Vespa Vagabond

An Interview of Sorts

2011-05-23T06:14:00.015-06:00

Got an email from a chica who is planning to ride from Santa Cruz to Georgia on her Vespa 250. Here are the Q's she sent me, and my answers ~

Background Questions:
How long did you have your Vespa before you went on your journey?
I had it for a year. I rode exclusively in San Francisco proper - it would have been smart to do some day trips before the real thing; riding in the city makes for an awesome foundation but it takes different skills to ride long distances and on highways and byways.

How long did you plan for the trip itself?
Two months? It all happened pretty fast but in a way that is a good thing. It's good to have a long time to plan something like this but I think if people give themselves TOO long to plan something (anything), it's easy to get caught up in the planning and re-planning and alternate-plan-planning and then it is never done, never lived.

Did you go on any long-ish trips to practice before you left?
Nope. But I would recommend it, as per above!

Did you take a Motorcycle Safety Course, or did you just read a safety book?
I had a private day lesson when I first got my Vespa from a guy who did biker safety courses for a living - he was fantastic. I never felt the need for anything additional while I was in the city. When I decided to go cross country, I read Proficient Motorcycling which I cannot recommend enough. I've written about it here.

I have a white helmet, which I also highly recommend. Yeah, they're generally dorkier than black ones, but SO much easier for other drivers to notice. When I got my Vespa, which is the iridescent pearl color, I bought a basic white helmet (3/4) and took it to the Vespa shop and they painted it to match my Vespa. So it wasn't quite as dorky as plain white. A sticker or awesome painted trim or something could also sex up a plain white helmet. If you don't already have a white helmet, keep your eye out when you're out and about - they are SO much easier to notice. And that goes a long way toward keeping you from getting hit.

Did you ever ride Hwy-1? What did you think?
Never did! But that seems like the ideal type of road, to me - I took similar through the sierras and on the east coast. I was nervous about windey two-laners before setting out (because of driver error on the part of those who might share the road), but my worries were unfounded (though I stayed aware at all times, as anyone on two wheels should). The scenic highways generally have less traffic, and what traffic there is generally is there for the scenery and not in so much of a rush. And those roads are just incredible on two wheels, with the landscape right there, and the scents in the air, and the changes in temperature as you ride... it's heaven.

Gear Questions:
Did you have any 'armor' under your jacket or pants, or was it just leather?
I wore leather pants made by Alpine Stars (motorcycle gear) which had knee padding, and a really old leather biker jacket I had (the old kind). So no real armor, though the leather was so thick I wasn't worried. Seems armor is more common in the nylon/fiber gear? I loved my leathers. Had no problem wearing them everyday for two months. Even stretching out on pavement at a gas station or on the side of the road was comfortable in those babies!

Any particular reason you chose that 'outfit'?
It was relatively cheap - I had Harley boots that were free from a friend who worked at Harley and the jacket I had from highschool and so I just needed to buy the pants. And leather made more sense to me, for safety, durability, etc than any other biker pants. They were really warm when the air was cold, they were water resistant in light-to-moderate rain. They were super sexy which actually made me feel safer: the full black leather + sparkly little Vespa was incongruent. It wasn't a look that was immediately "figured out;" I looked more like a cartoon than an easy target. Although I didn't fully realize any of this till about Pennsylvania. :)

Did you bring any things that you found you didn't really need?
No... but I packed really light ~ here is a post of what I brought.

Did you have a backpack on your back?
NO. I think that would have been horrible.

Health/Food Questions:
Did you just grocery shop a lot, or stop at restaurants - were you able to bring food along with you or did you buy it as you went?
I bought as I went, but I kept a little stash on the Vespa - granola bars, apples, stuff like that. Stopped at grocery stores most of the time - cheaper and healthier - but also had my share of diner food. I spent a lot of nights with people - friends of friends or people I met along the way - which often meant really good food, too!

How did you have water handy?
I think I had three water bottles that I'd fill from taps, campgrounds, people's houses. I made sure to drink A LOT. Even if I wasn't thirsty. Every time I pulled over, at stop signs, etc, I'd have some water.

Did you ever get really dehydrated and need to use the salt you brought along? Or just get sick in general?
No, never did get sick or ill or anything.

Moving Questions:
Did you ship your stuff out to New York? Any good company to look at for cheaply shipping some boxes? I'm trying to work out how to move my stuff. I don't have really any large items, just things that can go in boxes (and my bicycle).
No. I ended up only being in NYC for a month, during which time I stayed with an ex-boyfriend, and then moved to Wyoming. So I flew back to CA, bought a truck, loaded what possessions I could fit, and drove to WY. I had my Vespa trucked out but I cannot remember the company. Before I left on the trip, I put my stuff in storage with a company that does shipping too - cannot remember the name either! But there are companies that give you like a month free storage and then they'll ship your stuff for a fee. That sort of thing is getting really common, so do your research and call companies to find the best price.

Did you ship changes of clothes, etc, to the places you stayed at for longer amounts of time - like your sister's house, or friend's?
No. I just wore their clothes.

The Vespa Questions:
What kind of Vespa did you have, and how many miles on it before you left?
Mine is a Vespa ET4, 150cc. I have no idea how many miles I had on it when I left. I'm sure I have a photo somewhere..... You'll have more power and more packing space with the 250; I think the interstate will be possible for you on the 250, if you choose to take it, whereas I avoided it at all costs.

Did you have the original tires, or did you 'upgrade' before you left? What kind of Vespa preparation (maintenance, etc) did you do or have done before you left?
I put new tires on right before I left - they were a bit of an upgrade but nothing super fancy - and had the tires replaced and a tune up at Scooterworks in Chicago.

Did you have any ideas of how to fix different things that might go wrong (basic understanding of the motor, etc)?
Not really! I checked my tire pressure daily - blowing a tire was my biggest concern.

Did you have any concerns about putting that many miles on your Vespa in a few short months?
No. I was curious but had faith in my machine. Others were skeptical. But I had zero trouble with the Vespa.

Did you get a list of Vespa dealers in the states you traveled through?
Yes. This is easy to find online and I carried a list of their addresses and phone numbers. Never did need it, though.

The Trip Questions:
Have you ever crashed/fallen off/somehow injured yourself or the Vespa?
No.

Did you drive in any sort of inclement weather? What did you do when it rained?
Yes. I rode in the rain many times, and when I was in the vicinity of Rochester, NY, they had the biggest rainstorm in documented history. Flooded the streets, I rode on the sidewalks when I could (you can't see potholes under several inches of water, which is no biggie for a car but bad on two wheels).

I stopped at laundromats twice that day to put my socks and shirts in the dryer, layered trash bags under my leathers (I didn't bring proper MC rain gear; it's bulky and I didn't think I'd need it that much, and in smaller rainstorms, the leather was just fine, this happened to be torrential - rain came in through my shoelace holes, under my helmet, everywhere).

I had SO much fun. But I made myself find a place to stay at around 2pm because I was soaked through for the nth time and thought it maybe wasn't the smartest thing to be wet and cold and riding with no windshield. It was so much fun though. I saw one other biker that day.

Riding in the wind was actually worse than riding in the rain. There was major wind in South Dakota and a few other stretches. It's hard to ride when it's coming crossways - takes muscle to stay in a straight line when your ride is light, - and when it's coming straight at you, it feels like you're being punched in the chest over and over. But I think the 250 maybe has a windshield? That would solve the chest punching issue. One other thing about rain - you don't have windshield wipers on a Vespa. I was constantly wiping my face shield with my glove while riding, in order to see.

How many hours a day did you ride, and did you ride only during certain hours of the day?
It varied, based on where I was. In Nevada in August, I'd be on the road by 5am and end by early afternoon (when it's hottest). As I made my way east, it turned from summer to early autumn, and I'd start later in the day - 8 or 9am - because it was often very cold in the mornings and never as hot midday.

How often did you stop to take breaks during the day's ride?
Often. I'd stop to eat, to gas up, to do jumping jacks if I was cold, to take photos. Stopping often kept me alert. And a lot of fun things happened when I stopped!

Did you ever have any problems with your Vespa - oil, tires, etc?
Nope.

