Rush Hour Rambling

Weather: 73°F (23°C) Under partly-cloudy skies.
Road Conditions: Smooooth

Meet “Rose”, my new 2007 Vintage Red Vespa 250 GTS i.e.

Yeah, that’s right… Mine. It wasn’t supposed to happen this way.

Early this year I set the wheels in motion to obtain a Vespa 250 GTS, on-loan from Piaggio, so I could do a long-term Ride to Work test of their “Vespanomics” concept. I also wanted to experience this legendary GTS, so my scooter testing scale would be properly calibrated with a high-end benchmark, for future Rush Hour Road Tests.

The low-end benchmark had already been firmly established by the rusting hulk sitting in my garage.

Little did I know what kind of long and arduous process this was going to be. I’ve never been a patient man, although I’m getting better with each passing year. But, as I watched the riding season passing me by, scooterless, I finally decided that the time had come for drastic measures.

It didn’t help that I kept going back to the dealership, to gaze longingly at the floor models, and when no one was looking, sit on them making “vroom-vroom” noises to myself. How unprofessional of me! Once those sweeping lines and sexy curves imprinted themselves on my brain, all objectivity was lost. I was overcome with Vespa-lust, and nothing less than a GTS could cure me.

Euro-chic…Rose idles nonchalantly at the curb, in front of the cafe.

Without disclosing too many details, let’s just say that I negotiated a deal which will fit my miserly budget, and finally took delivery of the most beautiful scooter I have ever ridden, -and- I don’t have to give it back at the end of the season.

I must take a moment here to thank Jonathan and Jason at Motoprimo for helping to make this happen. Thanks also to Kathleen Reynolds at Cooper-Katz in New York City; I know you did your best, but I just couldn’t wait anymore. Yesterday was a Good Day.

Let’s Ride!

These modern Vespas are a bit more complicated than the Chinese Barons I tested. They come with two different keys; one is brown, the other blue. The brown key has electronics built in, a sort of boot-loader which shuts off the built-in security system before starting. If somebody tries to punch out the ignition on a modern Vespa, the security system shuts down the scooter until the proper code is reloaded through the key-switch.

Turning the key makes the LCD display come to life. Here you have everything from bar-graph tachometer, temperature, and gas-gauge to a clock and thermometer. It’s a busy little screen, but all of the information is useful, and I’m sure I will get to the point where I can update at-a-glance. While the screen is booting up, you hear the fuel-pump pressurizing the injection system. Wait for it, then squeeze the brake and push the starter button. A couple of cranks to get to the compression stroke, and it lights off with a soft puttering sound.

This scooter is stealthy-quiet with the stock exhaust. Rolling down the parkway at one point, Rose and I approached two bicyclists riding abreast in front of us. One of them glanced back quickly, and then did a surprised double-take. They hadn’t heard us coming, even though we were only about twenty feet behind them. I brushed the horn button with my thumb, “meep!”, and veered wide left to pass them.

I’m going to save the rest of the riding impressions; suspension, handling, acceleration and braking for a future post. For now let me just say that the Vespa GTS is one refined, high-quality piece. It’s in a different league entirely from the bargain scooters I’ve ridden in the past. By the time we finish the break-in period, I should be able to regain my composure enough to do an honest evaluation. But right now, I’m just besotted with the sexy little beast.

My gearhead friend Jeff Weissbach, at home, with camera-shy dog.

On our way home from Motoprimo, Rose and I stopped by my friend Jeff Weissbach’s house in Saint Paul. His place is a Gearhead’s Paradise, with all manner of motorized transport represented. Jeff is a member of the venerable Twin Cities Norton Owner’s Club, and has hosted their Concours d’Elegance at his home in the past. I met him back when we both rode Ducatis, and frequented the same coffee house on Grand Avenue.

These days, his classic Norton Cafe Racer sits in the garage while he concentrates on bringing his vintage Lotus Elan back to life. The backbone chassis required extensive welding and bracing, and takes up most of the floor of his garage. The diminutive engine rests on a stand right beside it, awaiting a total rebuild. The bodywork sits outside, where he is slowly patching and restoring the now-ancient fibreglass. Jeff is a man of many talents.

Rose poses in front of a Gearhead’s Paradise.

