Open Road

Varoom! There goes another candy-colored streamlined Vespa zooming through downtown Los Angeles — this one in a tangerine hue. Oh, and there's one in cherry red. And pastel blue. Did you see the mint-green one with the white daisy decals buzz by? Since it opened last November on the border between Little Tokyo and the Arts District, Vespa of Los Angeles has encouraged downtown residents to travel the city by scooter — and in style. The Vespa, which was originally manufactured in 1946 and means "wasp" in Italian, is an iconic European style symbol, seen all over the streets of major cities such as Paris and Milan.

NEW YORK -- L.A.-based designer Rozae Nichols and her partner John Parros showed their spring-summer 2013 Clover Canyon collection Wednesday at Lincoln Center. The print-based line, which is designed and produced in L.A., debuted a year and a half ago, with most pieces retailing for less than $400. And the cheeky fun collection couldn't have been more perfect for this prints-crazy season. Photos: New York Fashion Week celebrity sightings The inspiration: Road tripping in the American Southwest from Monument Valley to the surf of Baja Mexico.

For people who love the open road, here are the 10 states with the most highway miles: Texas: 305,951 California: 163,574 Illinois: 135,944 Kansas: 133,578 Minnesota: 129,397 Missouri: 120,527 Michigan: 117,449 Pennsylvania: 116,508 Ohio: 113,600 Iowa: 112,541 Source: U.S. Dept. of Commerce

Cody Smart wanted to feel something, and so with $430 in the bank, an aversion to "popular society" and a thirst for the open road, he set off to hitchhike from New York to Alaska. He was robbed and nearly raped and killed, just as the naysayers said he would be. He then put together a magnetic "photologue" on CodySmart.com/hitchhike to remember and share his story. What's hot: Cody takes us into the kind of travel that some adventurers only dream about.

EXPRESSIONS The impulse to express oneself--and to leave some sort of mark in the process--can be as destructive as constructive. Graffiti covers the window of an MTA bus on the 204 line along Vermont Avenue in Pico-Union. Curtis Sellers gets a playful statement painted on his face at a school picnic in Pasadena. And Francisco Bello paints a Virgin of Guadalupe on the wall of a market in South-Central.

"I hate traffic," says Michael Filicicchia of Santa Ana. "I hate Lookie Lous and Luanns stopping or slowing down to rubberneck at Officer Chip writing up Fred Ferrari--(you know how) traffic comes to a complete stop for anybody stopped on the side of the road." Who doesn't hate traffic jams? But we all have to suffer through them, don't we? Not Filicicchia. "When traffic stops, at least some of us can still move," he says.

Re "On 2 wheels, it's open road," Column, Jan. 19 In his justification for motorcycle "lane splitting," Doug Smith writes as if all motorcyclists are supremely careful drivers. He ignores the numerous hazards this practice poses to automobile drivers. If Smith wants to take his chances of becoming road kill, he might want to consider the consequences to drivers who are unable to see motorcycles in their blind spots. Motorists who end up harming lane splitters have to live the rest of their lives knowing they changed or even ended a precious life through little fault of their own. Lawmakers must take a serious look at the number of accidents and fatalities resulting from this practice of beating traffic.

Published in 1968, “The Bikeriders” by photographer Danny Lyon documents his time as a member of the Chicago Outlaws Motorcycle Club. You know the type: the too-cool-for-school greaser with the black leather jacket, the tattoos and the slicked-back hair. Our fascination with these rebels never seems to grow old, from “Easy Rider” (said to be inspired by Lyon's book) to Fonzi to “Sons of Anarchy.” Taking us back to the source, the exhibition at Duncan Miller Gallery reveals Lyon's images to be predictably cool; they are also surprisingly charming.

Walt, these photos were taken during the early years of a century you never saw, and if somehow you'd come upon them, you'd not have cared to live on into their time. You sang of the open road and of the joyous singing you heard there, the voices of mechanics, of carpenters, of boatmen and ploughboys and cutters of wood--a very chorale of America. But these black-and-whites, infinitely more fluent than color, tell of an America that sings other songs than the ones you heard.