Rider profile: Michael Beattie

Name: Michael Beattie.  I was named Conchscooter for my avatar on a motorcycle forum, long since forgotten, years ago, by a moderator, and I adopted it.
Find me on Earth: Cudjoe Key, Florida
Find me Online: http://conchscooter.blogspot.com
Interview Date: Monday, July 14, 2014
Interview Location: It began in Beaconsfield, QC, and wrapped up in Brooklyn, NY

Scootcommute: When did you start riding, how old were you?

Michael:  My mother bought me an orange Vespa 50R in the summer of 1970 when I was 12 years old. In Italy it is only legal to ride at 14 but I rode it everywhere in the mountains round my home. My mother loved motorcycles and she planted the seed of my favorite way to tour. She died when I was 15, but the motorcycle bug remained. I've ridden ever since, no interruptions, for 44 years.

Scootcommute: How many motorbikes have you owned?

Michael:  I count roughly twenty, more or less. The largest was a Goldwing 1200 which was too much, the first real motorcycle was an MV Agusta 350B, to my current 2007 Bonneville.

Scootcommute: What is your current bike, and is the current bike your favorite?

Michael:  I believe it takes years to find the right motorcycle and my Bonneville is the culmination of years of buying the right bike for right now. The Bonneville is light enough to roll by hand, comfortable enough to ride for 36 hours straight, and easy and fun so that the prospect of riding never puts me off. It's the first bike I've ridden 80,000 miles with minimal maintenance and maximum reliability.

Scootcommute: Talk to me about the most challenging riding skill you learned.

Michael:  The most challenging riding skill is to hang back when circumstances require it. I like to ride five miles per hour faster than the traffic, but when I see a distracted driver ahead, the best policy is to slow down and let them go. Or if they come up from behind to pull over and let them go. I've got good at it after a half century of criticizing other road users.

Scootcommute: Are you a moto-commuter, a tourer, or a fair weather rider?

Michael:  I have ridden on many long journeys in the Americas, Europe and Africa. I live in a mild climate year round. If I commute by car my colleagues ask me what's wrong - usually I'm coming down with a cold or I needed the car for a specific reason. Rain doesn't bother me in a sub tropical climate.

Scootcommute: Are you a solitary rider? How about riding in a group?

Michael:   I am a solitary human. I go back to Umbria where I grew up and ride with my brother by other parents. Giovanni and I have been riding together for all these 44 years but aside from him I prefer to ride alone.

Scootcommute: I dare you to share an awkward or embarassing riding moment.

Michael:   In 1977 I was riding my Moto Morini 350 on a congested street in Dorking, a town in Southern England where I grew up when I wasn't growing up in Italy. I lane split and got caught by a car turning across the traffic in a gap left by a considerate driver. I flew over the car, landed on my helmet, walked away, red faced, and bent the forks on my motorcycle. Lesson learned and I never did that again. I watch other traffic like a hawk.

Scootcommute: What is the best place your bike has taken you?

Michael:  Across the US in 1981 on my Vespa P200E, the perfect touring bike. I traveled light, no tent, just a sleeping bag, no cooking gear, barely enough clothes, no spare parts. Fantastic. I rode my SR500 Yamaha across West Africa two years prior and went overloaded and fearful. I was too young and did not get the most out of that journey. These days I love to ride 12 hours out of Key West to the Appalachians north of Atlanta and ride the Blue Ridge at random when I can get away alone. (Ed.: Here is a link to Michael's account of his 1981 adventure.)

Scootcommute: Tell me why you ride.

Michael:  I ride because riding makes every journey an adventure, a test of skill, and a flight into the unknown. Keeping a two wheeler upright takes constant effort as it's instinct is to fall down. On a motorcycle I can be the solitary human being I crave to be in daily life. Plus when I come across another rider I can be as social as necessary without having to explain or justify my pleasure in being alone.

Scootcommute: If I could grant you one riding wish, what would it be?

Michael: One riding wish would be to have Cheyenne meet me at the motel room at the end of a day of solitary riding. My wife knows why I leave on my motorcycle and reads my texts during the ride. Cheyenne sees me disappear and reappear a few days later without warning or explanation.

