With our mutual interests peaked. I started asking around about older motorcycles. I figured we’d maybe make a move at the end of the season. I stopped by Bluecat Motors because they specialize in older motorcycles as well as scooters. I’ve always appreciated their indiscriminate enthusiasm for anything with two wheels and a motor. Some bike shops can be snobby about what kind of bikes they deal in, but not Bluecat. On any given afternoon in their St. Paul shop, you’ll likely see a matte black Cafe Racer parked in between a candy-colored vintage Lambretta scooter and a 40 year old moped. They even host a Mods and Rockers event every summer. They’re the ultimate two wheel pluralists and that’s appealing for this kind of search because it means they’ve seen everything. I asked Ryan (the proprietor) what kind of inexpensive but reliable older bikes I should look into for myself and The Mrs. His suggestion was that we’d likely be really happy with a japanese bike from the late ’70s or early ’80s and then gave me a crash course in evaluating old motorcycles. He even showed me a 1983 Suzuki GS450 that a lady had for sale on consignment. It looked perfect for The Mrs. Crap! What have I done? I guess looking leads to finding, so that’s what I get.

I brought The Mrs by that weekend to look at the Suzuki. The price was right, it was perfectly clean and in immaculate mechanical shape. In the end, we actually tried to buy it. Too bad the lady who owned it got cold feet. This wasn’t discouraging though. We were committed now. The hunt was on in earnest.

I scoured Craigslist first for another Suzuki like the one we’d seen, then for equivalent models from Honda. My searching paid off. I found what looked like a spotless 1981 Honda CM400 Custom up near Big Lake, MN. It had less than 6,000 miles, looked clean from one end to the other, and when I talked to the seller on the phone, the bike seemed to check all the boxes Ryan had given me in my appraiser’s crash course. We scheduled a meeting time and hauled up to Big Lake in the MINI. The bike checked out and The Mrs took it for a test ride. When she returned, it was my turn to evaluate what seemed likely to be our very first motorcycle in casa del Salzman. I managed not to stall the snarling air-cooled twin as I headed down the driveway and onto the neighborhood street. That was a relief. I got a quick feel for the bike and it felt like driving a battleship compared to my Vespa. Not in a bad way, it was just so solid and stable. I made the loop and returned thinking that we’d be unlikely to find a better bike than this, especially at the price they were asking. The Mrs and I conferred for a moment, haggled a bit with the seller, and in no time we were filling out the title. The Mrs rode the bike home the 50 miles from Big Lake and when we arrived in Eagan, she was grinning like a crazy person. No buyers remorse to be found here, that’s for sure. Stay tuned for part two…

Time for preflight. I cycle the turn signals, looking front and back, left and right as the piezo buzzer shrieks, “MEEP! MEEP! MEEP!” Check. High beam. Check. I squeeze both brake handles watching the tail light for bright red. Check. Fuel? Check — half a tank — that should get me through the week. I squeeze the rear tire. Check. Front tire. Check. No catastrophic leaks. A short, sharp blip on the horn and we’re ready to fly.

Back in the garage, I take my armored leather jacket off its hanger. It fits snug, but it’s comfortable. I pull my balaclava over my head and tuck it into my jacket collar. Helmet on. Visor up. Chin strap buckled. My leather gauntlets go on my hands — padding doubled over every key joint and slide point. There’s no insulation in these gloves, but I have a trick for that. Time to go.

I hit the garage door button and duck under the door as it descends. The Vespa burbles contentedly as I step through and put arse to seat. Walking the machine backward, I test first the front then the rear brake. The bite feels good. A quick look over my shoulder and I’m off.

Two stop signs. Two stop lights. I’m on Eagan’s main drag now, Yankee Doodle Rd., headed west. The speed limit is 45 mph. I’m probably doing about 50, checking over my right shoulder, once, twice, three times a lane change. The first block zips by and I’m watching the traffic lined up from Hwy 35E. Don’t pull out. Stay put, you bastard. I astral project my thoughts into that first car. He’s waiting for an opportunity to turn right and onto my street. I toggle my high beam just in case. Notice me, asshole. The last thing I need is this guy pulling out in front of me.

