Motor scooters have been my preferred mode of transport in India, Bali, French Polynesia, Vietnam and the Caribbean. It’s one of my favorite ways to just be with a place – not to see anything in particular, but to experience the rush of images, the veil of wind and the freedom of a meandering mind.
I imagine that it feels like flying.
I traveled to six continents over a period of 20 years before I brought that visceral pleasure back home. Before that, whenever I saw someone riding a motorcycle or scooter, I wished it were me.
Why can’t it be me? I wondered. Always a long list of reasons: I can’t afford it; it’s too cold for too long in the Northeast; I live in an apartment – where would I keep it so no one will steal it? When I bought a house with a garage, I ran out of excuses.
At the time, I lived in Hartford, Connecticut – a quiet city with a population of 122,000. There are stretches of back roads that lead to neighboring suburbs where I rode my scooter – maximum speed 45 mph – while passing as few as two-dozen cars early on a Saturday morning.
My favorite road was in a town called Rocky Hill. The street was straight and flat enough that I could see far into the distance. My favorite moment came when I turned onto this strip and saw no other vehicles.
That’s when I pretended I was on Route 66 and let it rip while belting out Steppenwolf’s Born to be Wild.
Today is the day to grab hold of your joy.
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