If you had to make a change in your route, did you have each state's map, or an atlas? How did you make sudden changes to your route? (I'm thinking of when you couldn't get past the buffalo and had to go another direction...)
In that instance, I had the little free park map of the Black Hills on me, and could easily reference where I was and where I could go. Other times, I'd stop at a gas station and look at a local map or ask people.

Were you ever in a place where you worried that there wouldn't be a gas station in time, how did you make sure you never ran out of gas?
The only time I was mildly concerned was along Highway 50 in Nevada, because towns are so few and far between. But I could get 100 miles on one tank, so I was fine. Other than Nevada, I filled up when the tank was half-full, just to stay on the safe side.

How did you know what the traffic would be like on the roads you chose (for example, how did you know a secondary highway wasn't traveled really heavily as well?)
I didn't. Usually it was fine and often divine, but sometimes the traffic sucked. I can think of three stretches I really didn't enjoy: crossing the Diablos from the South Bay to Tracy, CA; Hwy 212/310 from Laurel, MT to the Wyoming state line (a road I still hate, even in a truck); and along lake Erie.

Did you have music, and if so, how did you listen to it?
No! I really missed music. I sang a lot. Helmets have really awesome acoustics.

As I've begun to plan my route, I've started by looking at my Atlas, because I'm not a huge fan of staring at the computer screen. But I'm realizing that it's hard this way to know how long or short a route will be - is this why you used Google Earth?
Yes. Atlases just don't work if you want the smaller roads. I hated mapping my trip - it was tedious and annoying, but I could find no other way, other than google maps. Maybe a GPS would do it? I did my trip before GPS was popular and affordable. Maybe?

I may have asked this in another question, but I'm interested in knowing how many miles you went (an average) during the day, and how many hours that took. Just to get a sense of how much longer this will take than in a car.
I rode anywhere from 150 miles to 350 miles a day. 250 miles in a day was perfect. But, this was all off the interstate. Sometimes stretches of ten or twenty miles of dirt or gravel roads where I had to go like 15 miles an hour. On secondary highways, I enjoyed going 55 miles an hour. I'd say I averaged 35 or 40 miles an hour on any given day, so that would make a 250 mile day = seven hours of riding (not counting breaks for gas, food, chat, photos, exploring, naps, whatever). You'll have more options for speed on a 250, though.

What You Learned Questions:
Have you since your trip thought of a better way to map your trip out, or do you think the way you did it was still how you'd do it again?
As noted above, I'd explore the potential of a GPS - either to pre-plan or to bring with. If that failed, I'd have to stick with the original way I mapped it out.

There's probably a lot you learned about planning and executing a trip like this and I'm sure I don't even know the right questions, so anything you can share would be so appreciated.
Don't worry too much! I didn't map the full trip before I left, just the segment from SF to Bozeman. I mapped out another length in Bozeman, then stopped at libraries along the way to map out further segments. So, it doesn't have to be done all at once. Public libraries are wonderful. You can use the computers for free, and it's good free shelter if you need it. Everyone I met wanted to help me. I got lost every day. I never felt scared.

And Finally, the Feelings Questions:
Even starting to talk about this has brought a lot of feelings out from different people, and overwhelmingly people my age say 'oh that's so brave, go for it', and people older than me (or people really close to me like family) express lots of concern, and say it's a really bad idea, very dangerous, etc. Did you experience any fear that maybe it really was a bad idea, or that you were taking too many risks with your life? This is kind of a hard question to frame, because really, I'm just interested in your thought process during the planning stage when everyone was weighing in with their opinion on your decision.

I know exactly what you mean. Only one person in my life at the time was supportive before I left. However, EVERYONE changed their tune when I was halfway across the country and proving my own success, which made me want to barf on them. "Oh, my friend/daughter/whatever is doing this *amazing* thing...." when just weeks before they had been SO demeaning. So demeaning. It wasn't just concern, it was like, YOU'RE going to fuck this up. YOU will make a mistake and you will crash and get hit by a semi and get gang raped on the side of the road and it will be YOUR fault. I think some people feel the need to destroy other people who represent their own dreams that they let go.

As for the true, valid, compassionate concern ~ my answer to this (to others and to myself) is that "the bad things" could happen anywhere. I could wreck and lose a leg while riding in SF or even in a tiny, safe suburban neighborhood. Same with the gang rape. Same with any great fear anyone might have. Give yourself every reason to succeed with proper knowledge and confidence (not to be confused with cockiness), and then, why not go for it? Safety is an illusion. Another illusion is that you are ever not safe. I say this because the things in my life that have seemed like the worst things at the time have proven to be the things I am most grateful for. It took the separate incidents of nearly dying and having my home burn down for me to grasp this, but it's now a truth for me.

This is not to say I was not nervous. I didn't shit for four days before I left (sorry for the TMI but is there any more blatant proof of nervousness?!) But, a week or two before I was set to leave, I was evaluating my feelings on the trip, and that VOICE - the voice in your head that says "don't go down that street" said, "Don't DON'T go." It was a double negative. It said GO. And I trusted that.

snippets and a few more A's

2011-03-26T11:07:00.017-06:00

Is there anything you didn't bring that you wish you had?
Well, I often wished for jeans; I missed wearing them along the ride, but jeans are too bulky to have rationalized packing a pair, especially as I spent most of my time in leather pants. But that was more of a whim-wish rather than something I really needed or would have benefited from.

Before leaving, I debated at length over whether or not to bring a tent, GPS, and mace/weapon. Finally, I realized the debate in my head was really about "shoulds" versus "self." I "should" have brought a tent, a GPS, and mace. But I didn't want to, and I went with my feeling and did not bring any of those things. I never needed them, never wished for them. They would have just taken up space.

Do you have a photo journal of your trek?
Yes, of course! But this was back when I was shooting 100% film. I did not own a digital camera. Strapped to the seat behind me was an insulated cooler bag with my camera and rolls and rolls of film! Some of it was color, some black and white, and I dutifully kept it all cool with refreezeable ice packs.

When I got to NYC, I developed all my film and rented darkroom space to make contact sheets. I had time to scan some of my negs, and those images are scattered throughout this blog. I might have a few more on my hard drive. But the bulk of the images are sitting in a old steamer chest under my desk, waiting for time in a darkroom...

Is there anything that you did while on the trip that you wish you'd done differently? And as a follow up, anything you didn't do that you wish you did?
Nothing comes to mind...

How did you average less than 5 bucks a night on lodging???
I stayed in a handful of motels. I camped. Mostly, though, I spent nights with strangers. Some of these people were friends of friends who generously opened their homes to me ~ in Chicago, I stayed with an awesome med student named Maureen who was the girlfriend of my sister's best friend's boyfriend's roommate.

Other times, I stayed with really wonderful people I met on the road. In Fairmount, Indiana, the hometown of James Dean, I was planning to camp but stopped for a milkshake first (priorities! and this happened to be the best milkshake along my route), and met two brothers at the milkshake shop; they were on motorcycles and we started talking, and I went home with them! (not in THAT way :)

Weren't you scared? Any tense moments?
I was scared for a few days directly before leaving. But I feel that way before I do anything ~ it wasn't like an informative fear, it was nervousness about doing something new. It's a very familiar feeling.

Crossing the Diablo Range on the way to Sacramento was extremely scary - legitimate, real, animal fear. But that lasted maybe twenty minutes and I got through it and it informed the way I traveled from then on, in a good way. That's it. I honestly never felt scared from the second day onward.

What was your most interesting animal encounter while on your Vespa journey?
A full-grown cheetah licked all the sweat off my arm in Ohio, and he was purring.

Did you get lonely?
Not really. I felt really alone on the shores of Lake Erie where I had a total meltdown in a gas station parking lot, but that was exhaustion more than anything else. (I got viciously jealous of the people I saw driving by in their cars and their minivans with their CUPHOLDERS. As I sulked around the asphalt, I swore that no one realized the luxury of a cupholder; damn them for taking their cupholders for granted!)

Because I spent so many nights with people, I really enjoyed having the days to myself. Sometimes, I got a motel room just to be alone, because I had SO much interaction with people, even when camping.

Do you still have your Vespa?
Yes! But I can't find the key right at the moment....

