On the Road Again

It had been a number of years since I started the blog and then one day got the bright idea that it would be very cool if I could write some of my posts untethered.  At that time the best I could do was to get my hands on an old IBM Thinkpad which was rather clumsy and which didn't have USB ports by which to transfer a written file from it to the PC for publishing.  

 Through the years I got a netbook and while it does a good job of things it takes forever for it to boot up and to launch programs.  With my extremely low patience threshold I knew after an attempt or two that it just wasn't going to work for on the road writing.  When I got a full sized laptop, it was a bit cumbersome to take out on the scooter, and far too good a piece of tech to risk anything happening to it out in the elements. And later even when I got a tablet it didn't take long to realize that I wasn't going to be typing anything serious on it longer than about a sentence.  It's like texting on the phone, which I despise on those touch screen keyboards; good for about a sentence or two, tops.

There I was at Best Buy a few days ago just window shopping when I came upon the cutest little Bluetooth keyboard that would connect nicely to my tablet.  Actually, there were two different kinds - one with a built in tablet easel and one that was just a keyboard.  After playing with both and then leaving the store to take my walk and to mull over which keyboard I thought would better suit my needs, I returned about an hour later and chose the one without the easel.  I already have a tablet cover that becomes a quick, easy easel, and using it would allow me to buy the much more compact keyboard which had a definite better feel to it.

So here I am at the county park that I often haunt, composing my first blog post using the tablet and keyboard.  I'm liking it very much, and foresee a lot more "on the road" posts coming your way, albeit mostly from the other side of winter.  Okay, admittedly it took me way too many tries with various pieces of communications technology, but I do believe that this time I have it right.

And, chicken that I am, when the wind started blowing up at the park and the sky got ominously grey awfully fast, I hightailed it out on the scooter.  I'm continuing this piece from the comfort of my deck, and with a warm cup of coffee to boot!

While I was still on the way to the park I rode for a time behind a dumpster truck that had "DOG DAZE" printed behind the cab.  Apparently that's the "name" of the truck.  I laugh frequently when I'm in a gated community at times (which I think of and refer to as the "Communist compound because of the elitist ways of its inhabitants) and ride around seeing all the little signs to indicate what the homeowners have named their properties and homes.  Does a house really need a dorkish sounding name like "Sparrow Villa" or "Windy Willows?"   I think not, unless you're the sort who likes to have little dinner parties for your elitist friends and such.  But, then again, why would some burly driver of a dumpster truck need to name his rig "Dog Daze?"

I should shut up now because I know some of my friends have named their scooters with cutesy sounding monikers, although I don't think any of them stop by here to read my scooter ramblings.  When I started the blog I never revealed its URL to my family and friends.  Many years ago, before the open internet as we know it was up and running,  I  belonged to a local BBS named "The Den" by its sysop, Bear.  It might sound silly, but when I logged into The Den, it felt like I was in a warm cozy different place rather than just at my own home in my computer chair.  It was like a hide-away place where I could "go" and express myself without worrying about what my family and friends might think about my writings.  Scootin' Da Valley is sort of like that to me now.  While it's not a "place" in my head like The Den was, I can still write from that part of myself that wishes to stay somewhat private.  On Facebook, they can all see what I think, but what I choose to share here is somehow different to me in a way that I can't explain.

Sometimes I write myself in to a corner in a way in which there's no way to end a piece that tidies up the random thoughts that come out of my fingertips as I'm writing.  This is one of those times, so I will bid you "Until next time!" dear reader without the kind of ending that leaves one feeling, "Ahhhh!" as one might at the bottom of a cup of hot chocolate that hit the spot in just the right way.

The Shadow Knows

I can't say that I grew up ever really wanting to ride a motorcycle.  (We're not going to quibble here about if a scooter is a motorcycle or an entirely different being.  To me it's a type of motorcycle as a Sousaphone is a type of tuba though there are purists in low brass circles who disagree.)  Anyway, riding as I do on the scooter is nothing I ever dreamed about when I was a kid and thinking about all the fun I planned to have when I was all grown up.  (Neither am I going to argue about whether or not I'm grown up.)  Oh, I know I put a playing card on my bicycle sometimes so it would make that brrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrp sound, but not with any delusions in my own mind's eye of trying to present myself as if I were a biker on a Harley.
 

There are some things with which I just never occupied my thoughts as a kid because I knew (in some part of my brain that Freud might not have given its own name) that certain thoughts would just have been absolutely unthinkable.  Like asking my mom if we could get a dog.  Like asking my dad for a go at the circular saw.  Like telling either of them that I'd like to get a motorcycle of any sort.  It would have been simply out of the question, so my brain didn't bother itself with any fantasies of the kind.

 
When I got my first scooter, for a time the novelty of being on it and riding around was just utterly fantastic.  This was myself cruising around on a two wheeled motorized bike! I saw myself almost as if on the sidewalk watching myself go by sometimes rather than from the viewpoint of the rider.  I was doing the unimaginable!  The unthinkable!  The verboten!  I was riding a bike and not working up a sweat!  I was on two wheels as when I was 10 and on my trusty bicycle, but this time my chariot had a gasoline engine and no pedals!