I’ll play some version of this game all the way to the office. It’s me vs. the hoard — a lone scooter in a sea of inattentive souls, each wrapped in at least two tons of steel, glass and distraction. I know the choke points by heart. The very next intersection is one of them: the right turn at Pilot Knob Rd. Check. The right turn has a yield lane. As I get there, the light has just changed and traffic is lurching from the starting gate of the far side of the street. Do I stop, or do I thread myself in after the last of the left turn traffic? I go for it. A white truck has an early lead over the rest of the northbound pack. Don’t worry, Mr. Pickup Truck, I won’t be in your way. I counter-steer into a deep lean and accelerate from 15 to 50 in about six heartbeats. I check my mirror and Mr. Pickup Truck is nearly a quarter mile behind me. Man, I love doing that.

Red light. Smooth stop. Feet down. I lean forward and cover my headlight with my hands like I’m trying to hide it. The black leather gloves soak up the heat from the high beam. This will keep my hands warm for a good 15 minutes. Green light. Back on the throttle. Feet up. My gloves feel almost scalding hot against the grips. That’s better.

I join Hwy 13 just as it intersects Hwy 55. This is my ticket across the river. This is my minor artery into Minneapolis. The two turn lanes on Hwy 13 quickly fill up. We’re going to turn left, then within about half a mile, our two lanes become one. Red light. I’m in the left lane — the lane to be — this way I don’t have to merge. I look around, waiting for the light to turn. This driver’s look says. “Seriously? You’re getting on the highway?” Yeah, and you don’t know it yet, but I’m going to get there before you do.

Green arrows. I draft the car in front of me all the way up to 55 mph. The two lanes merge and skepticism ends up three or four cars behind me. Now a sweeping left turn over the hill reveals the airport across the river in the distance. A commercial jet thunders overhead on approach from God knows where. They land them two at a time at MSP. Cresting the hill I hold my draft. I’m about a car length and a half behind the car in front of me. From the right, another onramp joins ours to form the two lanes of the Mendota Bridge. Head check right. Clear. I tuck down and slingshot around my blocker into the right lane. The flat half mile of Mendota is my Bonneville. How fast will we go? I bury the throttle in the sweeping downhill approach. 65. 70. 75. 73 holds on the flat. The Vespa is solid as a rock. No shimmy. No drama. Over my right shoulder, at 3:00, is the St. Paul skyline. At 1:00 is Minneapolis — both skylines equally dominating and equally distant. The Minnesota river sweeps under me in a marshy blur and historic Fort Snelling looms on my right — the great fortress that it is — like Alcatraz in an impenetrable sea of bright green trees.

Slow down. I sit up and uncoil the throttle a bit. The wind fills my chest but is outdone by my leather jacket. It’s time for the awkward Bloomington Rd. pseudo exit. Keeping a watchful eye over my left shoulder for any cars trying to dive into the exit at the last second, I tuck the Vespa into the shallow off-camber bank of the offramp. Hold the lane. Don’t merge yet. This lane is about to disappear, but if I change lanes too soon, I’ll end up in that gigantic pothole on the seam — the scooter equivalent to Charlie Brown’s kite-eating tree. Head check left. Clear. I make the quick lane change just in time to then exit this road all together onto Hiawatha Ave. The light rail rumbles and lumbers overhead on its way to Fort Snelling station. Not taking the train today. It’ll be way too nice this afternoon not to ride.

I turn right onto Minnehaha Parkway, past the dog park and past the narrow bridge to the VA complex. It’s time to meander. The parkway speed limit is 25 mph, but there are only a couple of stop signs and basically no merging traffic. Almost no traffic at all really. It’s a scooter’s home turf. It’s also both the easiest and the fastest way to the studio.