Had you read 'Zen and the Art of Motorcycle Maintenance' before you took this trip? Are you familiar with Peter S. Beagle's book "I See By My Outfit"?
I have both books, they were given to me by different people, but have not read either one...

What comforts of home did you miss the most while on the road? Which aspect of life on the road did you miss the most once you settled in one spot?
As mentioned above, I really missed my jeans! When I stopped, it was really hard to for me to be inside. It was weird and uncomfortable to sleep in a bed every night. It was hard to travel in cars - I had to have all the windows down. It was hard to spend more than an hour indoors without loosing my mind. I spent a lot of time sitting on the curb in Brooklyn, because I had to be outside.

Would you do it again if the opportunity arose?
Yah! But maybe on a horse like Kit.e suggested. I think that would be so fun in a group....

Did you learn anything from the trip?
Tons and tons. This question deserves a book (winkwink!)

OK, I'll finish up the rest next time!

Finding The Roads Less Traveled

2011-03-16T20:07:00.027-06:00

Aargh. At some point between January and the present, my EMT class went from being 8 hours a week (doable) up to 20 hours a week (feeling impossible). This schedule is making me crazy. So sorry to be like, "I'm back on Vespa Vagabond," and then crickets. I really want to be writing here and it feels like a mirage right now, just right out of reach.... OK. On to question one.

What was the actual route you took (for those of us who hope to take a similar trip one day)?
Preparing my route was actually one of the most challenging, or, rather, most tedious aspects of the trip. I had a basic trajectory across the country, loosely constructed by connecting the dots between a handful of spots I definitely wanted to hit: San Fran (starting point), Montana (to visit my sister), the Badlands of South Dakota (pilgrimage), Maine (I just wanted to see Maine), Boston (to visit a childhood best friend), NYC (the destination).

I did not want to travel on interstates. My Vespa went 70mph if pushed, but it was not a pleasant ride at that speed; 50 - 60 mph was much more comfortable, and slowing to 25 or 30mph was quite lovely too, depending on the road. Plus, the speed limit of the interstate is, what, 70 or 75? And the common speed is 85mph or more. There was no way I could keep up with the flow of traffic on the interstate, nor did I want to. I did ride the interstate for seven miles - it was totally unavoidable - and I rode on the shoulder and hated every second of it.

While the interstate is a fast and easy way to get from Point A to Point B, I was so grateful for the limitations of the Vespa, for they required me to take smaller, more meandering roads, and this is where the magic happened, where the beauty was found. (This goes for traveling by car, too!) The trip would have been wholly different if I had not been so completely dedicated to sticking to the minor roads.

So, interstates were out, and I found, in areas where the interstate was not the main thoroughfare, that secondary highways were unpleasant routes as well because they were the main thoroughfare, and therefore less than ideal on a Vespa. I wanted to take the most low-key roads possible ~ frontage roads, back roads, I even chose dirt roads if they were the only alternative to the interstate. This is where the tedium came into play: With every online map program, trip planner, or even AAA, if you plug in your starting point and your destination, it gives you the fastest, most direct route - the interstate. If there's no interstate, it gives you the undesirable secondary highway.

And so I found my starting place on google map. Zoomed in so that I could see ALL the streets and roads. And then I picked my way along with the arrow keys. Sometimes, I'd have what seemed like a great route and the road I was "on" would turn into a dead end. Then, I'd have to backtrack on the google map until I found a new series of roads that, together, would take me from one town to the next.

Sometimes, this was easy and straightforward. I crossed the state of Nevada on Highway 50 ~ it doesn't get any easier or more straightforward than that! Wyoming and South Dakota were also easy to map, simply because there aren't that many roads in either state and the roads are not heavily traveled. Iowa was simple to map as well ~ it seems the road system is set up on a perfect grid through the corn and bean fields.

However, my method got more complicated around mid-size cities and in moderately populated areas. Utah and Montana were incredibly difficult (and irritating) to map, as was upstate New York. I think this is because the areas are populated enough to require interstate routes and major highways, but not populated enough for secondary routes and byways. Much of New England was very easy to route - and gorgeous to ride - because the population density meant lots of little connecting roads and byways.

Obviously, these routes of mine were more complicated and detailed than the average "take 1-90 for 450 miles, then take exit 45." As I searched for routes via the zoomed-in google map, I wrote down every turn (because with this technique, there are often many turns) on a sheet of paper. If my route hit a dead end, I'd cross out a series of turns and write down the new, successful version. Since these directions were far too complicated to memorize, I transfered the directions, line by line, to index cards and affixed a plastic sleeve to my Vespa, between the handlebars, that housed about five cards at a time.

While riding, I could glance down and see what my next turn would be. When I got to the bottom of an index card, I could slide it out of the sleeve with one hand (while riding, if need be) and tuck it into the pocket of my leather jacket. I threw away scores of these cards when I stopped for gas ~ I probably used about 1000 cards through the course of the trip.

Due to the challenges of mapping my way in this manner, certain routes were based solely on finding appropriate roads that would take me in the general direction I wanted to go. That's how I passed through Wyoming. Wyoming was not a "destination point" for me; I rode through Wyoming because the least complicated way to get from San Francisco to Bozeman was across Nevada, which landed me in Utah, and from Utah it was better for the Vespa to go through Wyoming than through Idaho. Thank goodness. That accidental route is the reason I turned around, when I reached New York, and came back here to live.

Q&A Sesh

2011-03-10T14:47:00.006-07:00

EMT class + calving season = I'm so fried.
So, let's do a Q&A sesh!
It will help get the blood flowing to this part of my brain
(the Vespa part)
plus, I'm curious about what you're curious about.

Leave questions in the comment section of this post
and I shall answer them....

Tally Ho!

2011-02-27T15:05:00.010-07:00

I always promised I would come back to this. That I would finish Vespa Vagabond. Well, I'm here. I am back!

Late last night, when I dug out my notes and journals from the ride, two loose sheets of paper fell out of one of my journals. Columns of numbers scribbled in smudged pencil. A tally of my expenses from the ride.

If you read Honey Rock Dawn - this post in particular - you've glimpsed my obscene compulsion to organize data. When the ride was over (I don't remember doing this, but the handwriting is most certainly mine, as is the motive) I tallied up my receipts. In categories. With my gas receipts, I made note of the date, the city and state, the cost per gallon at that particular station, the amount of gallons (or fractions thereof) purchased, and the dollar total.

Some highlights ~
First gas receipt: July 28, 2005; San Francisco, CA
Final gas receipt: September 28, 2005; Rockville, CT

Lowest price of gas: $2.369/gallon in Cokeville, WY; August 10, 2005
Highest price of gas: $3.379/gallon in upstate NY; September 18, 2005

Minimum fill-up: 0.220 gallons near Baker, NV; August 6, 2010
Maximum fill-up: 1.493 gallons in Emmetsburg, IA; September 6, 2010

Total spent (two months, 6,000 miles) ~
on gas: $152.95
on lodging: $288.13
on food + misc: $406.38

My remarkable little Vespa used just 46 gallons of gas to cross the continent. I'm so glad I make (and keep) these obsessive charts; I never would have remembered these details otherwise!

Hello Out There..... (echo... echo....?)

2009-08-01T16:26:00.005-06:00

It's been a year and a half since I've been on this blog; I'm amazed I remembered the password! I'm here to say that yes, I am coming back to Vespa Vagabond. ((I just don't know when.)) My ride across the continent was too spectacular and too special to simply leave this blog and this story half-told.

But I can't dive into it right now. Writing memoir, at least for me, demands that I go back completely to the time and relive it - every detail, every smell, every feeling - I have to see it and feel it in order to write it. I become fully immersed to the point of probably seeming crazy and the past is more real than the present. I don't know how other writers work, but this is the only way I know how.

While writing The Daily Coyote, I split my time between working with Charlie, and going into the past and writing. I did nothing else. I did not cook, I did not see my friends, I rarely showered. I lived and breathed my first year with Charlie in order to write the book, breaking only to spend time with Charlie.

And while I loved living that way for the time that I did - it was surreal and dreamlike and so utterly romantic - I am not ready to go back into that space quite yet. I want to live in the present. I want to do things, notice what's around me, create with my hands, have adventures with my animals and the people I love.

