A Tale of Two Scooters

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A Boy and His Scooter

I’ll always remember my first kick scooter.

I was 10 years old, smack dab in the middle of childhood. A kick scooter craze had taken my school and not surprisingly, I was the last to get on board.

Always the penny-pincher, my mom was resistant. Questions like, “What’s a scooter?”, “Why don’t you just walk?”, and “If everyone else jumped off a bridge would you?” shattered my hopes of joining the scooter ranks.

But, as luck would have it, Christmas was right around the corner, and a the scooter was at the top of my list.

To my surprise, I was met on Christmas morning with a brand, new Razor scooter: Shiny silver with black handlebars. razor scooter My mom hadn’t sprung for the wheelie bar, but still I was ecstatic.

That day and many days to follow, I explored my neighborhood with a new-found freedom. There’s an ease to scootering that lets you lose yourself in the motion. I think even then I recognized and appreciated that moment of utter forgetfulness.

As often happens with childhood hobbies, my love for the kick scooter began to fade. I think it was some point in high school where it met it’s final state: crushed behind my mom’s mini van compliments of a forgetful, little brother.

I didn’t think twice about it.

What Goes Around, Comes Around

I’m not quite sure where my second scooter came from, but I do remember the day in college when I was leaving my apartment and I saw it.

Not unlike that Christmas morning, there it was, leaning against the wall – shiny and black, a spitting image of my former vehicle. It probably belonged to my roommate before, but after that day, it became mine.

My ride to class was pure joy. The familiar rhythm of my foot and the ground was like running into an old friend.

As I rolled down a hill on campus, I once again let myself get lost in the motion, and I realized that I needed a scooter now more than ever.

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