Viva la Narcissist!

I didn't think I was a vanity plate kind of girl, but then again, I didn't think I was a dragon red scooter kind of a girl or a blogging kind of a girl and yet, here we are. After finally receiving my Vespa registration in the mail and being notified of what my randomly assigned license plate number would be, I decided that "18Yblahblahblah" didn't really do the Vespa justice. So I started looking into vanity plates….


This is the plate I wanted. If I lived in Idaho, I probably would have gotten it, too, only it would have said "Idaho" on top. Unfortunately, I live in California, where it's the equivalent of 20 Idahos sharing one license plate pool, and one of the 4 bazillion other drivers here has already snagged this one. The same goes for "DOLCE," "DLCEVTA," "GOVESPA," "75 MPG," "80 MPG," "RMNHLDY," "FELLINI," and so on. The only one I came up with that was available was "QT VESPA," but then I banged my head against the wall several times just for thinking of it. (And if you don't get the Fellini reference and, therefore, the title of this very blog, then you should get yourself a-googlin').

The people who I would usually turn to for help on this matter are my own parents, Dave and Mary, because they are couple of zany wordsmiths. I can't begin to explain how many Ess family dinner conversations were devoted to who could come up with the most clever name for a business we had no intention of opening. I honestly don't know how they ever found each other. Except that I do, cause they've told me the story a million times, and it always ends with Mary Dear-Johning a guy named Elder Buckmiller who was then residing in South America. Come to think of it, maybe their mutual love for crazy words was inspired by E.B.'s name and the fact that Dave and Mary had to say it with straight faces so many times during their courtship.

Point is, I can't ask Dave and Mary for help because they still don't know about the Vespa and/or this blog. The "coming out" logistics are the subject of a future post--right now I just need help with the plates.

So, any suggestions? We're working with a limit of seven characters plus one half-space. Alas, those Wingdings symbols that are so popular with the vanity plate crowd are not available on motorcycle plates. If you are interested in checking the availability of your suggestion, you can do it here—but I don't mind checking it for you. I'm just desperate for ideas.

And since I've learned a thing or two from Paternity Pants' and JBeany's recent quizzes, I am willing to offer a prize to the winner: your choice of either (a) some Vespa swag, or (b) a spin on the Vespa (as in, you get to drive it for a short time at a location that depends on your experience). For obvious reasons, minors, non-Angelenos and persons unknown to me are only eligible for Prize A, but it will still be good.

FYI, I'm already ruling out "BUCKMLR."

Warning: It's all downhill after Barbie

Thanks to C&RL for taking this pic of Vespa Barbie for me in the Times Square Toys R’ Us, which is apparently eons better than your average TRU (and hopefully smells better, too). I miss C&RL. I am also jealous of Barbie because her Vespa has a topcase and mine does not. Since Barbie could fit that outfit she’s wearing in a coin purse, I’m guessing she needed the topcase to store her collection of abnormally large earrings. Still, I wouldn’t kick her out of my scooter gang.

That’s right—I am looking for a few good friends to ride scooters with. Yes, I am well aware that five million Vespa clubs already exist. However, my extensive Internet research into these clubs has revealed that most of them are SO obsessed that they appear to be trolling for converts to their Church of the Holy Vespa. I already have religion, folks. I’m just looking for a gang.

Fortunately, this very blog has prompted tons of people I already know and like to send me emails asking for information about buying a scooter. I have answered each of these emails in my usual longwinded fashion in an attempt to convince my friends to take the scooter plunge and, eventually, to join my gang. Because all the emails included similar questions, I decided to post the most common questions and answers here in the event other potential gang members were harboring a scooter fancy. But be forewarned that this is a contender for Boringest Blog Post Ever, and there aren’t even baby pictures involved.

Q: At the risk of being tacky, how much did your Vespa cost?

A: This is the kind of matter that is not so tacky when discussed in a personal email, but is much tackier when posted on one's blog, so I hope you'll excuse me for talking around the bottom line. The MSRP for an LX 150 is available on Vespa's website. Buying the Vespa was like buying a new car—I talked to a couple of different dealers and each one was willing to deduct a chunk off the MSRP (about 10%), but then the price magically went up again once sales tax, destination/shipping fees, and license and registration were added in. The shipping fee for Vespas is particularly high because they do indeed come from Italy. As my Marina del Rey dealer oh-so-punnily put it, "From Venice to Venice." (wah-wah.)