He showed me around the house, which he has almost finished remodelling, and we talked long enough to catch up on current events in each other’s lives. He had dinner on the stove, so I didn’t want to intrude, but I thought his garage, yard, and driveway would make perfect backgrounds for photographs of my lovely Rose.

The sky had clouded up, so the light wasn’t the best, but I think these shots are presentable. Rose and I took the long way home, riding through the heart of downtown, hoping to find another urban photo-op, but the traffic was just too heavy on this Saturday night in the city.

We stopped at DeGidio’s Italian Restaurant, where I was hoping to do a review. How better to celebrate the purchase of a classic Italian scooter than with a classic Italian dinner? Alas, the place was full, wall-to-wall, and I would have to park Rose where I couldn’t see her out a window. I’m not ready for that yet. At the very least, I need to purchase a good cable lock.

“Follow the red-brick road!” – Rose and I head for home.

So we rode home, where I tucked Rose into the garage beside her stablemate, Frogwing. The girls had gone to Owatonna, to celebrate Mother’s Day with Amy’s mom.

In keeping with the Italian theme of the evening, the best I could do was a frozen pizza for dinner. I checked the pantry for a bottle of Chianti… no luck. Then I remembered, the official beverage of American scooterists is PBR, and I had a case of that in the fridge. Cheers…!

Weather: Sunny and warm, 87°F (31°C)
Road Conditions: The scooters are breeding like rabbits! Lots of motorcycles too.

Mr. Robert Cox and his wonderful Lakes Roadster. Bob is also a Rider.

It was Ramble Plan Alpha for the ride home again tonight. This might get boring if there wasn’t so much beautiful scenery along the way. The scooters were out in force, and motorcycles were everywhere as well. Add the eye-popping bounce of the lycra-clad trotters along the jogging paths, and there was an awful lot to look at. So much that I rode right past the incredible Lakes Roadster in the photo above before I even realized what I was looking at.

Frogwing and I were a block down the road before the little lightbulb lit above my helmet, telling me that this was an opportunity too rare to miss. We did a quick U-Turn and headed back to park behind it.

I had intended to simply stop and photograph this unique hotrod for my own collection, but then I noticed a fellow sitting alone at a picnic table in the park, reading a magazine. He was at the table closest to the car, so I took a chance and walked over to introduce myself.

As I got closer, I knew I had the right guy. The magazine he was reading featured custom cars and hotrods. Now before all you hardcore bikers get yourselves all worked up, you must realize that I wouldn’t be writing this unless there was a motorbike angle.

The man said his name was Bob Cox, and yes, that was his roadster.
I settled in on the bench beside him, and thus began a conversation that could have lasted for hours.

We quickly established that we are both well-acquainted with the man you know on these pages as Buster Brown. Another local fellow whom we both admire goes by the name of Steve Hamel. He happens to be the current holder of a Land Speed Record on his Vincent Black Shadow. Watch this space for a feature on him sometime later this Summer. It soon became apparent that Mister Cox and I had a LOT to talk about…

Authentic details abound in the cockpit.

I’m an old gearhead from way back. Bob’s Hotrod is my favorite kind of four-wheeled conveyance. I would rather have something like this than a sidehack motorcycle rig, if I have to be brutally honest. The engineering is so much better, the balance and handling is superior, and yet you are still out in the elements with plenty of horsepower under that “hammer-down” throttle.

If you click on the photo above, you will also notice the distinctive shifter. It was made from a transmission gear and a case cover from Mr. Hamel’s Vincent. The more I looked at this incredible Lakes Roadster, the more cool details revealed themselves. Unfortunately, the close-up I took of that shifter was out-of-focus. My poor old digital camera is starting to show its’ age.

Here’s the best I could do with that image, tonight…

When Bob isn’t driving this impressive machine, he rides one of several motorcycles. He has owned a KLR in the past, and his current stable includes both a BMW GS and a Suzuki DR650, among others. He cast an expert eye over Frogwing and pronounced him worthy, appreciating the utility of the various farkles I have selected to enhance his mission capability.

Before I left, we exchanged cards, and promised to keep in touch. Next time you see Bob on this page, he will be in his motorcycle gear.

Weather: 73°F (23°C) Under partly-cloudy skies.
Road Conditions: Heavy traffic on dry roads.

Frogwing poses under the Stone Arch Bridge, in Nordeast Minneapolis.