_____________________________

You can find other rider profiles on the Rider Profiles page

A fairly typical week

Hurricane Arthur's embrace reached far enough inland to keep me off my Vespa on Monday.

On Tuesday everything seemed to be returning to normal, but when I emerged from the underground garage for my homeward-bound commute, I was facing some menacing clouds and stiff winds.  I got no further than the Turcotte Yards on Autoroute 20 when the rain started pelting down.  I made a bee-line for the Angrignon - Notre Dame exit because there's a seldom-used U-turn lane that doubles back under the Angrignon overpass that provides perfect shelter.

I really don't enjoy getting rain gear on over my riding attire.  In fact, if I never had to do it again, it would still be too soon.  A particular joy is fighting to get my motorcycle boots in and through the rain pants.  I had to resort to plopping my butt down on a dusty curb, because the one-foot-hopping-dance was clearly not doing the trick.  Once I struggle into the rain suit, riding is fine and, I should add, unfailingly dry.  That bit always amazes me.

When I got home, stripping out of the rain gear was relatively easy, mainly because I slid my boots off, and then the rain pants followed suit without such a fuss.

On Tuesday evening things got quite ugly and we had to do without power for an hour or so.  Silence and candle light on a dark night.  Not so bad.

On Wednesday morning, the skies were very angry and there were huge winds blowing.  I must have checked the weather on my phone three times.  Nope.  There was definitely no rain in the forecast, in spite of the menacing look of things.  So off I went, my rain gear stashed away under the seat.

The weather finally aligned with the forecast by mid-morning, and there was bright sunshine at noon.

I emptied the pet carrier bin into one of the fold-away shopping bags I carry in the topcase and lugged the contents up to my office.  That left room to store my riding jacket on the bike.

And that's how I set out for a business lunch in the old city, at Graziella, down at 116 McGill avenue.

I parked about a block north on McGill, in the company of PTWs, mainly Vespas.

Five Vespas at one intersection.  What a sight. It's eloquent testimony to this town's love affair with Vespas.  No wonder Vespa Montreal is selling more Vespas than any other Canadian dealership, the demand in Montreal continues to grow.  Way to go Paul!

Notice the gaps between those bikes.  What luxury.  Italian riders would have squeezed at least thirty percent more bikes into that space, without even trying.

I stowed my helmet and jacket, then strolled off to the restaurant.  Graziella offered us a  truly delicious lunch (a warm seafood salad for me, featuring marinated grilled shrimp, tender calamari, succulent sautéed octopus, and other assorted bits and bites, and for my host a gorgeous and generous osso bucco milanese).  The food was really top-notch and there was a wonderful white wine to match.  Nothing like a nice meal and three or four glasses of wine perfectly complementing the food, to help expedite fruitful plans for the fall conference season.

On Thursday morning I changed things up for the commute.  I swung northeast and then headed south through the tree-lined streets of Outremont.  Once I was in the neighborhood, I took an extra few minutes to pop into St-Viateur bagel bakery to pick up bagels for our team.

They were still nice and hot from the oven when I handed them out to the folks at the office.  Being able to just toss your shopping onto the bag hook without a care in the world is just one of the wonderful pluses of owning a Vespa.

 What a contrbution to the dolce vita.

Thursday evening's commute was pure bliss.  I took the scenic route home and rode slow and easy.  I had my helmet open and paid the price by getting fairly whacked by a couple of insects on suicide missions.

On Notre Dame street that runs parallel to the Lachine Canal on the north bank, as I coasted along with the heavy-ish and indolent summer evening traffic. I soon found the cause for the slow-down.  A movie set sat astride the street in the trendy restaurant and antique store stretch.  For once they were actually shooting and things were hopping (to the extent anything hops on a movie set, it's usually at a dead stop).

All along the canal people were jogging, biking and kayaking.  On the lakeshore road, the restaurant patios were full of people sipping wine, chatting and relaxing.  More kayakers were enjoying the lake, competing with the squadrons of ducks.  In the distance a flotilla of sailboats sat seemingly still on the broad expanse of Lac St-Louis, decorating the water like so many white, bright, shark fins.