Q. Yikes, I just looked up the price and it is more than I thought. Why didn't you buy a different brand scooter for half the cost? Vespas aren't that cute.

A: First, the really low-priced scooters are 49cc scooters, while mine has a 150cc engine. Because I wanted the assurance that I could keep up with all sorts of LA street traffic, I decided early on that I would get a 150cc. This ruled out a lot of the really cute, really cheap smaller scooters out there, like the Malaguti Yesterday (so dang retro cute!) and the sporty Honda Ruckus (so matches my Jeep!).

Second, the Vespa is like the S-class of scooters, and although I've never been a luxury car freak, the Vespa perks really added up and justified the expense. Vespas have a metal body while a lot of other scooters have plastic bodies and look like kids' toys up close. Also, although anyone who is really determined to steal your scooter will be able to do so, Vespas have an antitheft coded-key system just like a luxury car. And let's be honest—the Vespa brand recognition is the best.

Q. What other "hidden costs" have you had due to the Vespa?

A. Okay, nobody has actually asked me this in an email, but they should have, and just like I did with all my email inquirers, I am now going to provide this unsolicited information to you.

First, there are "legal" fees: $27 for my motorcycle permit, and it looks like $235 to take a state-sponsored basic motorcycle safety class that I can take in lieu of an actual motorcycle driving test at the DMV in order to get my "M" class license.

Second, "gear" costs: $65 for a helmet (definitely on the cheap end); $20 for riding gloves I no longer use; $30 for a keychain garage-door opener for my apartment building's gated garage because it proved too awkward to open the Vespa's glovebox to access my large garage door opener. Also, although I realize they're SO five years ago, I'm thinking about getting a backpack-style purse to use when I ride the Vespa to keep the under-seat cargo space available.

Heh heh--I lied about the baby pics. This is my nephew, Lil' Gee, and his dog Asher.

And this is my niece, Miss Dub.

Third, and most important, "insurance": This one was a shock. I did research scooter insurance before buying the Vespa—the only problem is that I did it three years ago in Utah and it is no longer good information. As it turns out, my Vespa insurance is only about 30% less than that on the Jeep. I am told that it will go down once (a) I have received my M license, (b) I have passed the motorcycle safety class, and (c) a certain speeding ticket is no longer on my record.

Q: Do you think I'd be able to ride a scooter?

A: Sure, you're a pretty good driver, albeit a bit of a right-hugger.* If I can learn to ride one, you definitely can. And despite my tendency to make mountains out of molehills, I hope you can see from this blog that learning to ride the Vespa has actually been far easier than I anticipated.

Q: Will riding a scooter help me attract members of the opposite sex?

A. Absolutely. I mean, I just checked my calendar and confirmed that I have no Vespa-instigated dates scheduled for the next couple of weeks. Or ever. But I'm sure it will be different for you. And why go to the trouble of actually talking to someone you like when you can just circle them in the church/school/work/7-11 parking lot and pop wheelies until they fall madly in love with you?

More seriously, I think the Vespa-as-bait theory holds truer for guys than for girls. First, guys look like guys while riding scooters, whereas girls look like guys while riding scooters. It's embarrassing to publicly admit this, but when I bought the Vespa I had ridiculous visions of riding it while wearing a cute summery dress and heeled sandals. The reality is big helmet, jeans, hoodie and sneakers. I always feel a little unattractively butch in my Vespa wear, and although there's nothing wrong with being a tomboy, it's just not me. I might expound on my clothing options once I'm confident I won't crash and burn and get horrible road rash, but the headwear and footwear are really non-negotiable. Thank goodness cute sneaker-flats are in right now.

Second, there is what I like to call the Matterhorn Effect—namely, the fact that carpooling on a Vespa or in a Disneyland bobsled naturally involves more full-body contact than carpooling in a sedan. I'm just guessing, but I would assume a guy would have more success in exploiting the Matterhorn Effect than would a girl. I don't anticipate that a lot of guys are going to be eager to ride on the back of a dragon red Vespa driven by a 5' 3" woman, at least not guys who are cute and/or mentally stable and/or have clean criminal records. By contrast, I'd assume the average Joe might have some success in fast-forwarding a new relationship to Bear Hug Level by taking a girl for a ride on his scooter.

Again, this is all supposition. Let us know if you agree or disagree in the comments section.

Q. If I buy a scooter, will you let me be in your gang?

A. Uh, maybe.

* As the world's worst left-hugger, everyone seems like a right-hugger to me.

