The Day The Scooter Died


The day the music stopped.

The day I said goodbye.

The day I handed over the keys to a good friend who gave me a really big engulfing hug and said, “I’m so, so, so very sorry, I wish you hadn’t had this happened to you, and when you are ready, for a real Vespa, I will help you find the perfect one for you.”

I hugged him back and we signed over the papers.


Not to do what you think.

Because, well, because further developments they developed.

I was going to give the scooter to my friend and let him and a mutual friend tinker with it, play with it, do what they would with it, maybe keep it, maybe fix her up, maybe sell her, but you know, just hand over the keys and say, have fun and I’m done and thanks for playing.


As it stands that did not happen.

My friend went to Scooter Centre and talked with his mechanic and a bunch of other folks and listened for me where I was not able to listen–I was too busy crying last weekend in Scooter Centre to really get the gist of it all–and to ask the questions I do not have the knowledge base with Vespa’s to be able to ask.

What he ascertained, what I had gotten too, but he really got to hear, was that I was not the first person, or the second, or even the third person who had brought that same scooter into the shop and asked for help fixing it to be able to ride it again; nope.

I was the FIFTH fucking person to bring that self-same scooter into their shop.

The fifth person that they knew of and who knows how many others have had the scooter and tried to get something out of it aside from the feeling of having been duped.

“I paid $4,000 for it,” my friend said to me over coffee at Trouble on Sunday when I relayed to him what the issues seemed to be and how really, I took full responsibility for purchasing something that I did not know how to maintain.

But the facts are that it wouldn’t have matter if I did have the capabilities to deal with it.

There is nothing salvageable on the scooter.



I wasn’t handing over the title and the keys to my friend tonight who stepped in to assist me, who really wanted, as much as I, if not a bit more, for the damn thing to work, “it is such a beauty, I understand how you could not want to let it go,” he said patting my shoulder.

“But you really are doing the right thing, and ___________ should pay that $2650 back to you, he owes you, he knew.”

You know who also knew?

I did.

I knew it was too good to be true.

I knew when my friend hustled to the nearest Wells Fargo atm to deposit the check I wrote him for the down payment, I knew, something is off here.

But god damn.

That scooter was so damn sexy.

So cute.

I pushed aside those feelings.

I ignored my gut.

My bad.

Buyers remorse.

You fucking bet.


I have compassion and sympathy and I can give my friend the benefit of the doubt.

Besides, he did so much for me at a certain point in my recovery, I hold no resentment, I hold no grudge.

Ultimately it was not that much, I didn’t really get hurt.


I mean I fucked my ankle up on it, but that turned out to be a blessing in disguise, so even there, I can’t harbor any hate.

Besides, self-righteous anger does not serve me, nor does moral indignation or being right versus happy.

I want happy.

And free.

And joyous.

Those are the principles.

My side of the street is clean, the title has been signed over, and the other paperwork signed and now it’s done.

The scooter will be junked.

Tomorrow it gets recycled.

I signed the paperwork to junk the title and they will cut the scooter in half and recycle it where ever they recycle scooters that go to die.

No one else is going to get duped, no one else has to go through it.

There does not have to be a sixth person that shows up on the doorsteps of the Scooter Centre who gets to find out they got fucked into buying a lemon.

And a vehicle that is and was unsafe to ride will not be ridden again.

I could have gotten really hurt riding it, when I reflect on some of the harrowing experiences I had riding it, the night in the fog coming home from Noe Valley when it died on my 12 times, nothing like trying to kick start something in the cold on Laguna Honda with no visibility.

“Do you know what you’re doing?” The driver asked from the car window of a Porsche.

“Yes, I’ll be fine,” I said.

And I am fine.



I have been released.

What is nearly as good as knowing that I did the “right” thing, not selling it, not being duplicitous, not taking money for something that I knew in my heart was not going to be a fun experience for anyone–unless they used it as a lawn ornament or hung it from the ceiling in an Italian restaurant–is the feeling of freedom I have from obsessing about it.

I don’t have to think about it anymore.

One week from dropping it off at Scooter Centre and it’s done.

Tomorrow she’ll be put down.

And it will be done.

They even offered to let me come in and shoot at it.


The owner has a gun at the shop and he said I could come in and shoot it up to feel better before it gets sliced in half and recycled.

I laughed.

But I declined.

I don’t need to ever see it again.

I gave away the spare set of keys, signed the paper work and tomorrow I’ll call my insurance guy and cancel the policy on it.

Done and done.

Making room for the good stuff that God wants for me.

Not holding onto the stuff that doesn’t.

Whether that’s old ideas.

Or an old Vespa from Vietnam.

God’s got better for me.

I am ready to receive.

Space has been made.

That is the best feeling.


The best.

Tags: , , , , , , , , , , ,

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in: Logo

You are commenting using your account. Log Out /  Change )

Google photo

You are commenting using your Google account. Log Out /  Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out /  Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out /  Change )

Connecting to %s

%d bloggers like this: