Roger Tango is my hero.

On 14th & E. Thomas this afternoon.

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.)