Calhouns Can(n)ons

Calhoun’s Cannons for July 31, 2009

Putt-putt, Vroom-vroom

The snippet in the Tribune’s “Business Buzz” caught my eye; A grand opening at the old McCarthy’s used car lot, but instead of cars, there would be a grand selection of Vespa motor scooters. Vespas!

Instantly it was 1962 and I was back in Art Center School in Los Angeles, standing next to my fellow student and friend, a wonderful photographer from England named Roy Brody, looking at his little blue Vespa scooter. It was for sale.

I was thoroughly fed up with trying to schlep drawing board, fishing tackle box filled with paints and brushes onto and off of city buses, or having to bum a ride to and from the school. And I certainly couldn’t afford to own a car. But a Vespa? It was sort of like a bicycle, wasn’t it? At least that’s how I put it to my parents, who were putting up the $250. And since the previous summer I had gone on a bicycle tour through Europe with the American Youth Hostel group, pedaling through insane European traffic without incident, I think my parents thought – what’s the difference? It’s a small motorized . . . bicycle, isn’t it? She pedaled safely through Milan and Paris, didn’t she?

Well, yes, sort of. And so the deal was done and “Charlie” became mine. He was light blue, and was the smallest Vespa model available at the time, running on a 2-stroke engine, with motor oil dumped right into the gas tank like a lawn mower. And when he got balky, I just had to change out the spark-plug to once again hear his steady putt-putt.

I had a wooden box made to fit on the rear luggage rack and into it went all the art stuff with my drawing board bungee-corded on top. Best of all, unlike a regular motorcycle, the Vespa had a step-in well so you could actually sit on it rather than straddle it. Which was extremely important since Art Center School was a professional art school that required a professional dress code. In the case of girls in 1962, that meant dresses and/or tailored skirts, nylons and high heel shoes; all perfectly doable with the lady-like, slide-on-the-seat Vespa. Although, I must admit, the sight must have been an exceedingly strange one since in that day girls just didn’t ride “motorcycles.” At least “proper ladies” didn’t, not even in high heels.

Beyond the convenience of getting to and from class, Charlie brought enormous freedom to my previously bus-restricted life. The entire city was mine to explore, from the wilderness of Mulholland Drive, to Malibu and Zuma Beach, to the warehouse warrens of downtown L.A., to the museums and libraries, including the extraordinary main downtown library. Sundays turned into day-long explorations of all the odd byways of L.A., a perfect celebration of being young, being bold, being mobile, being on two wheels in a huge new city. It didn’t get any better than that.

When I got married and headed off to Texas, Charlie went into storage and eventually was donated to a charity. And life moved on until 40-some years later, there I stood in front of all these gleaming Vespas. But this time, like most of America, the Vespas had been super-sized into very large, gleaming high-tech, bells & whistles “motorcycles.” They were much larger, smoother, sleeker, quieter, heavier, easier (no hopping on a kick starter, just push a button), and 100 times more expensive. But to a young student, they surely still held the lure of the open road; freedom in a new town waiting to be explored.

In the showroom, I spoke to a man about having once owned a Vespa, and he asked, “Are you going to get one again?”

“No,” I replied, smiling. But it was tempting, that sudden vision of a young me hidden inside that old lady from Los Osos once again tooling around on a sleek new incarnation of Charlie. But then reality returned.

There is a time for everything under heaven and I’m wise enough now to know it’s never smart to tempt fate twice. I had my time, my place, my youth, my adventures on my “Charlie.” And I did it all with no dangerous incidents, no broken bones, thereby proving that God does indeed look out for drunks, fools and little children, especially those driving around Los Angeles on a little Vespa. Putt-putt, Vroom-vroom.