The Pilgrimage

Mecca

The problem with doing a “theme blog” such as this one is that sometimes there is no news on the theme to report. Take this past week for example—the Vespa didn’t get ridden at all, which was a crying shame since last week included more daylight hours than any week of the year. I’m afraid those daylight hours were squandered on (a) work (ugh—they really mean it when they say “full time”), (b) commuting to and fro, and (c) other after-work commitments. I considered filling the downtime with a post devoted to the Vespa’s turn signals and the fact that they don’t automatically turn off when you complete the turn OR make any sort of “I’m still blinking” noise that is audible through the three inches of padding in my Spaceballs helmet and the many senior moments this has caused, but then I got bored (and a little depressed) just thinking about it.

Come this Saturday, I was really excited to get some more Vespaing in. To date, I had only gone on “practice drives,” the sole purpose of which was to improve my riding skills. I decided I was finally ready for some Vespa multi-tasking. My goal was to ride the Vespa to my local shopping mall (about 2.0 miles away on a very busy street), do some shopping, and then ride home. In other words, it was the Inaugural Vespa Errand.

Let me tell you a few things about this mall. First, it is fabulous. It could totally beat up your mall. Does your mall’s food court serve everything on fine china? I didn’t think so. Second, I used to live a lot closer to it (.5 miles away). Third, due to said fabulousness (and the fact that shopping is the official community sport of West LA), it gets really, really crowded on the weekends. When I lived at my old apartment, I used to walk there, but occasionally I would stop by in my car at the tail end of running other errands. Without fail, I would drive around the parking garage for 20 minutes looking for parking, only to give up, drive home, and walk back. The intense competition for parking spaces results in a vicious, dog-eat-dog driving atmosphere in the garage, or as I like to call it, the Pit.

When I’m in the Jeep, I can hold my own in the Pit; but I was a little intimidated to take it on while riding the Vespa. For this reason, I headed out for the mall as soon as it opened with the hope of beating the crowd. Once I got into the Pit I realized all my fears were gloriously unfounded because there would be no need to “navigate” the Pit after all because YOU CAN PARK A VESPA ANYWHERE!! Indeed, I was in the garage for all of two seconds when I spotted a triangular nonspace too small for the average motorcycle that was (a) right in front of the Parking Office (great for security) and (b) within 20 steps of the escalator up to the mall. As I evaluated the nonspace, the grouchy-looking parking manager came out of his office. I asked if I could park in the nonspace and, at the prospect of saving just one extra real space for those bullies in the Escalade Brigade, he eagerly nodded in the affirmative. Once I parked the Vespa and turned it off and put down the stand (still an awkward chain of events for me), he told me in his lovable yet grouchy manner that, whenever I come, I should park right there. Landing a personal parking spot in this particular mall was a major coup! Not wanting to press my luck, I decided to hold off until next time to inquire about having my name stenciled on it.

I had three things on my shopping list. The first was to buy a new purse, which I desperately need after learning a hard-knocks lesson that a purse is not the proper place to store an open beverage. The second was to buy one new shirt or dress that I could wear to two different events on Saturday night. The third was to resist buying anything else. I failed on all three accounts.

In my defense, it wasn’t really my fault that MNG by Mango was having a 50% off sale on everything in the entire store, including their already low priced suits! Because I get a small clothing allowance at work, my reimbursable purchase of three new suits was completely justifiable. However, FOLLACI ensued when I went to pay for the suits and the salesgirl asked the obligatory question of “Do you want these on the hanger?” To anyone who’s ever been to MNG, the obvious answer is a resounding “yes” because they have these awesome chrome hangers. But quickly dismissing the notion of Vespaing home one-handed while gripping the hanging bag over my shoulder, I feebly said “No, I need them in a bag. In fact, I need you to pack them as compactly as possible.” The salesgirl obliged despite the fact that folding a brand new suit like an origami crane defies all reason and will doubtlessly affect my standing in the West LA shopping rankings.

By the time I made it back down to my personal parking space, I had three shopping bags, none of which contained a purse or a Saturday night outfit. I also had my temporary purse to deal with—i.e., a hideous old beach bag. I combined two of the shopping bags and managed to stuff the entire thing into the space under the seat the way a cartoon character would stuff a suitcase and close it by sitting on it. Then I put the beach bag in the remaining shopping bag (because the shopping bag was, by far, the more attractive of the two) and hung it from this plastic hook that protrudes from the seat. When a bag is hung there, it rests on the floorboards and you hold it in place with your feet. It’s awkward to say the least.