I had Emilie-Claire Barlow charming my ears with one delightful rendition after another.  Her album Seule ce soir is a delight.  Her performance of Petit matin is a loving portrait of Montreal that rings as true as true can be.  As that song started up, my luxurious commute likely climaxed.  Imagine me feasting, taking a simultaneous bite of every one of my favorite comfort foods at once, in a kaleidoscope of bursting flavours and nostalgia. It was that good.

I really wanted to share the sights and sounds, but that would have meant interrupting the reverie to take a picture, and I just couldn't bring myself to do it.  I was an addict.  Hooked on the beauty of what a Vespa commute can be, and as high as a kite.

Friday.  TGIF.

Another blissful commute to work.

Brilliant sun, not a single cloud in sight, a cool breeze, and a promise of twenty-seven degrees for the afternoon commute.

For the morning route, I chose to split the difference.  I headed east on the expressway again, but this time got off due north of Mount Royal and headed south through the sleepy streets of Town of Mount Royal lined with the spacious elegant homes of the well-heeled elite, and then on to Cote des neiges road and over the pass between the twin summits of Montreal's mountain playground.  The traffic up the north face of the mountain pass moved languorously, and seemed to be slinking along in lazy fits and starts, as if it were succumbing to Halie Loren's Tango as I listened to I've got to see you again playing over the Sena.

When I crested the pass in front of the armory at Remembrance Road, I found myself traveling behind a couple riding two-up on a brand new Vespa Primavera in Azzurro Marechiaro.  Doesn't that sound nicer than greenish-blue?  Another stunning example of fine body work by a design team that manages to do something strikingly different, and truly beautiful, within the confines of the same simple elegant framework, time after time.  Art on two wheels.

What a sensuous way to start the day.

Then SNAP! The week was done.

I put my briefcase on the bag hook, fired up the bike and took the shortest, fastest route straight home. Well that's mostly true. I couldn't resist exiting at Cartier and taking it slow and easy through the Pointe Claire village. The weekend was already in full swing there. People on the terrasses, already into cocktails and friendly earnest chatter.

And so it goes.

A sunbird's summer travels with humans

 Cheyenne is a sunbird if ever there was one.

She explained patiently that a sunbird is just like a snowbird, but in reverse. A Floridian who temporarily migrates north to avoid the sweltering summer heat.

Cheyenne will tell you, if you take the time to listen her, that humans are a dog's best friend.

As long as you take the time to train your humans just so, that is.  Cheyenne has done a stellar job with her humans.

She managed a road trip up to the much cooler northeast coast, where temps were, by some accounts, overcast and in the 50F's.  Just what a Golden Labrador Retriever yearns for as an escape from the stifling tropics.

In for a penny, in for a pound.  She figured a short hop across the border to the wild and chilly Great White North might be fun.  She seemed a little disappointed with the balmy weather she found in Beaconsfield.  She told me she was hoping for the Labrador-in-September kind of weather.

Sorry Cheyenne.  You're still too far south.

Fortunately we had the air conditioning going.

Initially Cheyenne thought she'd keep her humans company in the den.  After all, you don't want your humans worrying that they've been abandoned far from home.  But the carpeting proved just too damn hot for a golden lab, so Cheyenne picked a nice spot in the kitchen, in the shade of the table, on a nice cool ceramic tile floor.

Ahhhh!.... now that's the life.

That's not to say that she forgets about her humans' needs.  She made arrangements to take them out to Smoke Meat Pete's.

Some humans claim that the Montreal smoked meat at Pete's place is the best in all the world.

She told me candidly that she just doesn't see what humans see in that stuff, or how they can stand to eat it.  Oh well, whatever floats their boat.  Cheyenne is philosophical that way.  But she wasn't having any of it.  Yuck!

She picked a breezy spot in the shade on the veranda and was content to wait patiently and take in the view, and maybe take a little nap, while her humans ate their fill.

In the end, she had expectations.  Places to go, dogs to see, grass to sniff.  So she gathered up her humans Michael and Layne and coaxed them into the car.  It was too damn hot here anyway, she said.

She wasn't sure where she would head next.  Definitely back to Key West, but only later on, she said.  Who knows, in the meantime she told me she would likely bum around the Northeast for a while longer, looking for more of that nice cool weather she was after.  So long as her humans didn't get too cranky.

