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.
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.
6 comments:
Oh my belly hurts! That might be the funniest thing I've ever read. I wish you would have cried. And I wish that some really lame emo song was playing on the tiny vespa radio whilst the tears ran down your face (beneath the glasses of course). Perfection (not only that scene, but this post, this blog, and you my dear Ginny)!
amen, renee.
amen.
I almost wet my pants; I was laughing so hard. I love your new blog and of course your Vespa... and the tales that have already been written and are sure to come.
And I had TOTALLY forgotten the fate of your little VW bug in Provo. I was always proud to tell everyone that I knew the former owner of said bug.
LOVE the tale, the mental pictures, and the memory of the bug. Love renee's comment too.
This is the best blog ever!! Ginny you never should have waited so long to start one!! And PS, this sounds like an entry I would totally write myself. But I would have broken down in the middle, called my dad crying and made him pick me up, ditching the vespa on the side of the road. Good job making it home safe and sound!!
oh man, miss ginny, that is hilarious. but i can't imagine that there was any space in the washington blvd costco parking lot since every time we went there, the rest of west la was there, too. we would just give up and go to albertson's. or in n out. or both.
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