Not a motorcycle exactly. Not like a Harley.
Most people her age can’t afford Harleys. Those are for established business men and retirees.
She called hers a scooter. I sent her this picture from the grocery store and asked if this is what it looked like.
Her husband rolled his eyes. “Not that kind of scooter.”
Lots of people drive motorcycles, but I never pictured my baby girl out on the open road without the protection of tons of metal and airbags.
As my kids grew up, I controlled their environment. Where they lived. Where they vacationed. What activities they participated in. And, what kind of car they rode around in.
I drove a big mom car, an SUV – practically lived in it. I could face any challenge with the case of water bottles, snack box, handwarmers, band-aids, three blankets, and a dining canopy, that I kept in my car. Surely, my daughter would do the same.
As a teenager, she once asked, “Why have I visited all the western states, but no place in the east?”
My response. “Dad and I prefer the the west. When you grow up, you can do whatever you want.”
Challenge accepted.
She married and moved to the city.
Not the suburbs – the city city.
Not a western city – a city Back East.
I like to visit her in the old brownstone with tiny one-way streets, designed for horse drawn carriages. But I wouldn’t want to live there. My new home sits on two acres of cactus and pinion trees near a small town.
It didn’t take her long to trade my old SUV in for a Fiat. She claims it is a step up from a Smart Car, but I have my doubts. She can always find a parking spot near her apartment. I close my eyes as she squeezes into the impossible space. Apparently, some cars wear bumper protectors to shield them from “love taps.”
If she stops at Costco on her way home from work, she can’t fill the cart too full. Her purchases would never fit in the little car.
When my daughter and her husband moved to the city, they touted the wonders of mass transit. My son-in-law planned to ride the subway and use Uber. No car needed. No maintenance and insurance cost. But mass transit isn’t free. For the cost of the subway pass, they can pay for the scooter and ride whenever and wherever they want, as long as they stay under fifty miles per hour (the scooter’s top speed).
My daughter assures me it has lots of storage. Note the little box on the back. She researched and purchased the best safety equipment available. “My helmet covers my jaw, because I am a singer, and I care about my jaw.”
She calls the car and the scooter her “little Italian family.”
The newlyweds have their adventure and I have mine.
All I can do is let them live their lives. . . and blog about it. Thanks for the material, honey.