A million names, a thousand mopeds

Seven hundred is the official count.

But no one knows exactly how many moped brands were manufactured over the course of time. It seems if you think of adjective, just pick one out of the air, there was probably a moped made bearing that name proudly on its sides like a cosmic tattoo.

Periodically, I try to examine my continuing fascination- dare i say obsession- with these notoriously underpowered, temperamental motorcycle/bicycle hybrids. Why is it that I constantly scour Craigslist for old mopeds when I vowed not to buy another one? That this is not the time to buy anything, much less a vehicle. Yet here i sit. Brooding. mulling over mopeds. I am a junkie itching for a fix.

Is it simply a sort of desperation to hold onto a dream of my youth? To keep it alive, if only in my mind? No!

This is more, this is something important, vital. I know it is more than an adolescent fantasy. Perhaps it is that i know,intrinsically, the moped. From front to back, top to bottom, inside out, as much as one can know a thing. I know it and am familiar, and that is indeed a good word, familiar. It is like family, one big crazy extended family is the moped community to a seasoned ped-head like this one.

Over the three years I owned my mustard yellow 1978 Puch Maxi moped, I spent literally hundreds of hours working on it, rebuilding its engine, tuning its carburetor, puttering down and pedaling up the cruel slopes of Seattle. Through these endless acts of devotion a bond was formed, pure and true. Like a stubborn sister to her senile cat who has racked up thousands in vet bills. An expense that while hard to justify rationally, is easy to understand on a relational, primal heart level.

Yes, the moped is that. It is my wretched cat. Hacking up mysterious pieces of her innards, bits which ought never see the light of day. Shaking and sputtering and leaving indicting trails of debri like bloody footprints. I suppose I will ever get over this love affair. Like our first love, nothing else will ever quite stack up. No matter how obvious its shortcomings and basis in selfish neediness are to everyone else's gawking stares.

She's mine, dammit, and I am hers. And nothing will tear us apart!

Oh Crappola...this is just duckyThe gas tank just started leaking fuel on my leg! I hate this moped. This is the last straw. I'm done with these infernal machines. what is the point in slaving over a barely rolling chunk of metal when I can hop a bus, ride a bike, or hell, open the front door and-gasp!- just walk to the corner store for that six pack (of fruit), one foot in front of the other, just like grampa used to do.