Admittedly, I've gotten used to being on the scooter and the novelty is well worn off.  My viewpoint is no longer from the observer's perspective; I'm the guy holding the yoke and controlling the movement.  It's still a thrill to ride every time I'm on it and it's no less enjoyable if it's my tenth ride or my thousandth.  But, most of the time I miss the glee of being surprised in what I'm doing and having overcome the "Don't you even think about it" barrier.

Until I see my shadow, that is!  Every time I see that the black silhouette on the pavement is clearly the two dimensional, dark doppelganger of me on the scooter, that initial glee of having overcome the boundaries of the unthinkable is with me once again.  This time of year, especially, as in the spring, the longer than usual shadows are hard to miss and I take much delight in seeing that black 15 foot high silhouette of me not going by, but accompanying me.

For the record, I had a dog too after I left Mom and Dad's house.  And I built some decent things while using a circular saw.  They never quite thrilled me, though, as much as riding that scooter - something about which I never dreamed.

It's nice to be reminded, by something as simple as a shadow, that even the wildest undreamt dreams sometimes come true - that life is full of surprises and some of the biggest and best never get old or stop thrilling us.

No matter how long those shadows get, as long as there's no ice or snow on the roads I'll be out there enjoying each of the seasons as I'm able and recounting here the thoughts that come to me as I'm riding along usually going nowhere in particular.

Time Enough

I grew up in a loving home with what were essentially two sets of parents - my mom and dad, and my maternal grandparents - until I was in the fourth grade and Mom and Dad built a new home for us in the late 60s.  My grandfather, affectionately known simply as Gramps to my sister and me, was my first hero, and to this day remains as the one person I'd most like to be like if I ever grow up.

I learned many things from Gramps.  Calligraphy.  Music.  Cleverness.  I learned, such as the time when I got a spanking with his belt for using scissors on a Sunday, that the Lord's Commandments were to be taken seriously.  (That "Keep holy the Lord's Day" thing meant no servile work in our house.)  I learned that St. Anthony was the go to guy when things were lost.  (Gramps would sometimes hide something he knew I was going to be looking for, and then tell me to pray to St. Anthony.  Lo, and behold, if after saying a prayer the thing for which I had been looking didn't show up right in a spot I knew I'd already checked.  Another miracle!)  But if there was one thing I learned from Gramps above all else, it was that being late for anything was unforgivable!

He used to say frequently, "It's better to be an hour early than a minute late."  I thought it was an original saying of his until I did a bit of research before starting to write this entry only to find that it was The Bard himself in "The Merry Wives of Windsor," who wrote, "...better three hours too soon than a minute too late."  I grew up knowing that being late was simply something I'd better not ever be.  To this day I have a very low tolerance for persons who are known for being late to everything and who show up just expecting their lateness to be okay.  It isn't.  It says, "I'm better than you.  I expect you just to wait patiently until I decide to bless you with my presence."  It's rude.  It's inconsiderate.  I deserve and expect better than to be kept waiting for anybody.  But I digress...

It was when I was resetting the clock on the dashboard of the scooter this morning that got me to thinking about time - its passage, its fleeting quickness when one is doing something pleasurable, its crawling slowly when one is about doing things that aren't fun in the least.  Its being considered an illusion by more than one philosopher.  Its being constant and continuous except at the speed of light at which point Einstein theorized that it is neither.  Its being the one thing that on my deathbed I will painfully regret having come to the end of that portion of it that was allotted to me.  For this last reason, I detest when my time is wasted in pursuits that are not to my liking or in waiting for others who haven't the decency to be on time.

As I finished resetting the time on the digital display and took off, time was on my mind and I knew my thoughts about it would somehow end up here.  That's why I rode downtown first - to get this picture which I knew would well accompany anything I might crank out to share with you.

I realized as I thought about it that I enjoy getting around the city and surrounding municipalities much faster on the scooter than in a car.  With the twist and go transmission I'm away from a stop like a bullet compared to the cars that take a good while longer to lumber along and catch up with me, and I can usually sneak through even the shortest of yellows at traffic lights with a nimble twist of the wrist on the throttle.  I can zip around obstacles for which other vehicles have to wait and I can get to most places at the last minute (but still on time) and create a parking space just about anywhere.  To someone as obsessed with being on time as I am, the scooter is the only way to fly, perhaps short of literally flying itself.

Though he never owned a car, I think that Gramps might have liked having a scooter.  I wish he'd had one.  I might've gotten more time to spend with him in the time he might have saved in getting from one place to another - on time or obnoxiously early, of course.

Although it might not still be up there when you're reading this, I created this picture to serve as the blog header for a while.  Behind me is my grandparents' former home where we lived with them till I was 10, and where I learned the importance of being on time.