One Brick Short

It’s 0:6-early in the morning and I’m putting my stuff into the Yoda, looking out on a snow-sprinkled Charlottesville landscape and thinking how beautiful it is and how slick it would be were I to clamber aboard the motor and ride to work.

That’s when I hear the familiar “wiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiinnnnnnnnnnnggggggggg” of my neighbors little Yamaha C-3 scooter, sort of a 50cc-powered beer cooler on two wheels as he comes up Yorktown and hangs a right onto Meadowbrook Heights Road. I watch him pull away and I can’t help but think he’s crazy.

And I’m a sissy.

I used to ride in the cold. A lot. If it was 30 degrees or more, I’d ride. On Christmas Eve, before my family let me in and I lived alone with the dog, I’d ride regardless of how cold it was.

At 50, I don’t do that so much. I still ride when it’s cold, but I don’t necessarily enjoy it. There’s something nice and warm and comfy about the defroster on high and the iPod on higher, a steaming cup of decaf and a banana for the long 5-mile journey to work.

Still, I can’t help but feel all sissyfied when that little C-3 tools on by.

I look at the car. I look at the Blast. I open the door and get it and start Yoda up.

I may be a wuss, but this wuss is warm.