And with the way I work, I can't do all those things and write about the past (Vespa Vagabond) at the same time. I have no idea if I'm explaining myself very well, but the point is, I love Vespa Vagabond. I will return to it. Sorry I can't give you a timeframe.

Happy Trails!

Ciao For Now

2008-01-10T08:23:00.002-07:00

Some things have come up which necessitate putting this blog and the stories of my ride on hold. It's not over, nor forgotten, just on pause while I finish some other projects. I'll be back in the fall.

EDITED 12/8: Yes, I know it's winter, it's a blizzard out my window at the moment. Am touched that many of you are eager for more installments, however, I am trying to survive my life right now, and until my band of clones gets delivered, I would appreciate your patience. Posts will resume when they do.

Red Road

2008-01-10T08:13:00.000-07:00

Q & A: The Camera

2007-12-02T20:14:00.001-07:00

A week before I set out on the ride, my beloved Canon A2 camera body broke after seven faithful years of hard use. One of the dials lost its traction and spun freely, rendering the camera useless.

I really didn't have money lying around for a new camera. I had just bought some spendy leather pants, and the details of the trip ahead were all unknowns, including the financials. So, instead of buying a camera equivalent to the A2, I decided to throw down $99 for a cheap, discontinued Rebel body - my logic being that, essentially, a camera body is just a little box that keeps the film dark. I shoot strictly manually and never use the programmed settings.

However, the body is only half the camera; there is the lense, as well, and though I like shooting with a more basic body, I never compromise on a lense. I only took one lense on the trip, my delectable 28-70 f2.8 Canon L Series lense, a lense that still makes me swoon every time I hold it. It is gorgeous; heavy; worthy of being the centerpiece on a dining room table - if I had a dining room table...if I had a dining room.

Anyway, along with being cheap, the Rebel body is extremely light, and with my lense attached, it was totally unbalanced - it felt like I was holding a lense with a growth on the back of it rather than a camera with a lense on it, and it made shooting with one hand impossible. None of this was the end of the world, but it was definitely a nuisance.

It should be noted that everything I have said about camera bodies here pertains to film cameras. I shot film on the trip, not digital. I love film, with a deep, romantic love that will never die. The names alone - Portra VC, TMAX 3200 - make my heart flutter, as does the smell of processing chemicals, the time alone under a dim red light bringing images to life.

But, these things are as foreign in Wyoming as palm trees, and so when I moved here, I began shooting digital. Charlie's early photos were shot with a borrowed Nikon D70, which was a great camera, but I yearned for my sexy Canon lense and recently bought a Canon EOS 30D. It reminds me of my A2 - fewer bells or whistles than the other models, but savvy enough for one to be confident in, and it has a nice heft, creating the perfect balance.

Motel. Delta, Utah

2007-11-27T11:23:00.000-07:00

Fifty-Nine Days In

2007-11-05T18:28:00.000-07:00

I can’t stop grinning this morning - and it’s more than grinning; hysterical laughing, actually, and cackling, and uncontrollable stoner giggling. I wonder what I look like to passing cars - leathered out on a Vespa, ponytail flapping, cracking up laughing.

The mellow highway turns into Main Street; a boy, about thirteen years old, hangs out of the back window of a minivan in the lane next to me. He’s smiling right at me, half his body leaning out the window, one arm raised in a strong and enthusiastic thumbs-up. It gives me a smile that lasts for blocks.

I notice that when I’m spontaneously smiling down the road, kids on the sidewalks and in cars around me smile and wave in return.

Going Somewhere, Always

2007-10-13T11:46:00.000-06:00

Between the head and the heart is the voice, and our voice reflects our choices: the way we reconcile what we think and what we feel; what we know and what we desire. Our voice reaches the world through the manner in which we live - sound is unnecessary; we show others who we are by the way we go through life, and touch everyone we meet with who we are in that moment.

Giant Pines

2007-09-04T08:46:00.000-06:00

Campsite, South Dakota

2007-07-17T06:52:00.001-06:00

All Consuming

2007-07-10T14:55:00.000-06:00

After riding though two states of flat, endless fields of corn and soybeans, I reach Chicago. Chicago, the second largest city in the country; different from others in how absolutely alluring it is. I walk down the streets and revel in the energy. What I notice, after being mostly in the middle of nowhere for a month, is the waste; the mindless gluttony. It's not even a mindful gluttony - rather, it seems to go unnoticed, taken for granted - the countless paper napkins slightly crumpled, slightly dirty, scattered along the edges of sidewalks; plastic shopping bags snagged in every chainlink fence and blowing by in the curling gust from each passing bus. What filled these bags at one time? What was served with all these napkins?

Where is it all now? We don't need most of what we have, and I wonder how things got this way. I'm certainly no exception to the attraction of consumption - even after a month on the road with only three shirts and one pair of shoes, even with this theme consciously planted in my mind, I walk past a boutique and covet, with visceral longing, the blood-red leather purse displayed in the window.

Wyo Hills

2007-06-29T06:51:00.001-06:00

Q & A: Tips For Distance Rides

2007-06-25T09:59:00.000-06:00

A few simple things can save grief in the long run when you take off on a long haul - or even to the next town over...

Check tire pressure every morning. Invest in a quality tire pressure gauge - don’t trust your life with those cheapo stick gauges.

Consider a windshield. Depending on your location, how fast you like to ride, the time of year and average air temperature, a windshield can make for a more comfortable ride. I know this because I didn’t have one - in the Nevada desert, the incoming air was a cooling relief; in Montana, it was brutal, cold, and felt like I was getting punched in the chest for hours on end.

Know where to find help. Before I left, I used the online yellow pages to make a list of Vespa dealerships and motorcycle repair shops along my route with addresses and phone numbers.

Let go of your worries. Stressing the whole time about what might go wrong defeats the purpose of your trip. Be aware and be safe, then let go and enjoy.

Open Land

2007-06-20T12:08:00.001-06:00

After A Month Of Riding In The Country

2007-06-18T16:55:00.000-06:00

I’m in Chicago, deep in it - the madness of the city swirls around and slams itself through me. I’m in it and of it - instantly morphing back into city mode, dodging potholes and running yellow lights. It’s amazing how quickly I adapt. Life speeds up a thousand times - ten thousand times - it speeds up until it rockets off and is an entirely different universe altogether...

Pit Stop

2007-06-17T10:50:00.000-06:00

Q & A: What I Brought

2007-06-13T08:44:00.000-06:00

It’s the high season for travel, for taking off down the road for an afternoon or a week or more, so I thought I'd finally answer what many of you have wondered: What, exactly, did I bring on my cross-country journey, and where did I put it?

There’s no place on a Vespa for traditional motorcycle accoutrements such as saddlebags or tank bags (no tank), so my available storage was limited to the compartment under the seat (which is the size of a full-face helmet), the tiny 'glove box' below the handlebars, a stock Vespa pod (topcase, technically), and a small, square cooler bag I strapped to the seat behind me.

My sleeping bag, maps and directions, and a pair of flip flops went under the seat. In fact, the seat would not close properly with a haphazard stuffing of the sleeping bag - it had to be mashed free of air and then rolled and folded at the same time like a fancy burrito.

The glove compartment is hardly larger than a pair of gloves, but into it I crammed rain pants, my fancy tire-pressure gauge, 18 feet of nylon rope, coarse sea salt (to counter dehydration), and extra-large rubber utility gloves that fit over my leather gloves in the rain.

The cooler bag was mostly filled with film (call me old-fashioned), along with my camera and a refreezable icepack to keep the film cool. It also held my journal and two pens; my cell phone, charger, and three extra batteries; sunscreen, sunglasses, a lighter, a flashlight, and a pocketknife; my wallet, a water bottle, two neckerchiefs (which I wore wet when it was hot and dry when it was cold), and an mini can of fix-a-flat (which I never used). I didn’t bring a tent, but did bring a tarp to sleep on or to cover the Vespa with if necessary. I folded the tarp to fit on top of the cooler bag and strapped it all down with a bungee net.

