Illustration by Anna Keith
"I think I'm buying a scooter."
Little did I know such a simple statement would elicit a barrage of questions: What kind? How big? How many miles per gallon? Where are you getting it? Aren't you worried about getting hit? Those were not idle questions — motor scooters have been on the move this summer and fall. Along with the Smart car, the heretofore-humble scooter has emerged as the hip, savvy way to stick it to the gas man.
I purchased a black Kymco People S 200, a larger model, in a small town just outside Washington, Mo. — which meant I had to drive my new scoot back to the city. The transaction went smoothly, despite the interruption of a boisterous local who had apparently scooted over from the local tavern. I glanced at my girlfriend, and a millisecond later came her prophecy: "There will be no drinkin' and scootin'." (With no prodding, however, Suzi became a willing passenger, even after an ankle sprain forced her to don one of those unfashionable black boots, prompting her to revive a term I'd hoped was long forgotten: "boot scootin'.")
Because I hadn't been on such an interactive vehicle in 20 years, the trip up Highway 94 to St. Louis was an hour of sensory overload, most of it good.
What was most incredible were the smells: tilled earth, cut hay and wildflowers near Dutzow, the strong aroma of burgers grilling in Defiance and the mustiness of grapes fermenting in Augusta. Then there was the passing smell of a pig farm, funky and inescapable — you can't hold your nose scooting up and down hills on a highway. After that came a smoke-spewing truck, with oily diesel exhaust clinging to me like Grandma's Jungle Gardenia powder. Back at home, fragrances again astounded me, and I found myself taking slow, through-the-nose breaths. The smell of chlorine wafted on the air in front of Shaw Park as yet another generation of swimmers and day-campers dutifully passed through its gates. One scoot down Wydown Boulevard yielded a floral mother lode: lilac, magnolia and the overwhelming perfume of the honey locust.
But I didn't buy a scooter just to smell the roses. My first day scootin' to work brought immediate changes to my routine. Without cup holders, morning coffee was no longer grab-and-go, forcing me to actually sit down and savor a cup of coffee — out of a ceramic cup, even — like a civilized human being. You don't see to-go cups in Italy, but you do see a lot of Vespas, many of them crash-landed at curbs while their owners get their caffeine fixes. (My guess is that, whenever it comes along, the "Supr Scootr Holdr" will carry a U.S. patent.) Carrying a water bottle is also difficult, making water stops a must. I've gone from knowing the location of the cheapest gas stations in town to knowing where I can get one-liter bottles of Aquafina for $1.
Then there are the hazards of riding a scooter. Two things I learned: June bugs leave a welt at 50 mph, and a patch of gravel can be a "get religion" moment. Then there was the time I popped off to the guy (not) turning in front of me, something to the effect of "C'mon, pal, you blew your chance," and was shocked to discover that he could actually hear me. I'd been getting away with similar rhetorical carps for years. Forced to counter his glare, I was speechless. Scooting through different municipalities forced me to study streets like a highway engineer — the bumps, the holes, the grooves, the height of every manhole cover. Fortunately, as my driving skills improved, games of "Whack-a-Hole" gave way to the graceful finesse of avoidance.
What does rain feel like on a scooter? The first drops are, without fail, refreshing. But that's just a tease. The ensuing downpour brings on a drenching and painful squintfest, even while wearing eyeglasses. My unorthodox but simple advice is to outride a storm if you can. (One reason not to take my advice: It often takes you in the opposite direction of where you're going.)
Wearing leather-soled shoes on my work commute seemed reasonable, but scraping those soles on pavement has taken its toll; my shoe repairman will appreciate my scooter like my dentist appreciates Jujyfruits. I didn't anticipate having to hop off the lightweight bike to hit the crosswalk button to trip traffic lights to green. And I didn't expect the local cycle shop to charge me an hour's labor ($70) for an oil change. Out of curiosity and disgust, I wheeled into the local Jiffy Lube; the staff was up to the task but embarrassed to have to charge $19.99 for less than a quart of oil and no filter.
I have not had the fortitude, or the impatience, to test "lane splitting," a Euro-maneuver (legal in Missouri but not in Illinois) where the scooter driver creates a passing lane for himself by essentially "riding the dotted line" through traffic. Should you ever see me executing such a maneuver, you may assume that Pappy's Smokehouse is closing in four minutes and I'm five minutes out.