Time for the turning circle. We Americans are so bad at these things. I’m able to thread easily between cars. Thankfully it’s just a right turn for me on this leg of my commute. Nobody has to yield, or fail to. Now I just follow the river. The mighty Mississippi snakes its way along my right, maybe 100 ft below the roadbed. I’ll travel upstream all the way to the office. Holding a steady 30 mph, I weave along with the parkway. Overhead is a canopy of green, just sprouted with early spring. My commute rules.

Also to my right, a bike and pedestrian lane the width of a regular road lane follows the parkway. Runners. Joggers. People walking their dog. The occasional weird recumbent bicycle.

Oh not another one of these jackasses! A road cyclist skims the right edge of the northbound lane. For some reason completely lost on me, these guys (and they are always guys) insist on riding their bicycles in traffic even when there is a huge, dedicated, parallel bike path literally three feet to their right. Instead of using the path, they clog up the shoulder-less, narrow little two lane parkway. And you wonder why cars don’t respect you.

Of what few cars travel along in front of me on the parkway, most peel off at 32nd St. The rest at either Lake St. or Franklin Ave. By the time I crest the hill and the University of Minnesota comes into view across the river, I’m completely alone. The parkway descends and I’m now right next to the river, nearly level with it. The U of M towers above the opposite shore — a sprawling complex like Minas Tirith in LOTR. At the far end of the Washington Ave. bridge, I can’t not notice the Weisman Art Gallery. My first scooter, a 1979 Vespa P200E, originally belonged to Mr. Weisman, so I can’t help notice the structure each time I pass it. It’s also rather hard to miss on its own — a bizarre, twisted structure from the mind of Frank Gehry.

Most of the parkway is “rough as a cob” as my dad would say. I dodge potholes and try to keep my Vespa’s suspension from having to work harder than it needs to. Damn, I love these tires. They’re only a few hundred miles old, but the grip is just amazing. I round the next corner and it’s suddenly glass smooth. New tarmac. To my right is a fenced off former public parking lot. Instead of cars, hundreds of tons of twisted, mangled steel litters the lot as though it fell from the sky. This wreckage is the remnants of the Hwy 35W bridge that so famously collapsed in 2007. Its peeling green paint and rust encrusted edges make these scraps look like the lifeless entrails of some gigantic, destroyed robot. One more corner and there spans the replacement bridge — all white and shapely. The memorial sculptures still look like stink lines, if you ask me.

The Guthrie Theater’s bright blue box of a building announces that my Vespa and I are now in the Mill District. The parkway detours just before the theater, unfortunately. Time for my favorite stop sign maneuver. As I make the series of maze turns it takes to get from the parkway to my office, most involve stop signs. I pull up, grabbing the brakes hard at the last second. As the momentum of the bike stores energy in the front suspension, the Vespa comes to a complete stop for just a split second. In sort of Wile E. Coyote fashion, before the bike remembers gravity and tips over, I release the brakes. The momentum stored in the front suspension is released as just enough roll to keep the bike upright as I get back on the throttle. If I do it just right, I don’t have to put my feet down at the stop sign.

I top my final hill on 5th Ave and approach the Designers Guild Building. I’m here. I duck around the drop arm at the parking garage and my commute is complete. Kill switch to Off. Key one click counter-clockwise. I step down hard on the center stand and the Vespa comes to rest once more. I unclip my chin strap and slide my helmet off. That wasn’t so cold after all. My gloves come off reluctantly and I stuff them inside my helmet. Locking the steering column, I slip the key into my pocket. Another ride accomplished. Another street fight won. Another great day ahead. See you after work, Good Lookin’.

I’ve had three “tweetups” so far where I’ve met people in person who I otherwise only know through Twitter. Each time it’s been really positive. It’s always fun to see how my online perceptions of a person line up against the reality of getting to know them in person. Sometimes it’s pretty accurate, sometimes people are not at all what I expected. But in both cases, it’s really fun putting the social back into social media.

Today I met @hillaryheinz for the first time. She’s a fellow design and scooter nerd and we had a delicious lunch at Corner Coffee talking about scooters and “the biz.” In some ways it was like looking back in time — remembering myself not so long ago in my own journey. She’s just getting going in both her scooter riding and her design career and seems to be off to a great start in both arenas. She was also sporting her brand new, powder blue Genuine Buddy 50. Such a great color on that scooter. In a fantastic, “it’s a small world” bit of detail, it also turns out that our respective offices are within a few blocks of each other. Fun stuff. I’m sure we’ll run into each other again soon. Nice to meet you, Hillary!

The only thing more fun than just riding a scooter is riding in a formation of good riders. The trick is finding a good group. Last year I had to quit riding with one of the local groups. The ride leader more often than not would lead the group into unsafe situations, such as oncoming traffic. It wasn’t until I started riding with a more hard core group of riders that I came to appreciate what it’s like to ride with a good crew. More than anything, it made me a much better rider. Several of the riders in that group are regulars at TNR, so my expectations were high.

The Mrs and I headed off to meet up with the TNR group where Summit Avenue meets the St. Paul side Mississippi River parkway. We arrived just as the group of six scooters were firing up to head out. With Scooterville Lora in front of me, we headed off on a whirlwind tour of St. Paul. Weaving our way down the parkway and then up several streets wholly unfamiliar to me, I was really frustrated with my rusty riding. When you’ve got good riders around you, the flaws in your own riding technique become painfully obvious. Trying to keep up with Lora as she’d rip around turns on her little Buddy 70, I felt like such a squid. If my Vespa weren’t so powerful, I would have been holding up the riders behind me pretty bad as I crawled through the turns. So shameful, but still a really fun ride.

Our route ended in downtown St. Paul right in front of the state capitol. The Mrs didn’t have a clear visor with her, so with darkness looming, we headed home. It was a great experience if for no other reason than getting to know St. Paul a bit better. But the real benefit, as always, was spending time on the streets with other riders. Though it was my first, this will definitely not be my last TNR. Perhaps I should spend this week rediscovering how the hell to ride my scooter!

The Mrs and I both ride. She has her Buddy 125 and I my Vespa GT200L. She comes from a family of motorcycle riders and it’s been an easy thing for me to bond with the in-laws over. Contrast that to my family, who refer to anything on two wheels as a “murdercycle.” When my parents caught wind three years ago that I’d bought a 1979 Vespa P200, they voiced their disapproval through graphic emails and back handed, passive aggressive well-wishing like “I just hope you don’t end up in a wheel chair.” Thanks? Anyway, as I learned more and more about the realities of riding safety, my equipment choices evolved. My longboarding and mountainboarding days convinced me of the need for a helmet, but the “pudding cup” half helment I originally bought for my P200 soon gave way for a proper, white full-face motorcycle lid. I bought a pair of Doc Martin boots just for riding. I own three armored jackets. Two pairs of armored gloves. Every time I ride, I make sure my brake lights, turn indicators, horn and headlight work — plus I squeeze both tires to make sure they haven’t gone flat on me. Bottom line, I take riding safety very seriously.

Yesterday I took it a little too seriously. More specifically, I tried to (albeit gently) impose my notion of safety onto The Mrs. To her credit, she would have none of it. The insinuating discussion (no seriously, we don’t fight about things — even when I’m being an arrogant asshole) was pretty eye opening. I needed to let go. For my own good, I needed to acknowledge that ATGATT (All The Gear All The Time) is not safe, but simply safer. Risk is at best mediated, but never eliminated. And in the end, something is going to get you.

So what does that all mean? Do I leave the helmet behind and ride my Vespa in shorts and flip flops like the jackasses we make fun of on the message boards? No. The reality is that wearing the gear can save your hide, your joints, and your life. My outlook on that hasn’t changed. What’s evolved is my sensitivity. My previous point of view was that riding any distance, especially the just-round-the-corner sort of destinations meant wearing full gear. Gloves, boots, armored jacket, long pants, helmet and visor. What The Mrs helped me understand is that once in a while, it’s okay to just throw your helmet on and ride over to the damn car wash two blocks away. So that’s what I did.