I ride this way almost every day. Every day that I don’t have another Ramble Plan, that is. That’s why this is Ramble Plan Alpha. It is the first route that I found to get me to work when I became a Freeway Refugee.

Early on in my rambling career, I discovered that there were roads which bisected our Twin Cities. Roads without too many stop signs. Roads that didn’t have three or four lanes, and high speed limits which people ignored, in their quest to go ever faster. Roads that had a canopy of trees in places, where The River was always in sight, to the left or to the right.

They call them Parkways now, and they are watching them like a hawk.

The speed limit is 25 miles per hour, and if the police aren’t enforcing that, the local residents are. They will drive along at that speed, in their big fat SUVs, and try to block you if you attempt to pass. If you do manage to get around them, they are quick on the cell-phone, dialing 9-1-1 with your license plate number trembling on their outraged lips.

You can’t mess with these people, because they are The Man. This is where they live…

Uncle Bill’s Food Market, in North Minneapolis. Looks harmless enough…

Before I get to the precious Parkways, I have to travel through an entirely different part of town. North Minneapolis is featured on the TV news, most every night. “If it bleeds, it leads.” -they say. And someone is bleeding in North Minneapolis almost every…single…night.

This is where the gang problem is, and this is where the drug problem is. But this is also where there are thousands of hard-working people trying to make a decent life for themselves, and running up against the most extreme sort of opposition from both sides of The Law.

I don’t normally stop here. I ride straight through, careful not to look at anybody for too long. But tonight, I decided to risk it. There were lots of folks on the sidewalk, when I pulled up. As soon as I took out the camera, they all disappeared…

Outside of Bill’s Food Market, I met a delightful little girl and her mom. Little Girl was riding her bike, with training wheels, and her mom was nervous. They had come to the store for some essentials, and were heading back home with mom’s head on a swivel, like the point man in a military patrol. I asked if I could take a picture, but Mom said “No. I don’t like this store, and I don’t even know why you wanna take our picture. You have a nice day, alright?”

Well, their picture had already been taken, whether they knew it or not. There are surveillance cameras all over this neighborhood, put there by the police, in order to record the faces and the deeds of those we pay them to protect us against. Theoretically.

Those cameras see everything, including the white guy on a motorcycle who stopped at the store and acted different from the usual subjects. I wonder if Frogwing and I are going to get pulled over next time we’re in the neighborhood…

Hennepin Avenue Bridge, near the Grain Belt Brewery sign.

Back to the Rich Side of Town…

West River Parkway winds along the Mississippi River past the new Ordway Theater and all the high-buck condos built on the bones and ruins of Old Minneapolis. Folks who can afford these posh accomodations think they are being hip and smart living in the heart of The City, close to work, but still able to enjoy their bike/jogging paths down along The River.

Good for them.

But Bad for everybody else who wanted to be able to enjoy the authentic history and scenery down along the river. The “Homeless People” have been rooted out, and the whole area has been sanitized and repackaged for mass consumption. The real riverfront is gone. Hey, that’s progress, I guess…

So Frogwing and I crossed the river at The Ford Bridge tonight. That “Ford” refers to the Ford Motor Company, and the Ford Dam, and the Ford Plant which has been here nearly forever, but will soon be closed. Another one of those “Globalization” miracles which crushes the American worker in favor of cheap labor from overseas, and huge profits for the fat cats who run everything.

Every time I pass that place I slow down, but not just because I feel sad about its’ destiny. The Saint Paul cops maintain a speed trap there, where they put the squad-cars out of sight behind the trees, and send a single officer out to flag down motorists who were doing 35 in a 25 zone, which is ridiculously easy to do when you are on the cellphone and have to get home for junior’s soccer game. That 10 miles over the limit is worth a $100+ ticket! And they NEVER have to resort to a high-speed chase to collect.

The Tenderloin Sandwich, at Amy’s Diner… Bliss on a Bun.

Finally, what can I say about Amy’s Diner? There are no restaurants worthy of review along Ramble Plan Alpha. By the time I get home to Ton-Up Manor, I am one hungry boy. Amy’s Diner is located in the kitchen, and it’s open whenever it needs to be. I live here, and I am one of only two regular customers. The owner is my lovely wife, and she takes great pride in her cooking. When beef tenderloin goes on sale for $4.99 a pound down at Rainbow, we have a big, giddy feast down at the `Diner! And you want to know the best part?

The Rich Bastards can’t get in.