10,000 Miles

Ready for anything.

The Beverly is fine.  Due to who-had-what-vehicle-when issues I had to truck the bike home from my grandparents in Gentry.  Note the ratchet straps are on the back of the bike and that I backed it in.

I ended last season with just under 10K on the odometer.

Doing the math, I've saved:
Over 61 metric tons of CO2 emissions into the atmosphere
Over 350 gallons of gasoline or 17.5 barrels/735 gallons of crude oil
Over $1,000 in my fuel costs
...and I've had a blast doing it.

From a blogging perspective, I believe BV 250: the next chapter of scooting has come to a close.  If you absolutely can't live without these posts, I am considering a mixed blog that features stories from my other hobbies - sailing, SCUBA, scootering, and more. 

Thanks to the readers for the kind words.

In the meantime, watch out for motorcycles - I will ride on.

Patriotism

Your SUV has room for Osama.

Cabin Fever

Me before I quit smoking.

We had a long rainy fall that shaved off more than usual of my riding season. I also did some traveling for work (Twin Cities, Hotlanta) that took a couple weeks. So, the Bev has been garaged for months now and may be for a couple more. The past couple days have brought a cold front with record breaking low temps (oF). So, with riding out of the question, here's some fun stuff I've come across on the 'net -

Concept Bikes (I'll take the Beamer and a current will)

And don't do this - (though I can see how her thought process went)


If you didn't get the memo - Vespa of the Ozarks is in it's new larger location across from the Rogers Walmart - check 'em out.

Riding the Storm Out

Whether we like it or not (pun intended), summer is winding down. Last Sunday I was enjoying a beautiful ride through the fields of Pea Ridge National Park. A stray puff of wind sent a dozen or so yellow leaves bursting from the dark foliage of summer. It seemed as if nature was speaking directly to me, saying "fall is coming".

On Monday, I rode without gloves in a fifties temperature morning. On Tuesday, I wore gloves. The chaps will come out of the closet soon, then the scarf. Can it be? Already?

This morning I jumped on the bike for my pre-7 am commute and noticed that it was still dark. Not season change dark, thick clouds at dawn dark. The cool, wet, smell of humidity told me that it was about to rain. My mind argued with my instinct, insisting that I'd checked the forecast on Monday and it was only a 30% chance today.

The Bev was as ready as I was and we started the day. Since school has been in session, it can take over 10 minutes to go three blocks. As I sat waiting at a stop light, I felt north wind on the back of my neck. "Odd." I thought. "Storms don't come from the north until...later in the year." The absent dawn began to dawn on me. Seasonal wind changes were happening. Fat drops of rain started to pop on the ground. The light turned green.

I rode fast, trying to balance my haste by reminding myself that roads are slickest as a rain begins. My commute runs south, then east, then south again. When I caught the east bound leg the storm started to overtake me. The silent flashes of lightning became loud thundering bolts. Cold wet circles teased the tops of my legs as the edge of the storm rapped lightly on my helmet.

I caught the final south bound leg of the trip and gave it a little extra. I pulled out of the rain wall that was falling right behind me. I stayed dry until I'd come to a stop sign or light. Then it was tap...tap..tap. At the final light before my building I caught the red. The rain ran the light.

When I got the signal, I throttled back and zoomed into the parking lot. I kicked down the stand and abandoned my usual parking ritual. With gear on, I hopped the retaining wall and jogged into the building. The spots of rain I brought with me dried out quickly. The storm lasted for four hours.

I was lucky. One more snooze button and I would have been drenched. I realize that my choices this morning may not have been the safest, yet it made for an exciting morning I'll never forget.

Group Ride - Artist Point

Before I-540 was built the main thoroughfare into the Boston Mountains brought enough traffic to support arts & crafts, gem shops, and more on what is today known as the "scenic route" from Fayetteville to Fort Smith. The traffic has died off and the beautiful terrain remains.

Robin and I are standing at Artist's Point, the peak of one of the Boston Mountains. Our backs are to the east and the Google relief/terrain map below shows the lay of the land around us.

Artist Point is about 50 miles south of Rogers. Nine of us met at Vespa of the Ozarks at 9 AM and took 71 south to Apple Blossom Road west to meet Old Wire Road south into Fayetteville.

(click map to enlarge)

Despite a scorching mid-nineties day yesterday, today's ride began slightly overcast and it kept the temps comfortable throughout the morning.

