Thoughts From a Scooter Newbie

Part 1.

      About a year and a half ago, my mechanic said I really should think about finding another car. I drive a ’96 Corolla. Although it’s 15 years old and now only gets thirty something miles to the gallon (instead of forty something), it is a great car. It does, however, sport two colors: black and rust. A year later, it passed inspection again, but even with my babying it along, I know I’ll need another vehicle.

      Driving along Shelburne Road, there it was: a happy orange and black Jeep. Used, 2010! There was something about the color that said, “I’m too cute to be used only as a truck.” I fantasized about it for days and then finally looked it up online. $23K! For a used Jeep? So much for happy fantasies.

      About the same time, my fifteen year-old son saw a commercial for the Can-Am three wheeler. It was happy yellow and too cute for words. The commercial illustrated all the joy and utility that could be ours. He and I fantasized about it for days and then I looked it up online. $16K! Wow, if we got that, then we’d be saving $7K!

      The reality of impending college bills and daily life nudged its way back into my thinking. I’d also need to get a motorcycle endorsement. Can-Am? Successfully ruled out.

      Or was it?

      For a month or so, I researched three and two wheeled scooters. Why could one purchase scooters online for thousands of dollars less? I found out why, several reasons why.

      I realized that I hadn’t done this much research since before we got our WBC (white bellied caique). I hadn’t quite hit obsession, but I had definitely progressed beyond casual interest. I read reviews, watched more videos, learned the Vermont DMV regulations.

      I found a local shop.

      I dragged my husband to The Daily Rider in Burlington. (I shouldn’t say “dragged,” because he would gladly indulge me more than I ever ask. He was happy to see my enthusiasm.) I emailed the shop with more questions. I practically memorized the Genuine Scooter Company catalog. I brought my husband back again.

      I was in love.

      The only problem: winter was coming. I’d have to wait until spring, I thought. But no, the 2013 models were already available. With October so unseasonably mild, I could very likely get in some decent commuting during November.

      I ordered my Buddy 50, in tangerine. That happy orange and black would be mine, “saving” thousands of dollars compared to that Jeep that first caught my eye.

      During the waiting time, I devoured more videos and articles: safety, cold weather riding, counter steering, two stroke and four stroke engines. I polled my coworkers about motorcycle gear. I lurked the scooter discussion boards.

      The happy day finally came. On my lunch break, we loaded my Buddy into my father-in-law’s truck. As I drove, I beamed as brightly as the scooter in the sunlight.

      We stopped at work and I ran in to tell my friends. They came out, ooh-ing and aah-ing. I think they were as excited as I! We brought it home and I went back to work, in four wheels. I had waited so long, what was a few more hours?

      And so begin my adventures as a scooter newbie.

On Stink Bugs and Buttered Toast

       I was in the middle of a twelve day stretch. Sprinting down the hall, carrying copies of a chart for the ambulance crew, I realized I was smelling buttered toast. It was hours after breakfast. “Strange,” I thought, “but oh well.” We saw our patient off to the ER.

       Finally at the end of my shift, I sat down to chart. I realized I had worked up a sweat and still felt a little damp. It hit me again: the smell of buttered toast. It wasn’t the fresh, yummy kind of toast; it was the smell of older, reheated, smeared with margarine kind of toast.

       For a moment I had a dreadful thought that it was some sort of menopause thing. Even though I’m as old as the Super Bowl, I still am too young for menopause. I dared to sniff my armpit. No, it wasn’t there. Did a resident with buttered fingers touch me when I helped transfer him or her? I didn’t know. My only solution was to shower as soon as I got home.

       How does this relate to stink bugs?

       About a month ago, at the in-laws, we saw a large beetle on the ceiling. It looked like one of the stink bug family. They’ve been an oddity I started noticing over the last ten years or so. The ones I’ve seen have a proboscis, tiny head and heavily armored legs. They move slowly, mechanically.

       [Once, years ago, I watched one such bug trapped in a spider web. The spider, maybe 1/20 its size, was biting the behemoth’s armored leg and trying to spin more web around it. Like a wildebeest being slowly killed by inexperienced lions, its sheer strength was exactly what was causing it to suffer. The scene wasn’t going to end well, but I had neither the heart to watch nor the oomph to end the creature’s misery. I’m not proud to say that I turned away.]

       As we looked at the large beetle invading our dinner party, I said we should scoop it up and put it outside because I thought it was a stink bug. Well, my niece’s boyfriend smushed it.

       In a few seconds, we were enveloped in a green, wet smelling odor. We laughed because there was nothing else to do.

       That week, I ran out of conditioner at the wrong time of the paycheck. I stopped off at the store and picked up some 88¢ or 99¢ conditioner. It would have to do. One was labeled as freesia scented. I like the smell of freesia; why not? I’d get paid in a few days anyway.

       In the shower, I shampooed and conditioned.

       Oh, no.

       Why didn’t I test smell the conditioner before I bought it?

       Instantly I was back at the in-laws’, the memory of stink bug and unspoken “I told you so’s” making me laugh. Only I didn’t laugh. I was trying to not gag in the shower.

       Payday came and I bought a different conditioner, one more expensive (and hopefully better quality) per ounce. Then came that crazy, busy day at work when I first smelled the buttered toast.

       Always ready to play detective, the next day when I showered, I sniffed the new conditioner. Nope, nothing out of the ordinary. I shampooed and conditioned as usual. By the end of the day, I was smelling buttered toast again.

       I hadn’t eaten differently, except maybe a lot more fast food in what turned into a 60 hour work week. I hadn’t worn perfume. It was the same laundry detergent.

       The next day, I used the stink bug– I mean freesia– conditioner. No buttered toast scent taunted me. The next day, I used the other conditioner. It had done that which for which I had bought it: increased the volume to my hair. But I smelled buttered toast.

       My experiment indicated that the conditioner was the cause. Happily, I wasn’t experiencing olfactory hallucinations after all.

       I asked my husband and he said he didn’t notice it, even when he smelled my hair. Since I don’t normally have people come that close to smell my hair, I decided to ditch the freesia and go with the buttered toast.

       At least until my next shopping trip, that is. Maybe I can find a conditioner that smells like pizza.