My Vespa hadn’t been washed since I bought it, and boy did it look it. From engine grime to dirt and gunk in the floor boards, the ol’ boy needed a bath. So embracing my destiny, whatever it be, I donned my helmet and rode the two blocks to the local spray wash. No gloves, no jacket and just running shoes on my feet. It’s hard to articulate how out of character this was for me, but it was time to let go. Time to let go of all that parental baggage. Time to let go of my own notions of having control of the world around me. Time to let go of being so tightly ruled by the what-ifs of scooter safety. A handful of quarters later, my Vespa was much cleaner and dripping wet. Not wanting water to pool anywhere weird, I threw my helmet back on and tore off through the neighborhood. It was approaching dusk, which is statistically the most dangerous time to be out riding on two wheels. I know this, but I forego the return trip home to pick up my jacket and gloves. I needed to do this. I needed to embrace this danger.

It was thoroughly liberating. I let go of the risks. I banked my wet Vespa deep into the hilly curves of Denmark Avenue. I asserted myself at the 4-way stop sign at Wescott Rd. I may or may not have completely disregarded the speed limit. I didn’t ride recklessly, or even aggressively, I simply rode. I rode without worry of scrapes or broken bones. I rode without fear. I rode embracing my fate — almost daring the tarmac to rise up and bite me if it had the balls. Perhaps a good wreck would get the hesitation out of my system.

After 15 minutes or so of buzzing ’round the neighborhood, I returned for my jacket and gloves. Not because I felt unsafe, but because I was cold. I wasn’t done riding though. I could have run upstairs for my boots, but for this little trip…fuck it. With leather on my hands and torso, I tore back into the last lingering rays of daylight up Lexington Avenue and onto Hwy 55. I stopped at the valley overlook on Sibley Memorial Highway just as the sun was giving way to the horizon. As I scrambled to snap a decent photo in the fading light, I felt a tranquility I hadn’t felt in riding before. I felt the calm of a danger embraced, a fate accepted and a lesson learned.

The Mrs took off to see her friend’s new house here in Eagan, and I headed to the corner gas station to top off with fresh fuel and make sure my tires were at their proper pressures. There’s a 6 psi difference between the front and rear tires on the Vespa GT, and if it’s not observed the bike won’t handle properly. There’s something about these little details that really resonates with me. I’m not a particularly anal retentive, type-A kind of person. My Vespa is filthy, truth be told —  covered in a fine layer of last season’s road grime and this winter’s sawdust. But there’s something about these little idiosyncrasies that I really enjoy. It’s how I come to really know the machine.

With everything inspected and topped off, it was time to scratch a winter-long itch. I headed through Mendota and wound up exploring some wonderful areas of St. Paul that I wasn’t familiar with. More than anything I wanted to lose time. Not waste time, but lose it. I wanted to avoid well-known roads. I wanted to have absolutely nowhere to go and not care about how I got there. It’s something that I feel like I lost last season. By commuting nearly every day, it got tough to just let go and ride. A winter away and some new perspective has really refreshed things. Today’s ride also did great things for me in that regard. By having nowhere to go, and no time limit save the setting sun, my Vespa and the open roads of the Twin Cities were reunited. Hello, old friends.

In November, I reached the two year riding mark. I’ve now ridden about 10,000 miles on four different scooters. In short, it’s been a blast. This is easily one of the best things I’ve ever gotten into. But as fun as the riding has been, I’ve enjoyed the people even more. From the fine folks at Scooterville and Blue Cat Motors to the local crazies like Dave Harrington, Kent Aldrich, and Pooter. Scooter people are the best. This season really has been great — full of fun rides, another great Rattle My Bones rally, and lots of seat time on my Vespa. The biggest difference for me from last year was just how much more regular riding I did this season. Summer was wonderfully temperate, even if Autumn was a bit wet. Still, I commuted on my scooter much more often than I did last year and about twice as far each way. And though I never got sick of it, I did sometimes struggle to reclaim that joy of riding for riding’s sake. I’m sure a winter of ride itch will cure me of that very soundly.

