THE old adage tells me I’m not to knock something before giving it a red hot go, or something like that.
There’s been plenty of commentary floating around about e-scooters, about how they’re ridden, where they’re placed after they’ve been ridden, and the way they’re left when no longer required.
As a younger man, I rode my bicycle to school. Not every day, but most days.
We spent some time in a country town where the icy, early-morning wind chills would rush straight through the woollen balaclava I was given by my grandmother whose intentions were well-meaning, but her knitting skills left a bit to be desired.
I’m no knitting expert either, but I came to the conclusion that it was a more effective proposition to wear the thing backwards. The gaps in the stitching were big enough to enable a clear line of vision.
Sure, it was still cold. As a beggar, I was in no position to be choosy.
I do recall a particular girl I was fond of at that school – before Wanda’s time – who didn’t speak to me very often.
She did on one morning say hello, at which point I launched into a conversation about my trip to school, unaware that I hadn’t removed the balaclava, nor turned it to its rightful position. The girl wouldn’t have heard a word I said.
Wanda can be grateful for that balaclava. Sliding doors may well have taken my relationship with that girl in an entirely different direction had it not been for the dorky face mask I was wearing as I asked her for a muffled date.
I don’t remember her name, and I doubt she ever knew mine.
Never mind, the point is that since high school I don’t think I’ve ever taken to a two-wheel mobility device. Maybe one time on holidays we were forced to ride a segue, but that’s it.
No skateboards, no motorbikes, and no roller skates since the time I split my head open on the concrete floor of the local rink – rainbow colours from the spinning disco balls above us, streaming across the sore wrists that lessened the impact of the fall as I wallowed in my own pity.
I considered myself a fair athlete during my learning years, but I’m living proof that hand-eye coordination had little correlation with balance.
Yet, here I stand at a popular Logan intersection in front of an e-scooter, trying to figure out which way the helmet goes, only to be reminded by Wanda that someone must have been wearing it prior.
She reaches into her purse to pull out a wet wipe. You know, she says –Â Covid.
At which point I realise that the odour emanating from the inside of the helmet’s casing was indeed that of sun-baked sweat.
So I put the head gear temporarily aside, wondering where I might find the nearest discount store in an effort to purchase my own.
Wanda sidles up beside me with an upright scooter. The wheels don’t yet turn because we’re still unable to figure out the technology required to transact with its rightful owner.
At this point, we’ve realised we should have come better prepared. We must, it would seem, download an app, fill in our details and pop in our credit card.
I also realised that the same smell that was coming from the helmet was also stuck to the handlebars of the scooter.
It must be said at this stage that Wanda has no intention of riding with me. This, she says, is my experiment and like a police officer about to make an arrest, she reads me a list of terms and conditions – not of the e-scooter company, just of her own.
She lets me know in no uncertain terms that any injury is my responsibility and that she won’t – under any circumstances – be touching or cleaning blood. She may, if in the vicinity of any accident, ring an ambulance but holds no culpability for delayed response.
She also tells me this is a Point A to Point B piece of machinery. From wherever I end up, it is my duty to find a way home.
You know what, Wanda? I think the people should make up their own minds about these damn e-scooters. Let’s just go for a drive instead.
