Category:  musings

Roger Tango and me at the VCOS meeting, trying to out-bling each other.

Celeste the Frankenstella is now running like a dream, and looks like one, too. So I've been riding her exclusively for a few weeks. Partly because starting her up is a consolation prize for the crappy weather, partly because I didn't get to ride her last fall, and partly because the GTS is due for 3,000 mile service with nearly 4,000 miles on the odometer.

Two weekends ago we had actual Certified Sunshine™, so I jumped in and finished the remaining details (glovebox, turn signals, etc.). Then I spent two hours with a toothbrush and a bucket of hot water detailing the scooter. It was wonderfully obsessive, and reminded me of the Harley guys I would see hunched over their bikes for hours, dabbing at miles of chrome with a fistful of cloth diapers. I washed and waxed her, buffed her up, and glossed all her shiny parts until you could apply lipstick in the crashbars.

For a few months now, I've been searching for tassels for my handlebars. Ever since the 5th grade, when Susie Morgan had pink sparkly handgrips on her banana seat bike and I didn't, I've had tassel envy. Now that I'm (in theory) an adult, I decided I would once and for all end the decades of pining by finding my very own handgrip decor.

Before Aphrodite and the Frankenstella burst into my life, I had a series of Hondas. My first scooter on the East Coast was a new 1998 Elite 80cc. It was very cute, and white, and according to the manual could handle 2-up riding. The bench-style seat was surely comfortable enough for two, and it even had fold-out passenger foot rests. The only problem was that I lived in Somerville, atop a series of exceedingly steep hills. A few of those required my passenger to dismount halfway and meet me at the top. In retrospect, my friends probably benefitted from the exercise.

Now that I've put about 300 miles on the Vespa, I've been able to draw some comparisons between this and the various other scooters I've ridden. The GTS is the creme of the crop -- a five-star scooter, the Jaguar of the scooter world, if you ask me. Vespa calls the GTS "The Fastest Vespa Ever." I would also call it the safest Vespa ever. Not that I need to rationalize anything, but purchasing the GTS was definitely a wise move.

The avuncular driver from AAA who picked up my new Vespa for its second tow this week was so nice that my bitter sarcasm was totally lost on him. After I realized this, I stopped being such a bitch and tried to let him cheer me up.

I had a bit of synchronicity this week. Since I live in an apartment building, a few days ago I was bemoaning my lack of grungy indoor workspace. I planned to get out the shop manuals and learn me some two-stroke fixin'. But I've got no place to pull parts off and get greasy, no cement floor on which to perform sanding and painting. No storage for tools, either. Unlike some of my friends in the Vespa Club, I can't carry my You Know What upstairs to my apartment, in pieces or in its entirety. Those crazy kids just throw down a tarp and have at it, right in front of the television. I have new hardwood floors. And I'm not strong enough to carry cargo up three flights of stairs. Plus I could think of a dozen more reasons why I shouldn't attempt tinkering with gasoline-fueled machinery indoors, white couch notwithstanding.

I brought Stella home on Saturday. I tried to live without her. I just couldn't do it. I'd been drooling over her for a long time during drive-bys past Ducati, where she shone like a dropped gem on the sidewalk. I also gazed at her lovingly, if from afar, via the web listing. Her chrome curves, her mermaid green and pearly cream custom paint job... *sigh*

When I stopped by Ducati on my way home Friday, I saw her up close and personal for the first time in all her two-stroke glory. My little heart fluttered and I bit my lip. "I'm in love," I told the sales guy. "With Stella." He smiled and nodded -- he was, too. Everyone was.

I barely slept that night. I was like a kid on Christmas. When I did sleep, I dreamed only of Stella and I racing down the cobblestone streets with the wind in my hair.

I drove her home in the rain on Saturday night. I had to check outside the house a few times to make sure she was still there, and again in the morning to be sure it wasn't a dream.

There is nothing on this Earth that curls my toes like a vintage scooter. I don't covet many material items. But a Vespa I will openly worship. And the most beautiful thing about Stella is, she doesn't act her age. She's got just 70 miles on that slender frame. A third of which I put on her today, doing loops around Queen Anne. She purrs. I smile.

(Just don't get behind me on a hill at a stop light. I haven't quite figured out the whole clutch, shift, uphill thing in the rain yet. Coordination is not one of my strong points.)