He remembered when he was a kid and had once substituted as paperboy for a buddy, using his buddy's motor scooter. He remembered that it was cool.
Decades later, retired and living in Florida, he donated his ten-year-old Saturn to the sheriff's Boy's Ranch. He and his wife thus became a one-car family. He noticed an increase in the number of folks riding motor scooters, and thought it would be a super, neat-o, peachy-keen idea to purchase one for himself. After all, there was no reason for him to stay home while his wife was out doing church things, mother-daughter things, grandmother-granddaughter things.
So he went shopping. He found just the perfect 50 cc scooter, large enough to get himself around town without having to jump through $300-plus hoops to obtain a motorcycle endorsement for his driver's license. The scooter was blue, of course, with some really neat detailing and a fanny pack on back. He gazed upon it and saw that it was cool.
Before he took delivery he stopped at Wal-Mart and bought a plain black motorcycle helmet. He had a decal of the wings he had earned in the Air Force, and he attached it to the helmet. He asked a buddy who lived in Colorado Springs to go to the Air Force Academy and purchase for him a pair of decals of the lightning bolts which adorn the Falcons' football helmets. He attached those to the helmet, along with a decal of the Air Force logo. And on the back he attached a decal of the rank he held when he retired. He gazed upon the helmet and saw that it was cool.
He thought about buying a motorcycle jacket, the kind with spikes on the shoulders and a skull on the back, and a pair of motorcycle boots to wear in colder weather. He fantasized about riding over to the local burger joint for biker day, but his wife suggested that if he showed up over there on a scooter while wearing Hell's Angels garb they would beat him up for his spending money. So he settled for a flight jacket with a neck scarf that blew behind him in his wake turbulence. He gazed at his shadow as he sped along and saw that it was cool.
He bought a license plate frame that announced his affiliation with the Air Force and attached a "Retired Air Force" decal on the fanny pack. He named his scooter Blue Thunder.
"You should have named it El Toro," said his wife.
"What, after a bull?" he asked.
"No, after the lawn mower it sounds like."
For 18 months he rode it to the movies, to his volunteer jobs at the Elks lodge and St Pete General, to meet his wife at her church or at their favorite beach restaurant for lunch, to the library, grocery, carry-out, mall, bookstore, or wherever. And he saw that it was really cool.
Until January 2, 2011. It was Sunday morning, and he was scheduled to cashier breakfast at the lodge. His wife offered to drop him off on her way to church, but he wanted to take Blue Thunder for a ride. He went through his pre-flight checklist, kicked the tires and lit the fires, used his key chain remote to raise the garage door, and off he went.
It had drizzled all night and the pavement was wet. He was following an SUV as he approached a speed bump. Speed bumps were for cars, he thought, not for scooters. So he started around the bump, concentrating on avoiding the curb.
When he looked up he saw that the SUV had slowed to practically nothing to turn into a driveway. He grabbed the brake hand levers, and the scooter immediately stopped. He didn't.
To be continued. . . .
No comments:
Post a Comment