2009 was also the start of the ride log here on my website. I’d been blogging about scooter stuff from time to time, but 2009 was my opportunity to really chronicle the whole season. So in case you missed them, I’ve listed my ride logs for the 2009 riding season. Keeping them has been so much fun and I sincerely hope they’ve been entertaining. Here’s to year three! Here’s to 2010! Keep it shiny side up, everybody.

October
Make up your damn mind!
Epic autumn meandering
Ingenious contraption

September
The start of autumn / new tires

August
Then the dipstick fell off
Tiny planes
Rattle My Bones 2009
RMB Check Ride #3
Home Safe
RMB Check Ride #2

July
Bearded Lady 2009

June
RMB Check Ride #1
Los Vesparados

May
Sunset Parkway
Commute!
Pilot Knob
One wheel in front of the other

April
New Helmet
Urban Touring
Medicine Lake Meandering
Country Road
The Wobble Strikes Back
Wobble, Wobble, Wobble
Bob’s Cycle Supply
Como Zoo
More Tire Trouble
No Outlet
Stupid Mistake
Errant Errands

March
Ice Road Scooter
Why I rode my scooter today
Scooter Season 2009 is officially on!

October 31, 2009 — With The Mrs out of town visiting friends, the nearly 60º weather today meant I simply had to get on my Vespa while I still could. Weather lately has been gloomy at best. With the wettest October in the history of civilization, I had pretty much given up hope on doing any more riding in 2009. Weather forecasts now look like rideable weather all week long. I’m not really complaining, it’s just that I thought we were done. I’ve already started winterizing the scooters! And by winterize, I mean run stabilized fuel through both scooters until they run out of gas, then park them for the winter. Thankfully, neither bike is fully empty yet, so I was able to make it to a nearby station and fill up for a much needed ride.

My route was nothing remarkable, other than the simple fun of being out on a scooter. I wound my way up Hwy 13 through the Mendota area and into St. Paul. I crossed over the Smith Ave. bridge, which is one of the most spectacular views of the St. Paul skyline you’re going to find anywhere in the city. Taking 5th St. back up to Snelling via Montreal, I eventually wound up on Ford Parkway headed back toward Minneapolis. Presented with the Mississippi, I did something I don’t normally do. I headed upstream on the river parkway on the St. Paul side of the river. Usually I go downstream to catch Minnehaha Parkway via the Minneapolis side. I’m so glad I deviated. I wound my way through the U of M campus and eventually crossed over on Franklin on the 10th Avenue bridge just parallel to the infamous 35W bridge. Heading back toward Eagan, it was great fun to be racing nothing but the sunset. I had nowhere I needed to be, and nobody who needed my attention. Just me and my Vespa. La vita dolce!

Starting with the styling, I am always a huge fan of EVs that look like they’re from some sort of 50′s vision of the future. The Cub is such an odd-looking vehicle to begin with that in a lot of ways this new, rounded version is simply a nice design update. But the new curves of the EV Cub reveal something else. Judging from size, it looks as though both the front and rear wheels have hub motors and I can only assume regenerative brakes. I wonder if there are even mechanical drum brakes inside those hubs at all. I’ve heard from several Vectrix owners that because of the powerful regenerative braking on that bike, they sometimes forget they have regular brakes all together. Braking aside, the idea of an all-wheel drive scooter is very interesting indeed. There have been experiments with two-wheel-drive motorcycles with positive results and I’m curious what the handling would be like on a vehicle this light. Beyond that, what kind of efficiency gains could be made by spreading the load across more than one motor (effectively adding a degree of mechanical advantage)?

All in all, as battery tech evolves the Honda Cub EV may take the Cub another 60 years into the future. Here’s hoping it goes into production. Either way, it’s a charming little concept.