of machine that brings back all those feelings I used to have about the ride. I suppose its age and a changing opinion of The Ride that caused me to look at what I ride in a new light.
For years I had stored away an earlier version of the Brand I've come to love so much. About fifteen years ago I found a '64 GL in desperate need of care. I've been a sucker for orphans and this one turned out to need more work than I had time to attend to when I bought it. I did little things here and there and one day just decided to rip the whole thing down, box it up and work on it when I could.
This spring I was given a joyous little green monster commonly known as a 1978 Honda Express. It also needed much to run again but I figured if I could get that one running I would have the confidence to commence work on the classic Vespa. The Express became a fun project and the goal was achieved. With a top end of 27 mph I soon discovered it was never speed that held me to riding motorized two wheelers, it was the ride itself. I had so much fun on that little thing it surprised me. I began looking at the old Vespa. I brought it out and began sorting parts. Then I started researching websites. The new Vespas grabbed me and didn't let go. I had to see these new era machines in person.
Before long I had my own LX150. Every time I went to the garage to work on the GL the little men on my shoulders began whispering in my ears. Get the classic running. No, go for a ride. The little devil won out so many times I just stopped listening to the other guy.
The GL is patiently waiting yet again for my attention. I don't really mind. What does need to be done is not as daunting as it once was. Rebuild has been in baby steps. Attention drawn to finite aspects of the classic scooter instead of seeing it as a whole, or in this case, staring at all the boxes of sorted parts at once.
Will the GL see the road next summer? I'm looking forward to it. But I can say this; my taste for the machines I've ridden in the past has moved away from the traditional motorcycle to the classic and classicly styled scooter. I could easily sell off the others and keep the two Vespas. They give me everything I've always enjoyed in The Ride.
There is something inherantly pure about riding a Vespa. Something stark and liberating.
A Vespa is a marraige of Italian beauty and function that isn't like the Japanese brand scooters. While they may do some things differently, or logically better... you're not riding one of these based upon how the numbers added up in the end. You're riding a Vespa because it is all that it is.
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