Everything else went in the pod. My clothing for two months amounted to two pairs of thin wool socks, one pair of kneesocks, three tank tops, three t-shirts, two bras and a handful of underwear, silk long underwear, one long sleeved shirt, a fleece hoodie, and a pair of lightweight cargo pants. The other necessities: travel-sized toiletries, spf chapstick, mascara, a nail file, extra contacts, a folding hair brush, hair bands and bobby pins, a very thin camping towel, insect repellant, and four small rocks, because I have a thing for rocks.

I rolled my clothes into long tubes in order to cram as much as possible into the oddly-shaped pod, and packed toiletries in small bags to fill small niches. Everything I needed, fit; and there was not room for anything more.

That was it; plus, of course, my daily uniform: leather pants, leather jacket, leather gloves, and motorcycle boots. That was all I had for two months, and I never felt deprived. Though the first thing I did in NYC was go buy a pair of jeans.

Open Road

2007-06-11T06:48:00.000-06:00

Where The Lessons Are

2007-06-08T17:06:00.000-06:00

Adversity is a teenager with studded lips and lobes and a sullen expression. If you turn your back or say cruel things, it will glare at you in return and be none the worse off; it expected such behaviour, anyway. It comes to you on the defensive, but comes to you nonetheless. And if you are not intimidated or disapproving; if you are not judgmental of an exterior you may consider harsh, and instead, relate to it in respect, you’ll find a liveliness and a brilliance, a purity, a revelation, a gift.

Chicago

2007-06-06T07:54:00.002-06:00

Dakota

2007-06-04T09:01:00.000-06:00

The road is straight and desolate; cars are few. I ride through Pine Ridge and continue on Highway 44, through towns that all begin with W: Wanblee, White River, Wood, Witten, Winner. The land is hot, beige. I feel tiny here.

The dry, brown earth extends wide and unobstructed; I don’t understand how it’s plotted, or who owns it, or what it’s used for. It stretches out lazily to each horizon like a mountain lion stretched in the sun, impossible to tame or own; it’s simply too wild and self-possessed. As I ride the pavement that cuts through this land like a gash, the wind and heat beat forcibly upon me, emissaries of the landscape to keep it pure of men.

A Tiny Huge Distraction

2007-06-02T13:00:00.002-06:00

Yet again, I've been away from this website for a month... beginning when a ten-day-old orphaned coyote baby came into my life and moved into my cabin with me. It is an experience filled with wonder, one that I've given every free moment to enjoy. Now that I've managed to find a balance between Real Life and lovin' up the coyote (he's sitting on my lap as I write this), I'm back.

New posts will start rollin' next week.

Early Autumn, Connecticut

2007-04-23T08:18:00.000-06:00

Wayward Traveler

2007-04-19T12:27:00.000-06:00

The road widens gradually, imperceptibly, and the few cars that travel it fall away, so that soon I am the only one on this road and the road is wide and soft.

The road is a thing of beauty, winding through aspen groves, rivers sliding by here and there. I fly up the road and around the sweeping curves. A large, mottled hawk is flying in his own curve.

At the same moment we notice each other, and in that moment, see that our paths are about to intersect. Our eyes lock as we realize our impending collision less than a second before it’s bound to happen.

The hawk rockets backward, impossibly, as if on a rubberband as I jerk the Vespa to the right in a quick swerve. The noise I make is something between a laugh and a gasp.

"I almost collided with a giant hawk!" I think to myself out loud - because there’s no one to tell. I tell it to the aspen trees; the hawk is probably doing the same, it had looked as surprised as I was.

Bear Butte

2007-04-13T13:12:00.000-06:00

Getting Philosophical

2007-04-11T08:14:00.000-06:00

Riding curves is an art, and on this northern Nevada mountainside I finally did something beyond a doodle. The road was carved into the mountain and traversed the slope in curves and twists. The edge dropped off just feet from where my thigh cut through the open air, solid earth giving way to canyons and valleys. I leaned deeply into each turn, beaming, in joy and bliss and concentration - immersed in the exquisite thrill of being synchronized with the road and the ride.

In every curve there’s a moment that feels out of control. A common reflex stemming from fear, from the feeling of loosing control, is to squeeze the brakes in the center of the curve. Yet if fear is allowed in, trouble often follows. The key to riding curves is in the acceleration, not the breaking. We are meant to join forces with the momentum. A slight, steady increase in speed helps maintain the desired course. Curves ask us to lean into the abyss, to understand that letting go a little is what carries us through. Mastery comes from trusting enough to look beyond where you can see.

Bad Blogger!

2007-04-09T12:43:00.000-06:00

I've been MIA for a while... because Spring finally came to Wyoming and after spending the winter in a log cabin with no running water and a woodstove as the only form of heat and temperatures averaging below zero for months on end, I had to bask in the sunlight and frolick and play. Please forgive me.

Totally non-related to Vespas and cross-country travel, here's a bit of Wyoming spring - horseback rides and baby calves. (Yes, mother cow has her tongue in her nostril; they do that.)

New posts of the ride on their way, pronto!

The Grotto Of Redemption

2007-02-16T07:26:00.000-07:00

The Connection Keeps Us Going

2007-02-13T08:46:00.000-07:00

I had my one and only mental meltdown in an Erie, Pennsylvania gas station parking lot. I’ll get into the details of that later, but the short version is that I wanted to just lie down on the pavement and not get up. Ever. But as we know, I am not still lying prone in a corner of a gas station. Though it took over two hours to muster it up, I did finally stand up, pull on my gloves, and pull on my helmet.

I stood, straddling the Vespa, letting it run stationary beneath me. I focused my mind away from the way I was feeling, away from the loneliness, away from the frustrations. I forced myself to focus on the noise and commotion surrounding me, to focus back on the ride. And as my attention focused on everything going on around me, everything going on inside of me began to recede.

I maneuvered slowly through the parking lot and pulled out into the road. I leaned into the left turn and my connection with the Vespa took hold. I felt the revolutions of the engine build, the gears shift. This is what endures.

Wide Iowa

2007-02-11T08:57:00.000-07:00

When The Going Gets Tough

2007-02-08T14:01:00.000-07:00

The roads I had chosen from Geneva to Buffalo looked on the map to follow the edge of Lake Erie, but they do not. They are slightly inland. They cut through strip malls and suburban sprawl. The immediate surroundings are ugly and characterless, but the route is close enough to the lake to receive the cold, damp air that sweeps in from across it. It is colder here on this straight, semi-urban thoroughfare - or cold in a worse way - than it had been in the Jackson fog or the Montana rain. This is an insidious chill, it is subtle and more painful, the way it whispers itself into me and seeps through my core.

Road construction makes this ride a frustration. Orange diamond signs mark each stretch: Road Work, Motorcycles Use Extreme Caution. The noise from jackhammers and earthmovers and heavy machinery is penetrating - insolent noise that I cannot escape. Huge sections of pavement have been removed, sliced away to create a sharp ledge that drops three inches to the base layer - graded cement raked in an undulating wave pattern of ridges and grooves, haphazardly dusted with gravel and sand. On two wheels, tires can get trapped in these grooves; gravel and sand corrupt ones ability to maneuver. It’s rough riding, and my collarbone is sore and pulses - an old break that never healed properly, it throbs when jarred consistently. After traversing each missing stretch, I must jump the Vespa up the ledge of pavement back onto smooth road.

Over and over again, the pattern repeats - the orange diamond signs appear, broadcasting their warning; the sharp smells of construction filter in to reinforce them; the pavement ends; the Vespa lowers with two blunt jolts as each wheel takes the drop; forearms tense to burn as I slowly navigate a wavering course; my body hardens and there is no enjoyment.

Lake Erie

2007-01-29T14:21:00.000-07:00

I Was So Proud Of Myself That Night

2007-01-24T21:05:00.000-07:00

After a long, gorgeous day of riding, I pulled into a state campground on the shores of Lake Erie just as dusk was falling and the collecting rain clouds were deciding if they would unleash themselves or not. The park cop told me I was welcome to spend the night in the laundry room since I didn't have a tent, and I thanked him, thinking that sounded like a nice plan.