Since we were traveling in 55 mph zones, this scooter ride was geared for engines at 150 cc's and above. The BV 250 did fine even with a second passenger. We had several stops planned for the day and the first one was the Fayetteville Farmers Market.

It was my first time at this Farmers Market and I was delighted with the diversity present. People from many walks of life filled the square with music, flowers, and organic foods.

Four fiddles, two bands, and two guitar players spaced themselves out in the crowd so as to not compete with each other. Artisans peddled their work in the shapes of clay vessels and intricate pine needle baskets. Dogs met us and each other with smiles bigger than our own. And everyone was as friendly as can be.

It seems to be what life is all about.

We noticed that even with as many vendors as there were, there were notably few tomatoes or berries for sale. I ran into a friend that explained that if you want produce you have to come very early.

It was nearly 11 AM and these folks were ready to get back to their farms to tend to what it is that makes these Saturday's possible. Even so, we were able to pick up some carrots, onions, basil, and Cherokee tomatoes.

World Peace Fountain. So, yes, this is Robin trying to topple world peace.

Several riders joined us at the Market. Many sported the Fayetteville Scooter Club sticker. The larger group headed for the next pit stop - a fellow rider's home south of Fayetteville. Harv- you and your wife are terrific hosts with a beautiful home. After some watermelon and refreshments we took to the highway headed south for the Boston Mountains.

Yes, it is. = )

More folks had joined us at Harv's and we were up to at least 14 bikes at this point. We pulled into a rest area and decided to split into two groups.

Everyone that wanted to go 55 mph was in the first group. Everyone that wanted to go a little slower and enjoy the scenery was in the second group.

The roads are hilly, curvy, wide, and well-maintained. Even though I knew Robin was nervous about it, I enrolled us in the first group. We threw the throttle back and flew out of the rest stop and up the mountain ahead. I managed to play it safe and still let the Bev flex some muscle with the other guys in the group. As Leonard pointed out, we were bragging about going the speed limit. It sure is fun, though.

Five miles north of Artist's Point, a grandma-and-pop cafe - Grandma's Ridge (formerly Bluebird Cafe), offers a lunch experience you won't find on the beaten path. FYI - they don't take plastic.

Speaking of payment, Leonard and Joe have a running joke about who is going pick up the check for group ride lunches. Joe pulled a fast one and one up'd Leonard by getting the waitress to draw up a tab for all fourteen lunches and slip it to Leonard. We all had a good laugh.

Breakfast for lunch. $5.70

After some good conversation, some of the group decided to head back and I'm glad we decided to press on. Artist Point was just a few more miles and the view was terrific. We did need to get back, so we left out before the group.

An ambulance met us and I hoped it wasn't for someone we knew. Unfortunately, it was. Joe had slipped in a gravel patch in the parking lot of the look out right after we'd left. He had broken his back a few days before and with this fall he needed to go to the hospital. Joe - we wish you a speedy recovery. Our thoughts and prayers are with you.

It was now 3 PM and we were getting back into the city. The cloud cover had cleared and the temp had made it up to 94 F, with a heat index of 104F. This was the July day we'd been expecting. Riding through the concrete landscape added to the hot wind in our faces. We were half way home so we decided to take a break at Ozark Natural Foods. The air conditioning was wonderful. We cooled off with some drinks and started back north.

The heat must have gotten to the scooter too. We were at a stop light in Lowell and it just died. It would start, but then die. We let it cool for a few minutes and it came back to life. Next July ride we'll need to plan to be back before 1 PM or plan the activity to be indoors from 3 - 7 PM.

All in all, save Joe's accident, the trip was great. I used less than $4 in fuel and had a day of fun enjoying art, good food, good company, and beautiful scenery. It's really something to own a Vespa in the Ozarks.

I forgot to mention that we saw several scooters and motorcycles along the way that weren't with our group. As we fueled up we saw the most fuel-efficient ride of all.

That's a nice ass.

Group Ride - Eureka!

Does this Vespa make me look awesome?

A sunny Saturday and nothing to do - except a group ride to Eureka!

Vespa of the Ozarks hosted a group scooter ride to Eureka Springs, Arkansas. We rallied at their shop and after a few introductions - 13 Vespa's and Piaggio's took to the streets. Experienced riders and brand-new bikers mixed with classic all-metal models and more modern/more plastic versions of the Vespa legacy on a route coveted by riders across the country.

