 |
| 2007 Excalibur Gray 200cc Vespa |
So I wrote the majority of this post a week after I bought my scooter. Since then, I received a package from my brother that gave me instant street creed… a matte-black Harley cruiser half helmet… with a couple minor scratches that give it just the right amount of character. And Clair’s subsequent text message gave the Vespa its bemusing name: “ thought it was a perfect scooter helmet for your Hardley.” I laughed until I teared up… it was perfect. (FYI, it’s the third definition of bemusing: to cause to have feelings of wry or tolerant amusement.)
 |
| The perfect scooter helmet |
So… I am close to doubling Hardley’s original 400 miles and have found it difficult to keep from smiling every time I ride it, bugs be damned.
Ever since I took my motorcycle safety course last summer, I have done a lot of thinking about how we move through life, physically, yes, but mostly psychologically.
If you’ve had any kind of contact with me recently then you know that I now scoot down the mountain to campus on my 2007 Excalibur Gray 200cc Vespa. I bought it from a Colorado football coach who was sad to see it go but needed the cash to help fund his next ride, an 80s-era Land Cruiser. I think he was tired of his fellow Coloradans thundering by in their redneck pickups, hollering, “Get a horse!” He bought it from a guy in Twin Falls, Idaho who must have never driven it. It had just over 400 miles, almost like new . . . except for a scratch on one fender. I guess it was parked and rolled over onto its side one time. I have found that it is easier on me to buy things with at least one scratch so I don’t feel the pain of putting the first one on there myself.
Anyway, after a maiden voyage on a Sunday, a spring snow storm, and morning rain only let me ride the scoot to work once the first week. I started formulating flimsy excuses to ride. Um, I need to run down to my wife’s office to see why she is working so late. Oh looks like she’s already home, guess I better head back home now.
After posting my new ride on Facebook, my SUV-and-testosterone-fueled neighbor suggested that my owning a scooter would necessitate my clipping a corner from my “man card.” While I generally can withstand the winds blowing from the insecure, this did get me to thinking. Are we defined by our possessions? By our mode of transportation? To some extent I think they are reflections of our taste, our style, maybe even our personality. But they are essentially tools, what we use to create, to participate. And that’s the important thing, I think.
I definitely love things that are well designed, that “fill the measure of their creation,” that have forms that aesthetically meet their function. I love the design and function of a pair of retro Air Jordans, the ones that I wear three times a week and the pair in the box that has the potential to carry me down the hardwood and help me elevate to hit a jumpshot. I love space pens because they are beautiful and dependable writing implements. I love the iPad mini I scored in a local drawing... again more for what it allows me to do that for what kind of status it might gain me in social circles. I love my decades-old Stumpjumper mountain bike and would not trade it for a brand new bike with a lighter frame or better components worth thousands more. It has taken me down too many trails and roads, I understand how it rides, and we are comfortable together.
Last summer I tooled around on my buddy Randy’s Suzuki 1150cc touring motorcycle. It’s awesome and I loved riding it. But I guess I just don’t have the patience to gain mastery over something with that much muscle. I am lazy and impatient. And while I like the power gains of a clutch and multiple gears, I just don’t need it every day. I like that I can back my new ride into a tiny parking space that is so close to the gym that I could easily huck a basketball and hit the door. I like that this scoot is pretty new and should not require a lot of maintenance. I like that it is Italian.
This week I had the glorious moment that is universal for scooter riders: when I filled the tank with premium fuel, it cost me $5.77. Before and after my transaction, the guy at the next pump was filling up his SUV, and I’m pretty sure he scowled at me. A Vespa repair blog I now frequent expressed it better than I can so I won’t even try:
“While he stands there numbly, watching as the gauge on his pump passes sixty or seventy dollars, I’m climbing back on my Vespa, and heading back out to enjoy the day. And as I pull out of the gas station I can feel his eyes on me; I can almost hear him thinking, I’ve really got to get one of those.” --t.c.
When we visited Italy, especially Naples, scooters were everywhere, a way of life for most Europeans. But in America, my new blogger friend t.c. says, “Here, well, we like our cars. The bigger the better. We have five foot, two inch soccer moms picking up their kids in urban assault vehicles that get eight miles to the gallon and that could carry ten Vespas in the back. We give our large cars large names. We have the Armada, the Expedition; sometimes they are so large we name them after mountains, as in the Denali. We take three thousand pounds of steel with us to pick up a carton of milk.” Nailed it.
 |
| Hardley's first custom item: a bad boy Cougar decal |
So I guess I am trying to find a way to justify being an American and driving an Italian scooter with a name that is Italian for “wasp.” Truth be told, I have been driving a a totally uncool minivan for years. Sure we tried to call it the “swagger wagon” or the “MAV” (for Mormon assault vehicle) but there’s not getting past the fact that it is a yawn-inducing family transport. It became mine as soon as a snowy winter hit our mountain as my wife began driving our “cool” 4-wheel drive. At that point I took a moment and decided that I am not defined by what I drive or ride. I love that minivan, because it has taken my family safely to Alturas Lake, San Diego, Portland, Boise, Seattle, all over Utah. For me, it is what it does, not what it is, that connects me to it.
A scoot is not a motorcycle. But riding a scooter puts me teetering on the fringe of motorcycle culture, but definitely not powerful enough to be a rebel of the road. Does it make me a wannabe? Visually, maybe, mentally, nah. But it does make me different from what you think when you hear “biker.”
I can still picture the big red hand-me-down red bike of my youth. It didn’t look like much when you parked it next to my siblings’ blue-gray ten speed with all those speeds and the white tape wrapped handles. But it was mine, and it got me down the rode with a smile on my face.
There are a number of ways to travel. Why do we sometimes choose to take a Sunday walk if we could hop in a car and cover the distance more quickly? Sometimes simple is a nice change from fast.
For me riding a scooter requires more strategy than hopping on a motorcycle. Of course I also like to think that lumbering down the court makes me a more intellectual ball player. Sure there are times to be aggressive and loud. But slow and stealthy can allow me time to really think something through. I guess, at least for now, slow and simple suits me more than quick or complex.
I can get away with a scoot because I work and live in a college town. So I guess, to make a short story long, if you want to feel young, do things that make you feel young. I’m not ready to start feeling old. And I see a lot of kids on two wheels.
Addendum: So last weekend I spent time with Hardley’s polar opposite, the 1963 Cadillac Sedan Deville that my dad bought back in the early ’80s. Julie’s dad and I pumped up the tires, filled it with fresh gas, put in a new battery and, after 12 years of sitting in storage in Idaho, it fired up and idled strong. (Seems Clair and Arthur put in some quality parts.) I drove it up and down the farm road a couple of times and, other than some power steering noise, it seemed to want to take off down the adjoining country highway (or maybe that was just me). That was the first time in 30 years that I had driven it. I can’t really put that feeling into words so I won’t try. Anyway, the yin and yang is complete: Hardley weighs in at 308 pounds, the Cadillac at just over 4,000.
 |
| Yale Harker, physicist and expert vintage restoration consultant extraordinaire |
That car will require another blog post or two on its own… so I’ll save it for another day.