Although I could argue that I'm safer on the seat of a scooter than behind the wheel of a car, I do miss the distractions. I miss CDs; I miss J.C. in the morning; I even miss Mike Shannon's "heh-heh" that I used to parrot, part of our love-loathe relationship. On a scooter, the only aural entertainment occurs at stoplights, where reality can surprisingly veer from stereotype: one teenager jamming to the Eagles, another wheel-tapping to Rascal Flatts and an executive in an Audi A8 bumping to some of the most obscene rap ever recorded. I used to mutter and moan at stoplights. Now I look forward to them.
Despite the many reasons to buy a scooter, however, my main one was quite practical: to save on the exorbitant price of gas. My first tank set the tone. As I filled, I felt condescension from the woman gas-guzzling across from me. "How much does it cost to fill that thing?" she asked. "Let you know in a minute," I beamed. "It's my first tank." Even I couldn't believe it. "$4.75," I said. Feeling the need to turn the knife, I fumbled in my pockets and mumbled, loud enough for her to hear: "I know I have a five in here somewhere..."
On the next tank, I pushed it well beyond the "E." I was going to fill up at the next station, but somehow I managed to run my 80-mpg wonder out of gas, on the way to a very important meeting, no less. I did so in a good spot at a bad time, just uphill from the Clayton Department of Public Works after business hours. I coasted down the hill like a kid again, half-smiling, my left foot whisking my silent ride through the still-open gate and stopping at the city's refueling tanks. Surely I could scrounge a few ounces of fuel. The take? About 20 drops, not even enough to start my miserly scoot. There were vehicles everywhere — dump trucks, pickups, official vehicles — full of enough gas to keep me motoring for 100 years, yet not a drop for me.
I called Suzi to rescue her dice-rolling boyfriend. Then I roamed the yard on a petrol hunt, looking, pausing, sniffing. Eureka! A dented steel gas can, the kind with a trigger-activated flip lid that was half-full of something that smelled like paint thinner. Paint thinner in a gas can? Nah! Looked like salvation to me. With the gas tank under the seat, however, I still needed a suitable nozzle or funnel. But a funnel? I was lucky to find something that even resembled gas.
I looked around desperately before fixing my eyes on a bright orange beacon. No funnels in sight, but would a traffic cone do in a pinch? So, gas can in one hand, spanking clean cone in the other, I inverted my "funnel," balanced it on my chest and proceeded to gas up with something resembling 87 octane. No, I didn't fill it — not even close. I wasn't sure at what gallonage petrol felony occurred, and I wasn't planning to find out.
I pushed the starter. Nothing. Again: nothing. A third time: still wouldn't fire. Damn. I knew it was paint thinner. Who the hell puts paint thinner in a gas can? Well, most likely no one. I tried a fourth time. The scoot started up, loving whatever liquid it was burning. To let Suzi know I was gassed up and on my way, I scribbled a sign saying "GOT GAS" and placed it with the gas can and my large orange funnel inside the front gate.
After the meeting — and after missing calls from Suzi, who couldn't find me and left slightly perturbed — I felt guilty about leaving the in-your-face assortment of Clayton's miscellany practically blocking access to the equipment yard. So I returned to the scene of the crime to right the wrong. The gas can, cone and sign, however, had all disappeared. Ah well, good intentions, I thought. I scooted back out the gate. Then something I thought would never happen happened: I ran out of gas — again.
Sitting powerless on Forest Park Parkway, less than a mile from home, I parked the bike on the foot-wide shoulder and, helmet in hand, proceeded to stick out my thumb, something I haven't done in 30 years. Easy ride, I figured. Ten cars passed, then 20. Did I really look like a con? A fiftyish guy with a helmet standing on barely-a-shoulder, prepared to abandon a scooter so new it didn't have license plates? A woman from out of town (go figure) finally stopped, confessing that I was her first hitchhiker and saying, "Please don't hit me over the head." I offered to hit her with some good-Samaritan cash instead.
A neighbor drove me back to the Parkway with my gas can. As I gassed up the scoot, I got a queasy feeling that I had, in fact, grabbed the wrong can — I was using chain-saw gas. Never has a scooter been subjected to so many unsavory petroleum products in one evening. We returned home, grabbed the right gas can, filled 'er up and prayed for combustion.
Like an abused dog that deserves Alpo, my scooter's been feasting on premium fuel ever since.
Month One, by the Numbers:
Scooter miles
1,000
Auto fuel saved ($4/gal, 20 mpg)
$200
Scooter fuel consumed ($4/gal, 80 mpg)
$50
Fuel savings
$150
Monthly scooter payment (with insurance)
$82
Net monthly savings vs. car
$68
Scooter fun
Priceless