Sometimes even the best-trained ones can be unpredictable, she said.  Something about constantly stopping to chat with humans, and then all it takes is for a motorcycle or scooter to cross your path and well they get fixated on that, and it all goes south pretty quickly... what's a dog to do?

21st century life

We live in a world totally different from the one previous generations knew.

We have information that previous generations never had, likely never imagined having.  We know with insane precision where we are, where we are going, how fast we are going, and when we will arrive.

We can record with the same exacting precision where we have been, with images, sound, and motion. 

We are able instantly to know more about our surroundings, the people we meet, the weather we have, the weather to come, events that are shaping our lives and communities, where our loved ones are, and even the state of the homes we left behind, than any of the countless humans who came before.

If we choose, we can share that information about us in what we have come to call 'real time'.  We are able to call anyone, anywhere, speak to them, leave messages for them, and in turn be reached by anyone, anywhere. Our friends and family can see where we are to within a few feet and a handful of minutes, no matter where we are on the planet, even how fast we are moving.

If we stay in one place for more than a few minutes, there is virtually no limit to the information at our disposal.  When did Vivaldi write the Four Seasons?  How far is the moon? What portion of the universe is above us at this moment?  How many movies did Humphrey Bogart appear in?  How many elements are in the periodic table now?  How many were there when we were in high school?

Almost nothing is unknowable about our known universe, in this very moment. 

It blows my mind. 

I can have virtually all of that at my beck and call on my Vespa if I choose.

Gasp!

Yes, yes, yes, I know. Why?

Why would you want all that clutter when you're riding?

Well, mostly I don't.  But...

The thing is, that there are times when it's really, really useful. 

I spend a lot of time in the saddle.  There are many speed traps on my route. My speedometer is inaccurate and I want to go through them as fast as possible without triggering the camera, or giving the officer a reason to pull me over. Sometimes it's nice to be reachable and be able to be able to reach others.   Sometimes I need help getting where I want to go. 

And then, for me, personally, geekily, it's just friggin cool that I can, if I want to. 

And I can, and I do, because the world has RAM mounts. 

Any gadget you can own, can be mounted on any bike, in precisely the perfect spot, with a RAM mount.  That goes for global positioning satellite receivers (it's much more fun to say that than 'GPS unit'.  Satellites, a constellation of them, inform, guide me, and even speak to me. Wow!), so-called smart phones like my iPhone, point-of-view cameras like my GoPro, and satellite transponder position beacons, like SPOT Messengers.

RAM mounts are precision, no-nonsense, military-grade instruments.  But they aren't perfect. 

I found that out last weekend when the retaining clip on my iPhone mount snapped. Fortunately the phone was plugged into the charging cable and it landed in my lap when it sprang free. 

I had noticed that it had become easier to snap the phone in and that was good. In fact, it was a harbinger of imminent failure.  There was no way of knowing. 

The place for RAM mounts in Canada is Calgary. But not just anywhere in Calgary. In a little store in a strip mall in the suburbs. I used my Garmin GPS unit to get me there. 

Luckily for Canadians, a trip to the store in Calgary is a fun thing to do, if you happen to be in Calgary, but it's completely unnecessary. That's because they have a kick-ass website at gpscity.ca where you can get anything RAM makes, and they ship instantly. 

It didn't take long to go there to replace the $8 iPhone mount. 

But wait, GPS City folks are as honest as good'ole cowpokes on the prairie.  They post product reviews for all products, including ones that prove to have defects. Like the mount for the iPhone series 5, for instance. Be warned those of you who have this mount. It will break and set your $800 iPhone free.  Those of you who have the RAM mount for the series 4 iPhones needn't worry, those are fine. 

Oh! Did I mention that RAM mounts have lifetime warranties?  

GPS City also have real-time chat on their website. In no time at all I had received expert advice and I had a universal smartphone 'X' mount (and a GoPro 1" RAM ball for good measure) winging their way to me.  As soon as they come in I'll post pics here. 

As for my broken mount, GPS City honors the RAM warranty with a picture of the broken mount and the original order number. In this case they gave a discount off the new purchase on the spot. How cool is that?

