This is my scooter, Buddy. Really. Of all the names, the manufacturer who was clearly gunning for the Vespa crowd, picked the name Buddy. So friendly. And cuddly.
It is rather a contradiction that I own a scooter. I think that motorcycles are really dangerous, and I would never allow my son to ride one.
However, I know that there is nothing finer than riding on a scooter when the weather is hot. And I am very happy to throw Hans on the back of mine and trot him off to soccer practice or school.
At Stanford, I drove a scooter around, and actually got my ONLY moving violation to date, because I didn’t turn off the ignition when I passed the concrete bollards that marked the area where motor vehicles could not go past. When I coasted up to the music building, one of the campus cops on a motorcross bike was there to hand me a ticket. I mean, I was coasting. It was ridiculous. The scooter was lent to me by my boyfriend at the time, a big old football player that didn’t relish the idea of peddling around campus. I loved to put on headphones, listen to “She Sells Sanctuary” by The Cult at full blast, and drive around the campus at night.
I think this is part of my “have fun with life” mantra, tempered by driving slow and always having my left thumb squarely on the horn button. When I drove up to soccer practice the other day to pick up Hans, one of the kids looked at the scoot, then at his dad, and said, “Awww Dad, why did you get rid of your motorcycle?”
“Because I wanted to watch you grow up,” the dad replied.
Funny, I had the same feeling when I was diagnosed. That I desperately wanted to watch Hans grow up. But somehow I don’t equate riding this souped up 10-speed with putting my life on the line.
Maybe it’s a male thing.
Or maybe I already understand that my life is always on the line, even when I’m being careful.