The biggest mishap occurred at the exit to the Pit. I always drive my Vespa in the middle of the lane because the DMV told me that’s what I should do, and although I’d like to say I’m one of those people who’s always questioning authority, I just don’t have the time. So as I waited in line to get out of the Pit, I was dutifully driving in the middle of the lane. Thus, when I pulled up to the ticket machine, I was way too far to the right to be able to insert my ticket. Did I also mention this was on a steep incline and there was a line of cars behind me? Because I couldn’t think of any other solution, I gripped the front brake with my right hand so hard I was shaking, and physically leaned waaaaay over to the left until I was able pop the ticket in with my finger tips. And I took a looooong time to do it because I was uncertain how far was too far to lean in terms of gravity taking over and the Vespa falling to the floor. When the parking arm finally lifted, I overcompensated for the incline and shot out of the Pit like I was on a motocross track. The whole situation screamed of utter dorktitude.

On my way back, I filled up the tank for the first time. It took less than one gallon. It cost $3.37. At this rate, I will not have to fill up again for another two months.

All things considered, the Inagural Vespa Errand was a success in that, at this point, any Vespa outing that doesn't end in death or serious bodily injury is a success. Now if you’ll excuse me, I have to spend the next three hours steaming the wrinkles and exhaust smell out of my new suits.

The Downtown Dilemma

This should require a hair sample and a

two-week waiting period.

The beach trip DID happen. I got up relatively early on Saturday morning and took Santa Monica Blvd. from my house to 1st Street, which overlooks the ocean. Then I turned around and drove back. The whole thing took less than a half hour and was anticlimactic. Although I feel like I've gotten lots of practice in, the Vespa only has 32 miles on it. I have used less than a half gallon of gas ($1.75 worth) since I got it. This would be good news had I not filled the tank of my Jeep three times in the same period ($160.00 worth). Obviously, my goal is to use the Vespa more and the Jeep less.

Mind you, I don't have any immediate plans to drive the Vespa to work, although that commute comprises the majority of my mileage. First and foremost problem: I can't take the Vespa on the freeway. On that note, I must apologize to those of you who were mistakenly informed that the Vespa's top speed was 90 mph. As the Logic Fairy likely whispered in your ear, those Eurotrash marketers at Piaggio put metric specs in all the literature, and the top speed is actually 90 kph (60 mph). Consider my failure to realize this as further evidence of the fact that I'm on the outs with the Logic Fairy right now. (Exhibit A: Vespa purchase; Exhibit B: distrust of the metric system.) Regardless, it would be suicide to drive anything with 10-inch wheels at either 60 mph or 90 mph on the freeways of Los Angeles. I'd rather rollerskate on I-10. (shout-out to the roller derby girls and their ref.)

Second: even though I could take surface streets to work, I work downtown. There are a ton of crazy homeless people in downtown. And that's the upside. The downside is that downtown is also the preferred point of congregation for self-published rap artists, eaters of bacon-wrapped hot dogs with a side of pork rinds, meth addicts and their puppies, Scientologists, jay walkers, daytime hookers, people in trench coats who like to chant "DVDs DVDs DVDs" incessantly, and egomaniacal 3-Series drivers whose license plate frames indicate they have grad degrees from certain SoCal universities, but whose failure to recognize simple phrases such as "one way," "bus lane," and "monthly parking only" indicates they are, in fact, woefully illiterate. I'm afraid this circus of circumstance spells trouble for the lowly Vespa rider and her Ann Taylor suit.

Third: helmet hair. Enough said.

All of this means the Vespa is delegated to the task of errand-running for now. Mind you, I love running errands, so it will get quite a bit of use. I'm hopeful the Vespa will prove easier to park than the Jeep in the notoriously parking-deprived areas I frequent. I'm also hopeful the Vespa's distinct lack of cargo room will significantly reduce my errand-running expenditures. That space under the seat won't accommodate much more than a six-pack of Hansens or a single pair of shoes—it's like the shopping equivalent of having one's stomach stapled. As it gets very hot in there and holds almost no air, you'll be happy to know that the Eurotrash marketers at Piaggio were thoughtful enough to label the space with a sticker that says "No Pets!" I'll bet you anything some meth addict put his puppy in there and Piaggio is still paying for it by the kiloEuro.

Equivocalescence and the Permateens

In Vespa news…I have driven for very short distances on crazy busy Santa Monica boulevard. Beach trip on Saturday morning is the new goal.