Having 8,ooo miles on the odometer, I was honored to be asked to be the "sweeper" bike for the group. It didn't hurt that the BV sports a 250 engine, pretty fast for this class of bike. A sweeper stays at the rear of the group to ensure that everyone stays together.

Our group wasn't the only gathering ready to enjoy an early summer Saturday. Not one block into the trip we met a true motorcycle gang at a four-way stop in Rogers brick town. Their sweeper rode into the middle of the intersection and blocked traffic until several dozen bikers rode through. This was my first group ride and I wasn't so dashing.

Life is a journey, not a destination. - Emerson

The quieter, more fuel efficient Vespa's, caught Highway 12 East connecting to 127 and then 23 North, a little less than 40 miles. Scenic, slower, safer, yet misses the grandiose curves of the Ozarks if we'd taken 62. That's for another ride.

The first "omg omg omg, I can't believe how fun AND beautiful this is..." moment came with the HWY 12 bridge spanning Beaver Lake. This drops you into the Hobbs State Park and Conservation area which hosts it's share of curvy roads and beautiful scenery. The air felt clean and invigorating with the smell of the forest pines and the dips in temperature in the shaded valleys we'd glide through. I have to say, riding a motorcyle/scooter has to be the closest thing to what flying must be like that I can think of.

The group stopped at an abandoned gas station that rests in the Y in the road where we'd turn to avoid as much traffic as possible. We had become several smaller groups and the stop let us reconnect and talk about the dipstick pulling a horse trailer that wasn't satisfied with doing the speed limit and insisted on staying too close to the back tires of one of our groups. What goes around, I suppose.

The forest tapered into farmland where every other barn was a dilapidated postcard waiting to happen. One barn that was still in operation was painted blue. With almost every barn I've seen being red, I couldn't help but think "what a non-conformist!" The blue did go better with the big sky behind it.

The next stop was an open gas station right outside of Eureka. We were all pretty excited, knowing that we were almost there. Hungry, too. Lunch was the first item on the agenda when we arrived...

...at the Lovin' Oven. Yeah. Despite it's name, it was actually great. Italian food served up in generous portions and fair prices in a clean atmosphere. It's in the shopping center next to the Hart's grocery shopping center.

As you can imagine, we weren't the only group touring Eureka on a beautiful Saturday. We saw a Miata group, Plymouth Prowler group, a couple Ferrari's, and LOTS of motorcycles.

The scooters had to represent, so we cruised the historic downtown and up the hill to the Crescent Hotel and back down again. It was fun to see how almost every head turned to watch the procession. People were compelled to point at the MP3's in the group, with their two-wheeled front axles. An older man on a new Vespa was parking his bike as we went by. He motioned the classic "blow your horn" as you would a trucker and I obliged.

I could have made a few more laps but cruising that slow in the summer kicks on the cooling fan. So, a few riders stayed to spend some time in Eureka and the rest of us headed back.

Unfortunately, we did see a sport bike wreck. He was up and moving but his brand new bike was in pieces. We stopped at the abandoned gas station and another biker from his group pulled in and asked us for some Tylenol. One of our scooter enthusiasts is a nurse and had some handy. The sport bike rider reported that his friend was going to be okay but was just going too fast.

I learned from Leonard that the average time a new sport bike is laid over (wrecked) is less than two weeks. Apparently, that's why the insurance is sky high. Sport bikes tend to be more engine than you need and if you've never ridden anything, that twist n' go action puts you in the ditch, quick.

Leonard asked if I'd like to switch to lead for the rest of the way. I didn't mind. From what I've read, the least experienced lead to keep the pace of the group together but I didn't say anything. I kept my speed at 45 mph but still lost all but the other BV rider. No worries though. We all arrived at the shop within minutes.

Overall, a terrific Saturday at the cost of less than a gallon of gas. I can't wait for the next one.

Barron Fork Creek

Last weekend offered a 180 mile round-trip excursion to Barron Fork Creek, just east of Tahlequah, Oklahoma. A neighboring Oklahoma aquarium club invited our Arkansas club to join them on a collecting trip.


Collecting involves using dip nets and seines to collect native fish suitable for the home aquarium. "Regular" fisherman refer to this as "bait fishing". To read more about what we collected, visit my fish blog - Wet Socks.