I parked the Vespa at the campsite I had paid for - a lovely spot, the only site with a tree - then walked down to the laundry room to check it out. It was home to a terrifying mass of the largest spiders I have ever seen. I will ride a Vespa across the country but I will not sleep with giant spiders. I returned to my picnic table and my tree and decided to make a shelter. It was dark at this point, so I tucked my mini maglite into my bra strap and set to work.

I tied the rope I had brought (because you're supposed to bring rope on trips like these) to two branches of the tree and stretched it diagonally above the picnic table, which was too heavy to move. I draped my tarp over the taut rope and used hair rubberbands to secure it in place, and with that, created a funky shelter. I avoided the spiders, though several moths flew down my shirt, attracted to the flashlight in my bra.

Milkshake Break

2007-01-22T14:48:00.000-07:00

Thinking (Wyoming)

2007-01-19T13:14:00.000-07:00

It's about now. We so easily get wrapped up in thoughts of then (be it past-then or future-then), we miss out on or ignore or are blind to or rush past the gifts of now.

Connecticut Dawning

2007-01-15T15:22:00.000-07:00

I take the dirt road out of town, through woods and fog, past stone walls half-hidden, slowly overtaken by brambles and moss. Mist hangs in the air around me, obscuring the definitions of things so that they are felt more than seen. Colors are soft and muted; silver-blue sky blends delicately into a silvery-green meadow, silver-barked trees look leafless and glowing, semi-obscured by the mist. The mist rises from the earth and settles in from above - one can't tell from which direction it originates, only that it meets everywhere and everything becomes part of everything else.

Mississippi River

2007-01-11T21:48:00.001-07:00

Traveling With Time

2007-01-10T11:52:00.000-07:00

Storm clouds threatened in the skies above as I left Bozeman, Montana. I made it 26 miles before the rain began. I had just reached the neighboring town - Livingston - and ducked into a coffeeshop to wait out what I hoped would be a typical Montana storm: hard rain for an hour, then blue sky. It wasn't; it lasted all day.

I became fast friends with Kate, the owner of the coffeeshop, and she invited me to put off riding in the rain and stay the night at her house. I accepted, on the condition that I at least wash dishes for her at the coffeeshop. The next morning dawned beautiful and clear, and Kate and I got up early to open the coffeeshop and have a cup together before I set off.

There were only two possible roads east out of Livingston: I-90, or 25 miles of dirt called Old Convict Road. I had planned to take Old Convict Road, but neither Kate nor I really knew how to get to it, and after the rain it could have easily turned into impassable mud. I decided to try to find it anyway in order to stay off the interstate.

I was gathering up to go when the first customer of the day came in - a huge, burly man named Time Keeper. He was a miner and a biker, with a ponytail beard and the most gentle laughing eyes I've ever seen. His gloves were so big I could have worn one as a hat. A beast of a motorcycle, decorated with skulls, was parked outside next to my Vespa.

I asked the Time Keeper if he knew how to get to Old Convict Road. He did, and as he drank his coffee he began explaining the way. After several directions of the "turn left at the third fence post" variety, my eyes glazed over and I interrupted him to dash for a pen and paper. Amused, he asked when I was going.
"Right now," I said.
"I'll ride out there with you," he said. "I've got the morning off."
And so we zipped up our leathers and waved to Kate and must have looked like the oddest pair to anyone out that early.

I followed the Time Keeper's massive, graceful silhouette into the sunrise. He led me out of town and into the open land to the unmarked turnoff that was Old Convict Road. Before he turned back to Livingston, I gave him a hug and showed him the tiny skull decal that discreetly peered out from the back fender of my Vespa.

Tree Tunnel

2007-01-07T12:28:00.000-07:00

A Recap - To Get In Gear, So To Speak

2007-01-03T14:33:00.000-07:00

I left San Francisco on August 1st with the leather outfit that encased my body and not much else: a camera, my journal, a sleeping bag and a tarp, a few t-shirts, one pair of pants, long underwear, toiletries and first aid, a cell phone with three batteries, a can of Fix-a-Flat, and a few sentimental totems. I didn't bring a tent, and I didn't bring mace or any other weapon. I spent some nights alone, some with friends of friends, and some with complete strangers I met along the way. I rode in formation with Harleys, and shared the road with tractors and Amish buggies. I rode my Vespa into a bar, a coffeeshop, and several stranger's garages. My route took me down back roads, dirt roads, and secondary highways; through a glittering high-speed underwater tunnel and over quaint wooden bridges. I rode through gravel and mud and only eight miles of interstate. I reached elevations of 8,000 feet; survived a record-breaking storm; and endured temperatures that ranged from 109 F to 42 F. I drove through lightning, thunder and some of the most gorgeous landscapes ever seen; was rescued from a budding tornado by an entire community of people; rode a longhorn steer in a Badlands bar and hugged a cheetah in Cincinnati. I ate a lobster on a dock in Maine and fresh cantaloupe in the Dakota dust; made friends I'll keep for the rest of my life and experienced more than I could have imagined.

When I arrived in New York City, I was stunned at how difficult it was to end the ride, how heartbreaking. It had seemed like a life, a lifetime, a lifestyle; I didn't want to give it up. Sitting on the curb in Brooklyn one night, I reflected on my ride - two months, moment by moment. And there, the truth of the trip emerged. We are here to live on this earth in awe, of people, of place, of ourselves.

Morning of the Second Day

2006-12-10T19:24:00.000-07:00

A Far Cry from Vegas

2006-10-26T19:50:00.000-06:00

Highway 50 through Nevada is called "The Loneliest Road in America," 380 miles from Carson City, at the western end, to the Utah state line at the east. Across this expanse sit four towns - only four - and the space between is long, open, without sign of human existence save for the pavement you're driving on.

The landscape is termed 'basin-and-range,' for there are a number of mountain ranges that run north/south, perpendicular to the road, with wide valley basins dividing them. It is a surprising terrain; the nature of the road changes drastically as one travels from basin to range and back again.

The basins are immensities of romantic desolation, long and wide and flat, and the road peals out in a straight scream to the horizon. Then, approaching a range, the air becomes cooler, and the road winds and curves in switchbacks that traverse the mountains, and junipers appear, and the straight flatness of the basins become a memory.

The Winding Way

2006-10-18T07:36:00.000-06:00

If Day One was defined by unexpected horror, Day Two was one of unexpected bliss. I set out from Sacramento to cross the Sierras, headed for the tiny valley town of Gardnerville, Nevada. The Sierras had been my one looming worry before starting the trip, and after my experience with the Diablo Range, I did not have great expectations for this day.

I set out early and left the city streets of Sacramento in the early dawn. By midmorning, I arrived at the foothills of the Sierras and hopped on Highway 50, a beautiful, loping divided highway with sweeping curves through forests of cedar leading up the mountains. It was completely devoid of cars - my own private racetrack; the perfect road to practice riding curves and getting comfortable with speeds above 50 mph.

I left Hwy 50 and jogged over to a small, obscure road called Old Emigrant Trail. The Old Emigrant Trail is a dream - an old two-laner so densely lined with evergreens I could have reached out and touched bough after bough after bough as I rode along... I needed that hand for the throttle though. It was so quiet. Cars and trucks approached from behind but I got competent at looking ahead for pullouts so I could ease over and let them pass me, rather than being panicked by the presence of someone on my tail. Always, they would pass with a wave, especially the giant truckers. There was an easy sense of friendship and camaraderie and peacefulness between all of us on this hidden, secret road.

Sierra Lake

2006-10-01T12:19:00.000-06:00

Day One, Part Two

2006-09-18T11:22:00.000-06:00

The day continued to be awful. When I stopped shaking, I got back on the Vespa and onto a long flat road through the countryside and into farming land. The day had gotten hot, I presumed it was over 100 degrees. Feedlots lined the road, crammed with cows standing in the dirt like lost souls in limbo. Their stench hung in the hot air; when semis passed in the opposite direction, the furling air and horrible smell conspired to knock me off my ride. Overwhelmed, nervous and lost, I wondered what the hell I was doing.

As the feedlots faded down the road behind me, traffic dissipated and thousands of tiny yellow butterflies whirled and danced in the air for one long stretch of the road. A beautiful sight - but tears fought for release as the butterflies splattered against my Vespa, against my face shield, against my jacket; unavoidable deaths because of their number.