In Vespa-related news… Why are we Americans so eager yet so reluctant to grow up? This topic was inspired by someone I will temporarily refer to as “chaisepilot” as her new and improved alias is pending.

Recently, the ever HI-larious chaisepilot was regaling me with a story about a busload of Georgian middle schoolers headed to cheer camp wherein young, cheerleadin’ chaisepilot was overcome by an extreme attack of FOLLACI when she publicly referenced the movie Never Ending Story and none of her fellow cheerleaders, including her many BFFs and plain-ol’ FFs, would admit to knowing of said movie despite the fact that, according to chaisepilot, “this was 1992, and it was running every other day on the Disney Channel.” (By the way, statistics prove FOLLACI hits hardest between the ages of 12 and 14. Talk to your kids about how to prevent FOLLACI.)

Chaisepilot’s experience kind of reminded me of a time when, as a fourteen-year-old high-school freshman, I lied through my teeth at a “pledge” party for a “sorority” (it was a school-sponsored club—don’t ask) and said I had never liked the “band” New Kids on the Block, when, in fact, I had been to an NKOTB concert in a neighboring state only a few weeks prior and had screamed my lungs out in adoration of Joey Joe. You see, somewhere in the two months between Grandma’s gift of the concert tix and my pledging of faux-sororities, I had grown too old for NKOTB. At least in theory. And my pledge party fib wouldn’t have been so bad if one of my own BFFs hadn’t just been called on the carpet for being a known NKOTB fan. I just left her hanging. (hangin’ tough, that is.)

The point: these days we’re always complaining about how kids grow up way too fast. Girls buy Tigerbeat at age 7, Seventeen at 9, Vogue at 11, and Cosmo at 13. And at the same time, there is a nationwide refusal to grow up, no? Not only do middle schoolers watch the Disney Channel, but college kids are still watching Saved by the Bell—what was originally run as a Saturday-morning cartoon companion. And I know more than one grown woman who indulges in The OC or Laguna Beach. Not that there’s anything wrong with that.

Which brings me back to the Vespa… wasn’t buying it the ultimate “can’t wait to grow up / never going to grow up” act? As in, I’m old and mature enough to buy a “weekend car” and secure additional insurance, but young and foolish enough to want something red/shiny/cute/dangerous.

Please tell me I’m not alone. Thirtysomething and still shopping at Forever 21? Have three degrees but addicted to your Wii? Can afford your own house but have twelve roommates? Let’s hear all about it. My blog is your blog.

Practice makes . . . slightly better

It attracts a crowd. A chatty one.

As luck would have it, I am a natural-born scooterist. This is bad news for this blog, as I was counting on all sorts of magnificent scrapes to report, but I suppose it is good news for my general welfare.

I got lots of practice in this past weekend and feel that in a week or so I will be ready to take on the final frontier: heavy traffic on a busy street. Aside from speed, there are two things I'm not yet used to but am working on. The first is hills. Anyone who has ever driven stick can remember the first hill they stopped on and that sinking feeling of succumbing to the forces of gravity. It's pretty much the same on a scooter, only unlike a car, which takes you down with it, the scooter tries to roll on top of you. The secret, of course, is maintaining a grip of death on the brakes through the stop. So far I have avoided any hill-related disasters, but every time I have to stop on even the teensiest incline, I am acutely aware of the fact that the only thing that is preventing all 300 lbs. of Vespa from becoming a mangled work of modern art is what seems like bicycle brakes and the very tip of my right toe on the pavement (as I am too short to flat-foot it). A few times I have congratulated myself on surviving a hill of Mount Everest proportions, only to drive the same area in my car and realize it is nearly level.

The other thing I am not yet used to is the attention. Now, I don't want to seem like I've got Pouty Mohawk Guy Syndrome (PMGS) or anything. PMGS occurs where one intentionally dons an attention-demanding accoutrement—like a Boss suit in Lakers colors, a full-face tattoo, revealing clothing, or an 18-inch mohawk—and then is inexplicably irritated when it garners attention. I mean, seriously, during the forty minutes you spent spray-starching your hair this morning, it never occurred to you that someone would notice it? Don't get me wrong, I'm all for mohawks and other nonviolent forms of self-expression. I'm just not for mohawk wearers who give five-year-olds the evil eye for staring at their hair.