The only collecting equipment I own is a bait bucket, a cooler, and some river shoes. Since I didn't have a net to transport I opted to take the trip on the Beverly. It also gave me a chance to try out the saddle bags I bought at a yard sale last summer.

Scooter fuel costs estimate out at 180 mi/70 mpg = 2.5 ga x $1.95 = $5

vs.

Truck fuel cost at 180 mi/19 mpg = 9.5 ga x $1.95 = $18.52
(read: ready for summer fuel prices?)

I could have taken the major highways and made better time. But why would I do that when I could take the scenic route and enjoy my Saturday on the bike? The trip into Oklahoma was 90 miles of hills, curves, and small town intersections. Can one feel more alive?

Granted, the trip began before sunrise. (Dark = not ideal) It was raining. (Not the safest.) And patches of intermittent fog. (Who do I think I am?) I had checked the radar before I left and determined/hoped that I was riding south west as the tail end of the storm was headed north east and I would find myself in good riding weather just after a stop for breakfast at Braum's.

Fortunately the weather cooperated but not before a final cloudburst soaked through my jacket. This is the first time that the jacket didn't keep me dry but it was a significant amount of rain in a matter of minutes. With the temp at 48F and the wet jacket/shirt I started to get chilled when I crossed the Arkansas/Oklahoma line.

Three small towns later I found an open Dairy Bar in Wellsville. The full parking lot at this early hour reinforced my suspicion that it was the only place open for miles. I did my best to put on a polite poker face to contain my smile before I opened the door.

I knew what I was getting into. I knew I would open the door to a small town cafe full of over-all's, coffee, and Coppenhagen. (not that there's anything wrong with that.) And I would would be sporting a flourescent yellow riding jacket and black leather chaps coming off a scooter with a bait bucket strapped to it during an early morning rain in Regularville, USA.

They were polite. I ordered coffee. I warmed my hands on the cup that was sponsored by the local mechanic, school, and bank. The memorabilia on the wall suggested the Dairy Bar had been open since the fifties. I was disappointed that the Dairy Bar had nothing more dairy than regular milk and they were disappointed that I wasn't ordering breakfast. I enjoyed the coffee, or more so the warmth it gave me and drank in the conversations between farmers.

I paid the tab and tipped well (which I did spitefully. Can't a guy just order coffee?). In the parking lot a couple of paramedics were getting out of an ambulance and they asked me a couple questions about the bike. One of the drivers said he was getting one. I couldn't help but think "I hope I haven't just met the folks that will scrape me off the highway. That would be creepy."

Dark and morbid I know, but those kind of thoughts keep me from getting too comfortable. I told a new rider yesterday that there's nothing more dangerous than the illusion of comfort. That goes for driving a car, too.

Warmed up, I got back on the road which was now the final miles of the Cherokee Trail of Tears. It's good to see acknowledgement of what was done but so horrifying that it happened. The names of the towns and creeks I passed through reflected the Native American influence.

The terrain is beautiful. I had noticed during my pre-trip planning that I would be traveling through forest. I was surprised at the significant ice storm damage of the trees that lasted for miles and miles. It doesn't seem to be catastrophic and I take comfort in knowing that even this is part of the rhythms of Nature.


Barron Fork Creek is a part of the Illinois River drainage. The collection site was an appropriate end to a journey through wooded hills and valleys. The collecting was fun. I ratchet-strapped the now full cooler to the back seat, made the "flight plan" call home and saddled up.

With more pleasant conditions and dried out gear the return trip was much more enjoyable. I thought to myself "This is why I pushed through this morning." The same trip in the truck would have been nice, but not nearly the same experience.

I stopped at the Trail of Tears Trading Post I had passed on the way in. I picked up a handmade necklace for my squaw and a postcard sized painting created by a local artist. It caught my eye and when I looked at the title "Crossing Barron Fork Creek" I had to get it.

Two locals drifted in and asked me "Is that a bait bucket on that bike?"

I said "yes sir, that cooler's full of bait fish."

"We're goin' on up to try for some crappie."

"Good luck."

They smiled and moved on. I heard one of them say "See, I told you he was fishing with that bike. I bet he's got a collapsible pole in one 'em saddle bags."

The trip was great. I never would have thought that one day I would be wearing chaps, walking out of a trading post and putting dry goods into my saddle bags. What a life. It reminds me of a line from a song -

"If you hold on tight to what you think is your thing, you may find you're missing all the rest." - Best of What's Around by the Dave Matthews Band.