I’m a full-blown equipment junkie. There’s no denying it. For instance, once I brought home that first curvy Vespa, I became blissfully busy buying just the right helmet, the perfectly armored and reflective jacket, the exact tools to carry in the glove box, the one-of-a-kind, head-turning, dark-brown sheepskin seat cover, the camouflage cargo pants. I could go on and on, but then you’d start to sense how really crazy I am about this stuff. Really. Maybe it’s best that you don’t know the degree to which I will succumb.
I dream about it. I spend my waking moments happily absorbed in it. I thumb through books and catalogs and go to specialty stores and pay close close attention to the details. I take my time; I am deliberate. I spend a lot of money this way, too. I just love it. And this sort of obsession makes riding the Vespa (or the bicycle or whatever’s got my happy attention at the moment) all the more fun for me.
And the people I ride with—oh, and we can ride like demons—are the same way. We hang out and talk about this stuff for eons at the Comet after our weekly rides together. We pay attention to one another’s scooters. We recognize one another’s scooters from great distances, and we know the idiosyncratic sounds of the other’s ride. I know when Dave is riding behind me because I know the sound of his muffler. I know Bob’s, too. I know it’ll take Brian a while to kick start that vintage mustard-colored Lambretta. I know Hebe’s mood when he shows up on either the VBB or on the Lambretta or on the P200.
This is getting long. I want to ride my scooter. Damned winter.
I thought I would write about shoes. Which I will do soon. I will say here and now, though, that I cannot tolerate flip flops or anything that requires threading between my toes; Converse low-cut Chuck Taylor’s on the scooter, and Chaco’s all the way in the summertime.
Leave a comment