And that's life in the 21st century.  No floating cars yet, but still tons of cool stuff that this 1962 ten year-old never even dreamed would be possible.

Ciao!

---------------------------

I'm back.

Well that didn't take long, I'm back and the iPhone is back on its perch, in a brand new universal mount.  It's been ride-tested and it's fine.

The instructions, in keeping with K2's comment below, suggest tethering the phone.  I'm not sure how that is going to happen.

The only thing that comes to mind is a GoPro tether.  I don't know if that will work.  What will work is this product, a little pricy though.  I think I can come up with something sufficiently secure by exploiting the two connectors on the phone.  I already have an idea, but it's going to involve some shopping and hopefully a tiny amount of money.  Stay tuned.

"... this used to be fields..."

We would be going somewhere, driving down a street lined with stores or houses.  To the child I used to be (some would say, still am), that particular part of the planet seemed as permanent and unchangeable as any other.

"When I was your age, this used to be fields. I would come for horseback riding lessons near here. There were bridle paths all through the fields."

I never for an instant doubted my mother. Yet it was more than I could fathom.  My mother wasn't that old.  There were no fields anywhere in this place.  Mile upon mile of sidewalks, pavement and buildings. I couldn't remember seeing a field all drive long. It seemed a fantastic notion. Fields, here? Horses?

On Saturday my sister-in-law Bev was here for a visit. She was staying with her sister Linda in Laval. We went over for brunch.  When we turned onto Linda's street I noticed it had been repaved. From the look of the pavement, the paving was maybe a week old. Tops.

Every time I go to Linda's, it's a trip in a time machine. I grew up in that neighborhood. I distinctly remember when Linda's house was built, and when her street was paved, the first time.

Our kids are visiting for the long weekend, so we went to Linda's in two cars, and a scooter. I was in need of a ride.

After brunch, Susan drove Bev to the airport and I decided to take the scenic route home: west along the old river road to the ferry that goes to Ile Bizard, then over Ile Bizard back onto the Island and home.

Back in the late 70's Autoroute 13 was built. Laval's burgeoning population had made a second Autoroute link to Montreal a pressing and long overdue necessity.  The highway was built nineteen years after my parents' house was built, eighteen years after the seven year-old me moved in.  That was a very long eighteen year span.  Years back then lasted much longer.  Nothing like the recent ones that seem to slip by in uncounted numbers.

Our house in what is now the Chomedey sector of Laval was on the edge of the developed world back in 1959. The frontier was a couple of blocks away. Farmers' fields extended from our neighborhood and away to the west, as far as the crow could fly. Farther probably.

Autoroute 13 obliterated the ancient red brick two-story, four-room schoolhouse I attended in grades three and four. Good riddance. I had nuns, and was the only 'city boy' in the school, or so it seemed to me.  I shed no tears when that part of my childhood fell to the bulldozer.

I digressed on the way home, searching for any vestige of the world of the 1960's where my school and the nearby convent that supplied the school's nuns had stood.  The old riverside road, Chemin bord de l'eau, petered out as it approached the point where the western edge of the Autoroute blocked its original path.  The fields south of the old road that used to stretch a quarter mile or more down to the river, were no more. The three story convent was no more.

Cheek by jowel, acres of McMansions had mushroomed.  Imposing, elegant, brand-new, dressed-stone manor homes, with many-gabled roofs, and wrought iron adornments, succeeded one another, snaking along gracefully curving streets.  There was no trace, absolutely no visible trace, of the seven or eight-year-old's universe.

'... this used to be fields...' my mother's words were ricocheting in my slightly numbed brain.  My childhood world was gone. No school, no convent, no fields, no '57 Chevies, or Ford Fairlanes.

I turned the Vespa around and headed west on Chemin bord de l'eau. At least the old road still existed.

Many miles later, as I neared the ferry landing, development's grip slackened and the changes were less troubling.  The ten year old boy had no difficulty getting his bearings.

The three-dollar ferry ride was a comforting transition that left the unsettling vision of McMansions swirling in its wake.

Was that real?

Service with a smile, and a shine!

It was high time for the annual check-up.  The bike was last serviced just before the 2013 Blogger to Blogger Tour.

All the riding during and after the tour, and into this season, takes a toll.

