credit: blake snow

I was late for safety inspection.

In a blur, I rushed to the garage, hopped on my moped, and scooted out of suburbia. While doing 35 miles per hour over train tracks, I elevate my hiney to let my knees absorb the shock. Doing otherwise aggravates my bad back.

I exit right at the roundabout. Left at the bridge. Right on 500 West. Then left again to my first of three stops. “Just the safety test?” a greasy face asks me. “Yes,” I reply. After satisfying all of his procedural requests, I’m cleared for registration. 

With newfound optimism, I speed off to my second stop—the department of motor vehicles. Paying no mind to the full parking lot, I head to the handicap area and quickly ditch my conservative crotch rocket on the sidewalk nearest the entrance. I only have 10 minutes to spare, I think to myself. By an act of God, it only takes 12.

My Yamaha Vino is now official, all five horsepower of it.

With papers in hand—by “hand” I mean the under-the-seat storage compartment—I leave downtown for my final stop: the dentist. Zigzagging northwest through “heavy” Provo traffic, I finally reach Geneva Road, where I can really “open her up.”

Pinning the throttle, I reach a breathtaking top speed of 42 miles per hour… on a highway with a posted limit of 45. A white Suburban impatiently waits behind me to complete the three mile journey. Hair follicles cling to my scalp. A bug hits my cheek. A sketchy manhole is narrowly avoided.

My life is average.

After all is said and done, I arrive at Half Price Dental two minutes late. Because I can. Because I am. Because I drive a scooter.