Soon I reached the cities of the Central Valley and traveled surface roads north to Sacramento. A bank sign in Stockton showed the temperature was 109. I was dripping with sweat in my black leather, and forced myself to drink a sip of water at each stoplight, wondering when, when, would this day end? When would I finally reach Sacramento and my grandmother's little trailer?

When I did reach my grandmother's home, I opened the door and fell to the floor, unable to walk or move, and sobbed out all the overwhelm and stored fear and self-pity. I truly believed that day might be both the first and the last day of my trip. It was a day that lasted ten, and though I couldn't possibly fathom it at that point, I would soon learn with delight they all would be.

Day One, Part One

2006-09-12T12:28:00.000-06:00

On the first day of the trip, I rode from the Bay Area to Sacramento, CA, and it was unequivocally one of the worst, most horrific days of my life. It began soft and wondrous, setting out into the unknown adventure in the misty dawn, a scattering of stars still visible. The day grew light and warm as I rode past the cities and the suburbs to where the land opened up and the scent of sage was heavy in the air.

To get to the Central Valley and Sacramento, I had to cross the Diablo Range, a small range - certainly not mountains in the Western sense. I was too busy worrying about having to cross the Sierras the following day to give any fear to my morning's ride across the Diablos. I-580 is the main route of travel between the Bay Area and the Central Valley, but since I wanted to stay off the interstate, I chose what appeared to be a rather obscure secondary highway.

I approached this little highway via a lovely wooded road with no traffic, calm scenery and lots of birds. I was feeling so good, so in control, so right on the road. Things changed in an instant. The moment I turned onto the highway I was swept into chaos, into conditions of insanity - at least for me, on day one, on my tiny Vespa.

The highway itself was a two-laner, one lane for each direction and no divider in between. It wound up steeply in great sweeping curves, following the landscape of the dry hills, and it was packed with cars, trucks, and semis rushing in both directions.

Hypnotic golden hills of windmills rolled like waves in every direction, growing and dropping, overlapping to the blue-sky horizon. The huge spires of the windmills grew out of the ridges of the hills like rows of giant white flowers, their petals giant blades, spinning, mesmerizing.

I pushed the Vespa to 70 mph in an attempt to keep with the flow of traffic - at that speed, I felt like I was going to take flight, and still I was not going fast enough for the drivers behind me. There were no turn-offs, no shoulder at all; there was nowhere to go but straight ahead and straight ahead was a curve. A semi grill loomed enormous in my rearview mirrors, racing down the declines just feet behind me. One wrong move or jerky turn or hesitant reaction and I knew I would be laid out in a crash, the semi on top of me in a semi-second.

I nearly threw up inside my helmet twice from fear and desperate helplessness, and I could feel the moment when pure animal survival-instinct stepped in to overcome my rising panic and simply keep me upright. When we reached the Valley, the highway leveled out and I spotted a fruit stand. I pulled over, parked, and stood beside the highway, shaking.

View From The Vespa

2006-08-31T14:58:00.000-06:00

Above and Below

2006-08-31T07:10:00.000-06:00

It is no longer the road itself which captivates, overwhelming my eyes and filling me with awe; the sky I travel under is what mesmerizes me now. I've been so taken by the characteristics of the road - the colors, changes, textures and routes, the sways and swoops; now it is the sky. The endless sky, so large here - open, dancing with clouds, open, nothing but blue. The sky, a depiction of all human expression: the darkness, purity, strength, and brightness; at times tumultuous or gentle; and, regardless of mood, always open - openness its only constant, a visual example we do our best to exist under.

Tetons

2006-08-07T07:23:00.000-06:00

Sunrise through the fog this morning - thick, three-dimensional fog that swooped and hovered above the road and river. My nose ran down my face from the cold but it was worth it to be out in such ethereal beauty. The road climbed in elevation and the fog lay in the grass, among the trees and calm wandering horses, softening tones and the borders of things. I rode towards Jackson in the dawn; a sign showed it was 42 degrees. Ten degrees above freezing! At 50 mph it felt beyond freezing. And there were the Tetons, pink and glowing in the sunrise, rising through the mist that lounged along the valley floor, spiking the lavender sky.

Sky: Chicago

2006-07-19T07:02:00.000-06:00

Through Fire And Into The Divine

2006-07-17T19:29:00.000-06:00

I had a great apartment in San Francisco. It was a small, older building; classic, with high ceilings and huge windows, wonderful worn wood floors, and a hallway with a domed archway. It was my first apartment with a hallway; I adored that hallway. At 3 am one night, a crash woke me from sleep, followed by a woman's screams. I opened my eyes and all there was to see was orange - orange light so intense, so magnificent, it was like the color orange in solid form. Someone had poured gasoline through the mail slot of the front door of the building next to mine and lit it. As this was downtown San Francisco, where all the buildings touch and all are made of wood, the fire had jumped over to my building, exploding out windows as it burned through the stories. The fire destroyed both buildings and killed two of my neighbors that night.

Insomnia ensued for two weeks while I stayed with a dear friend and her family; then I set about finding a new home. Instead of renting another apartment downtown, I decided to move to an obscure hilltop neighborhood. My new home was a tiny jewel surrounded with jasmine and wild roses. With the money I was saving on rent as the means, and the inaccessibility to public transportation as the rationale, I bought myself a Vespa. I had never been on a Vespa before I bought mine, and though I had been on the back of a motorcycle, I had never driven one. I didn't have my motorcycle license yet, but I got my permit, had a lesson, and knew I was destined to ride. Riding a Vespa feels like a cross between riding a horse and skateboarding in the sky. It's exhilaration and meditation, awareness and surrender, chaos and craziness and extraordinary peacefulness all at once. It requires being completely in the moment - or risking serious injury. It is so much fun.

The fear of having my home burn down was my single greatest fear for as long as I can remember. Yet the fire, and the subsequent events that sprung directly from it were so infused with magic and miracles, I was stunned into a realization that would prepare me, a year later, for my trek across the country....

When I told my mother I was planning to ride my Vespa from San Francisco to New York, she gasped. She was not alone in her horror - I soon learned the common reaction was one of shock and fear. Many people expressed concern over every horrible thing that might happen to me on the road. One way of looking at my decision to go is that our freedom can be taken, in various ways, without warning - so why allow one's fear to take it? And everything "bad" that could have happened to me on the trip could happen to me anywhere, anytime, in the most seemingly benign environment. However, the deeper truth that the fire helped me to learn was this: bad things happen to give us the opportunity to realize there are no bad things. To not have gone would have been to turn my back on faith (plus, I'll take any occasion to wear leather pants).

Incidentally, I was never harmed. I rode through lightning, got chased by buffalo, spent the night with at least one felon, and got lost every day... but I was never harmed, or hurt, and nothing bad happened.

Radar the Steer

2006-07-14T09:26:00.000-06:00

Population: 67

2006-07-11T17:45:00.000-06:00

Interior, South Dakota is a tiny town on the border of The Badlands and Pine Ridge Indian Reservation. I stopped for gas and ended up staying three days. In the parking lot of the gas station - which didn't have any gas - I met Greg, ex-boxer, ex-trucker, and the owner of one of the town's two bars. We hit it off, and I followed him to his bar for a break from the heat.

Soon after I arrived, Lonnie, a deliberate, silent cowboy, brought his longhorn steer into the bar. A saddle was perched high on his massive back, and so up I went, my head nearly touching the ceiling as I sat atop this giant, gentle beast.

After hours of laughter and stories and countless cups of the most delicious iced tea, it was time for me to keep on down the road. Instead, Greg invited me to stay with him and his girlfriend in the trailer where they lived, in the bar parking lot. I accepted. My three days in Interior felt like a month, and I met all the characters that came into the bar - the cowboys, the bikers, the Sioux. Everyone was rough, tough, and wild, yet our conversations were deep and intimate, and I learned more about the heart - our own true Interior - than I ever expected.

Thinking (Salt Lake City)

2006-07-10T19:50:00.000-06:00

I'm in a different time zone, but time has been different since the moment I began. Each day has felt like ten for all that I have seen and felt. Even the cells of my skin seem to be jumping, reaching, trying to grab a piece of what surrounds me to hold onto and remember forever.