So, NOT having PMGS, I fully admit that one does not buy a dragon red anything without expecting a little attention for their effort. It's just that I mistakenly figured everyone would keep their bounteous awe and admiration of the Vespa and my scooterrific abilities to themselves. When I'm driving my car, other drivers never roll down their windows to engage me in a full-on conversation. Yet this has happened multiple times on the scooter. I'm not annoyed by it, mind you--just disconcerted. And it wouldn't be so bad if it didn't always start with the same line:

"New bike?"

I try to tell myself it's okay that it's obvious I'm still learning. Even a natural-born scooterist has room for improvement.

30 mph is the new 80 mph

So, due to an out-of-state wedding and a work schedule that prevented home delivery, I did not actually take possession of the Vespa until Wednesday night. The downtime between purchase and possession was bad in that it provided the proverbial cooling-off period wherein I began to second-guess the whole idea. I did get an emotional boost from obtaining my motorcycle learner's permit, and this made me decide that I would feel better about the Vespa once I actually had it.

According to Google Maps, the Marina del Rey dealership is 6.4 miles from my house, as long as you take the freeway. But it seems a LOT longer because this is, after all, West Los Angeles and six miles may as well be six hundred, especially when the 405 is involved. Traffic on this particular stretch is so bad that the dealership estimated it would be a two-hour round trip to deliver the Vespa to me either before or after work (when I could be home), and they couldn't spare the manpower for that long. So late Tuesday night I got one of my infamously bright ideas to just go pick the Vespa up after work on Wednesday and drive it home those 6.4 miles despite my total lack of scooter experience. I justified the idea by recalling how, when I was 19, I bought an old VW Bug and drove it home from the seller's house despite my total lack of manual transmission experience.

The Bug memory was an omen. The Bug adventures are a blog unto themselves, but suffice it to say that after our two-year tumultuous relationship ended, the Bug retired from driving and began its second career as a disco ball in a Provo dancehall. You'd be surprised how quickly one forgets the humiliation they experienced when watching their beloved (if not trusty) ride wearily flash its headlights to the beat of Depeche Mode's "Just Can't Get Enough." Alas…

I tried to plan ahead. On Wednesday morning I packed a gym bag with jeans, sneakers, a hoodie, the gargantuan helmet and new gargantuan sunglasses to match, so I could change into them after work and be prepared for The Ride. I prearranged for the Roommate to help me pick up my car from the dealership after The Ride. I Google Mapped the area to be covered by The Ride and got a general feel for the side streets I would take so as to avoid other motorists. I was totally ready. Or so I thought.

Google estimated the trip would take 13 mins. I figured on 30. It took an HOUR AND A HALF!! It seemed like THREE DAYS!! In accordance with the terms and conditions of my motorcycle permit, I planned to complete the trip during daylight, but it was pitch black by the time I got home.

Part of the delay was caused by the fact that, for the first leg of my journey, I was reluctant to exceed speeds of 15 mph. I also lost about twenty minutes doing figure eights in a Costco parking lot while mustering the courage to head back out onto Washington Blvd., the terrifyingly busy street that sent me seeking refuge in the Costo parking lot in the first place, and (to my regret) the location of the only exit therefrom. But I definitely killed the most time by getting lost and backtracking on those side streets I thought I knew so well. By far the lowest point of the ride was when, after heading what I thought was NORTHEAST for forever, I found myself staring directly at the Pacific Ocean. Needless to say, I was actually driving in the opposite direction than intended and was, at that point, farther from my house than when I started.

I wanted to cry out of frustration but I didn't because the tears would only have welled up inside my gargantuan sunglasses, which were already severely imparing my vision because I was wearing them at night, but which had to stay on to keep wind and dirt out of my eyes. Also, I wasn't so upset that I couldn't appreciate how screamin' goontastic it would look if a girl wearing sunglasses at night and a Spaceballs-sized helmet sat on a shiny red scooter and stared at the ocean while she cried. And so I bit my lip and rode on. I took semi-major streets that I knew well and tried to keep a 30 mph pace. And before I knew it, I was home.

Like most terrifying experiences, The Ride was strangely empowering once it was over and I added up my accomplishments. I picked up the whole balance/throttle/hand-brake thing with relative ease. I never dropped the Vespa. I never got honked at. I didn't hit anything or anyone. I only killed the engine once, and that was on purpose. I did several "firsts" I thought it would take me weeks to work up to. I broke many, many traffic laws but managed to avoid being pulled over by any of the cops I saw along the way. All in all, I think that's pretty good for a girl with infamously bright ideas. And looking back on this night will surely come in handy at some future point when I decide to, say, land a commercial jet despite my total lack of flying experience.