Over the winter my go-to dealership, Alex Berthiaume & Fils, Montreal's oldest motorcycle dealership, went through some changes.  The business moved to Montreal's north shore and is now located somewhere in Laval.

As part of the move, they sold off the Vespa business and the premises on de La Roche street to Mécamoto who now operate the Vespa business as Vespa Montréal.  Same shop, some familiar faces, some new faces, same great service.  More Vespas are sold from this small shop on the Plateau, than anywhere else in Canada.

François Desmarais, who now heads up the Vespa Montreal service department, really impressed me with his courtesy, frank manner, and above all, competent and thorough servicing of my Vespa.

It didn't come cheap, but with a friendly discount and some goodwill, the bill was under $800.  Yes I know that's a lot, but when you only have two wheels to rely on, peace of mind ranks very, very high.  I could certainly do some of the work myself, but there's no way I could match the knowledge, experience and competence that François and his team bring to the table.

In the end the bike needed a new front tire, rear brake shoes, a new exhaust manifold, a new drive belt, new rear wheel bearing, new spark plug, and the usual replacement of fluids and filters, as well as all the related tune-up adjustments one comes to expect.

When I picked up the bike, Paul Brunette, Vespa Montreal's sales manager (and the guy who did more to get me rolling on Vespas than anyone else on the planet, from tolerating my too numerous chatty visits to the dealership in the years before I purchased, to recommending the type of bike I needed to start off, to encouraging me to rent one for a test ride), surprised me by detailing the bike.

When I picked it up it was purring like a kitten and was as spiffy as the day it rolled off the assembly line in Pontedera in 2010.  No charge for the thorough clean-n-shine, just a handshake, a beaming smile, and a thank you for my business.

You can't beat that!

Thanks to Paul, François, and the rest of the team at Vespa Montreal.  You guys rock!

Triple Crown revisited

Food forays: talk about a great reason to commute on a Vespa.

Last week I needed to get a bottle of my favorite olive oil, Fuente Baena.  A bottle lasts me roughly a year.  The most reliable place to get this Spanish delicacy is the Jean Talon market.  It's one of Montreal's foodie go-to venues. Olive & Épices is the boutique that stocks it.

If I commuted by public transit, Jean Talon market would be out of reach.  Well maybe not really, but certainly psychologically.  In all the years I commuted that way, I didn't go there once.

When I commute by car, the trip to the  market is costly and impractical.  I'd end up having to pay twice for parking downtown, and pay for parking at the market.

My Vespa means parking is free, and it zips around traffic congestion, and that makes a trip to the Jean Talon market at lunch time easy-peazy.  You guessed it, I've done this jaunt before.  Quite a few times in fact.

I hadn't eaten yet. Riding north up the Main towards Little Italy gave me time to ponder lunch venues.

Notre Dame de la Defense - Little Italy

I'd been wondering if Triple Crown Dinette was still dishing up southern fare. I had been there before, about two years ago.

I'm very happy to report that they are still very much in business.  The food dished up by what is surely Montreal's smallest restaurant, is simply delicious.

Take a peek at the menu. Guess what I ordered.

That's right.  A gorgeous yummy plate of southern fried chicken, mashed potatoes with gravy, a cornbread biscuit and a delightful concoction of rice, black-eyed peas and diced ham, with just the right kick of spice to make it really nice.

If the perfectly cooked chicken with it's beautifully browned crispy impossibly light crust was the star, the rice medley was the delightfully contrasting understudy.

 Alternating bites of chicken and the scrumptious rice dish, with a taste of the mashed potatoes and a nip of cornbread biscuit... Oh dear!  Lunch was delightful.

The whole affair was complemented with homemade lemonade that was the perfect libation.

Summer on a menu. Nothing less.

This tiny nothing of a restaurant punches way above it's weight.  I would pit them head to head against Vidalia in Washington D.C.  You can read that post here.  I'm really not sure who would win that contest, but I sure would like to judge it.

I guess I have a thing for southern cooking done right.  It's much rarer than it ought to be.

Unable to finish the generous helpings, I apologized profusely, and zipped over to the market to fetch the olive oil.

Lunches before the ScootCommute were never like this.

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