Interior, South Dakota

2006-07-08T19:57:00.000-06:00

A Whole Lot O' Buffalo

2006-07-05T20:43:00.000-06:00

It's hard to take buffalo seriously until you're surrounded by 200 of them. From afar, they look rather bizarre; lumbering, disproportionate, almost silly. When you can hear them breathing as they stare you down, it's another story entirely.

I was cruising through the Black Hills, on gorgeous empty sweeping roads, crests and dips, crests and dips. I rode over a hill and descended straight into a herd of free-ranging buffalo. These massive beasts lined both sides of the road and spread up into the hills, dotting the grasslands as far as the eye could see. Huge bulls stood four feet away from where I rode, trembling, in awe and afraid; each one five times the size of my Vespa, their heads larger than my entire torso and adorned with conical black horns. Ignorance is bliss and I didn't have that luxury; I knew these guys could run - fast, up to 35 miles per hour.

I soon realized that forward was not an option. I was flanked by buffalo where I was, and others stood in the road ahead. And so, I made the decision to turn around and find a different route, frantically praying the Vespa's headlight wouldn't anger those it crossed as I made a slow U-turn in the middle of the road.

I tried to avoid eye contact - because isn't that what you're supposed to do with wild beasts? But it was an impossible feat - everywhere I looked, a pair of big brown buffalo eyes stared down at me. I made my way back through the herd, hands sweating, my entire body shaking. A bull twenty feet from the road thundered into a run. Was he after a lady buffalo or after me? I didn't stay to find out. I opened up the throttle and was out of there.

Old Convict Road, Montana

2006-07-04T09:01:00.000-06:00

Badlands

2006-06-29T06:10:00.000-06:00

The sun was just rising and the air had a hint of cool to it from the night, though the promise of new heat was evident. I rode slowly down the wide highway toward Badlands National Park, past dry, open prairies, the Badlands on the horizon like torn paper against the sunrise. They're like icebergs in reverse, made of heat and contoured by wind, and soon I was in them, and they grew around me, and as they did my amazement grew as well.

The Badlands are hard to translate. They appear to be made of sand or dust, fragile and delicate though massive. And yet they have a kind of shell - one can walk up a crest without sliding; sometimes you leave a footprint, sometimes, no trace. I cruised through and around this strange terrain, the Badlands pulling me deeper in, the road following their shapes in steep curving rises to crest and point and drop, down, down, steeply into the heart of this landscape, and from there all that you see are prehistoric peaks growing from you in every direction, penetrating the sky.

Macedonia Brook Road, Connecticut

2006-06-25T12:47:00.000-06:00

What I See

2006-06-24T07:57:00.000-06:00

Sometimes I separate myself from myself and see this girl on the road on a tiny scooter, amidst cars and trucks and 18-wheelers, states away from anything she knows, 2000 miles from where she began, and I think what the heck is this girl thinking? It really is insane. And I only get that view for a glimmer of a second here and there; otherwise, it all seems perfectly normal and not out-of-the-ordinary whatsoever.

Sometimes I separate from what surrounds me and see myself - a glance at a dusty boot, a shoulder of black leather in the rearview mirror - and I realize, I am here! I am doing this! I'm in the middle of nowhere I've ever known, flying along four inches above the ground, and I laugh! And I feel like the luckiest person alive.

My Route

2006-06-22T22:39:00.000-06:00

Gassing Up

2006-06-19T05:44:00.000-06:00

I pull into a gas station and a giant RV is parked at the adjacent pump. A condescending and pointless remark from the man as he pumps gas: "there you are girl - we passed you ages ago." Well, here we both are, Dick. The woman looks at me wistfully from the passenger seat and tells me how brave she thinks I am, that she could never be that brave. I believe she could.

I pull into a gas station, fill my tank, clean the face shield of my helmet with the window squeegee, down some water. An older couple approaches me from the other side of the station. They're carrying a green disposable camera and ask if they can take my photo. I laugh and blush and say sure. We chat, they snap; after a few hollow clicks of their plastic camera they thank me and walk back to their car arm in arm.

I pull in to top off my gas in the middle of nowhere Nevada. It's not even a town; it's a place with a sign. I'm about ready to go and the tallest, thinnest cowboy pulls in. I smile, he looks at me and says with a slow, lyrical drawl, "You drivin' that thing across the country?" I say yes. His drawl is almost slow motion. "If it weren't impolite, I'd say that takes baaalllls."

I pull into a gas station that is swarming with Harleys. I'm fairly intimidated, riding into the mix on my sparkly little white pony. The moment I stop I am surrounded with bikers, full of smiles and questions and stories. They invite me to Sturgis. The women who ride on the backs of these Harleys fall completely in love with the Vespa. They righteously declare that if their men don't want them driving motorcycles, then damn! They are going to get Vespas!

I pull into a gas station across the street from a Senior Center. There's a carload of elders - three very old ladies in the backseat and two old men up front. I smile and wave as they drive out in front of me, staring. One of the women gives me such a smile back, it seems as if she is concentrating all her energy and willing herself into my skin, into my body, even into one of the snaps on my jacket, just to be along for the ride.

Hwy 88: Sierras, California

2006-06-17T14:57:00.000-06:00

Before Leaving

2006-06-16T21:50:00.000-06:00

I look at my route on a topo map and part of my heart becomes quite still and my lungs start working overtime. There are no lines, there aren't even curves, just these schizophrenic marks, frantic and erratic, scribbled across the enormous Sierra Nevadas.

This opportunity thrills me, it really does, but the glory of the ride ahead is dampened and dulled by my worry of Others. Maybe reckless, maybe simply on a faster ride, I cannot stop questioning, wondering, analyzing: will someone coming up from behind me be able to keep from crashing into me if they come upon me suddenly in one of these innumerable blind corners? How split can a second get? And while I trust myself and trust the road, why can't I extend the decency of trust to other riders on other journeys, these individuals I know I will encounter while on mine?

Here is my cynicism (that humankind is an oxymoron); here is my need to control (that I can only stay safe if I am the one acting, that if I leave it in the hands of anyone else I may as well be toast). Here is my challenge - to believe that other people are around to help me, not to harm.

In One Minute

2006-06-14T16:38:00.000-06:00

It's what you see, what you feel, what you notice now and now andnowandnowandnow. Say it fast - that's how fast it's all coming to you as you breeze down the road. Now the air is a different temperature; it's warmer - all of a sudden - with a gradation back to cool as before. Now a bug WHAM on the face shield, cheek level. The sound of impact is startling, just for one moment. Now you see the individual end feathers fringing the wing of a great hawk, who is motionless but moving as fast as you are in the air slightly above you and to your right. Now a car sails by in the opposite direction, sunlight gleaming and bouncing off the metal contours. It's past, it's down the road behind you, it's gone. Now the road changes form - it dips and curves, bending itself into a large sweeping curl. It's three-dimensional, this curve, you're inside it, and then you are it, you and your machine and this road curve together into one feeling of flow... The light on the long green grass breaks you out of this reverie, this oneness, it is so beautiful you have to be yourself to look at it - separateness is necessary in order to gaze upon it - and you slow down, there's no one around, and you go quietly by, taking in the yellow-green light warming these blades of grass. And now one minute has gone by.

Hwy 50: Nevada/Utah border

2006-06-12T18:33:00.000-06:00

We Shall Not Cease

2006-06-12T18:24:00.000-06:00

We shall not cease from exploration
And the end of all our exploring
Will be to arrive where we started
And know the place for the first time.
Through the unknown, remembered gate
When the last of earth left to discover
Is that which was the beginning;
At the source of the longest river
The voice of the hidden waterfall
And the children in the apple-tree
Not known, because not looked for
But heard, half-heard, in the stillness
Between two waves of the sea.
Quick now, here, now, always -
A condition of complete simplicity
(Costing not less than everything)
And all shall be well and
All manner of a thing shall be well
When the tongues of flame are in-folded
Into the crowned knot of fire
And the fire and the rose are one.
--t.s.eliot
(from 'four quartets')