Just to the Store

I got a hankering for a good bowl of chili yesterday after breakfast and because I've never found a local establishment that makes a truly excellent pot it would be up to me to craft my usual brew of it.  My recipe is my own, tweaked a little just about each time I make a batch, but with the same basic framework that keeps it more or less consistently decent.  Most of the things I need to make it I keep on hand because after I make a pot I generally stock up on the canned items I'll need for another on the next trip to the supermarket.  I almost always have onions in the pantry, and ground meat in the big freezer. Shopping for a pot of chili usually requires picking up a green pepper and a bunch of celery, and nothing beats the scooter for a quick run to the nearest supermarket which is only a few blocks away.

As I rounded the turn into the supermarket parking lot I did a double take and saw a bike rider's worst nightmare - a bike down in the middle of the two parking aisles nearest to the entrance to the store.  By the time I could put down my own kickstand and take a picture, the owner who seemed unscathed had gotten it back up only seconds before I could press the shutter release.  Judging from the small crowd of people who had gathered just since I had come around that corner on my way in, I missed witnessing the accident by less than a minute, and perhaps missed being IN it by fewer than two.  Getting myself knocked over on the scooter isn't something I consider as a possibility when I'm just running to the store.  Then again, do I ever really consider it within the genuine realm of possibility?

I've read quite a bit about gear recently, from a somewhat derisive viewpoint in which us NON ALL THE GEAR ALL THE TIME folks are referred to as "squids," to a very nicely done blog post in which the author compiles some statistics revealing scooter riders to be, perhaps, the least careful of riders when it comes to dressing appropriately for the occasion of taking a ride.  I'm a squid, comfortable in my own tentacles, jokingly saying that the only gear I changed when I went from the 50cc scooter to the BV 250 was to swap out my flip flops for a pair of sneakers with some tread.  I think us scooter riders, in general, perceive the dangers out there facing motorcyclists as being less than for our bigger engined and chromed friends simply because our machines are simpler and less noisy. 

 Not only is it riding a humble scooter that gives me the illusion of being safer, but I suppose against the supposed belief that most accidents happen within a few miles of one's own home, I sort of think that nothing's going to happen if I'm just going to the store rather than on a pilgrimage to Sturgis.  I guess the best any of us can do, after we've confronted our own fears with the calculated risks that we know we take, whether we're talking about riding a bike or going out in the cold without a hat in the winter (I put that last one in there for my mom.) is to go boldly wherever we're going in full hopes of getting there without a scratch.

Although I hadn't checked any weather forecasts when I started the chili simmering yesterday, it turned out to be the perfect day for a hot pot of something good.  I've snitched by the spoonful and sampled it all day, and I do believe it's about time for me to fill a bowl and get ready to face a rainy, cold evening warm, at least, on the inside.

Shiver Me Timbers!

I was so thrilled to have written yesterday's blog entry at least in part from the "open road" (i.e., about 4 miles away from where I hang my hat and park the scooter) that I was hell bent on doing it again today.  And why not?  The temperature on the deck was 60°F under a cloudy sky with a 0% chance of precipitation.  A light jacket over my flannel shirt with a tee shirt underneath and a good pair of gloves, and I'd be warm enough to head to the state park that was my intended blogging destination.  It was a brisk ride and when I got to the lake from which I planned to type these very words (or some similar other words) I headed to a lakeside picnic table with my writing gear and started in on my apple while watching a bunch of ducks playing in the water.  A beautiful day in spite of cloudy but non-threatening skies.  God was in His heaven and all was right with my ride.

Before the apple was half eaten, I couldn't feel the tips of my fingers.  The wind, while not necessarily howling was making itself heard and felt, and it's a factor that a glance at the thermometer doesn't take into account.  I really should have known that setting up camp alongside a lake on an autumn day that isn't sunny wouldn't be such a hot idea, but when it comes to deciding when to go riding and what to wear, I tend to be an idiot.  Now I don't mind when my idiocy shows when I remark, "I'm an idiot," and hear a sweet voice ask sweetly, "Yeah, but whose idiot are you?" to which I get to reply, "Yours!" but when I'm alone and have to admit sheepishly to myself that I made another bonehead move, it tends not to have that cutesy ending.

Now in spite of my apple being half polished off and my fingers freezing I still planned to get out the stuff and start writing what you'd be reading here.  On the second half of that apple, though, thoughts of this old computer chair at home were starting to sound pretty darned good.  Truth be told, I was starting to wonder how I was going to get my sorry ass home with at least a little feeling left in my fingers. 

Pity the ducks in that cold water, but they didn't seem to mind the chill in the least as they frolicked about and made raucous noises like Burgess Meredith playing the role of the Penguin on the old Batman series that I loved as a kid.  I'd worn a pair of gloves that I was fairly certain would get my hands back to being toasty with real fur of some kind on the inside and leather on the outside.  They'd been my dad's and Mom tells me that he already had them when they got married in '56, but sentimentality aside, they failed miserably at getting my fingertips any warmer when I donned them for the ride back, and by the time I got home I swore I was going to have frostbite with which to contend.

What might I have written from the lake had things gone differently and I hadn't given in to the cold to the core feeling in my fingertips?  I truly don't know, but something would have come to mind.  Instead, however, I'm left with this narrative of yet another poor choice in riding apparel.  If I had a buck for every time I went out for a ride only to end up beginning a thought with, "Gee, I should have worn...," I'd be going out for a first rate lobster dinner this evening.

 

To salvage the ride, though, when I got back to the house and rode down the alleyway to the backyard I saw at the far end of the yard the two feral kitties that I'd scared earlier when I came out of the house like a bull elephant and headed to the scooter.  They sat there calmly as I parked the bike, dismounted, and drew out the camera slowly, and I knew I had just the perfect leftover chicken thigh in the fridge to share with them.  They warmed my heart at least, though they did nothing for my fingers.

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.