The morning brought central Pennsylvania’s dreaded “wintry mix” — a combination of rain, sleet, snow and freezing rain in a constantly changing mix.  During my walk with Junior the road surface changed from dry to wet to the amalgam in the above photo.  Definitely not the kind of weather I venture out into on the Vespa and certainly not on Aleta’s relatively pristine Yamaha Vino.

Running errands had the tires continually spinning on the Honda Fit with the traction control and ABS lights flashing repeatedly.  Traffic was light to non-existent as those not wishing to succumb to any Darwinian adjustments stayed home by the fire.

My last errand brought me to Rite-Aid Pharmacy and to my surprise there was a dripping, Bintelli Sprint 49cc scooter parked on the sidewalk.  “Cool” was my first thought while wondering who inside would claim ownership.  A closer look revealed a handicapped license plate which led second thoughts of courage or insanity.

Inside the owner was approaching, bright red 3/4 helmet on and one of those frightening, demonic skull masks covering the lower part of the face.  An eclectic combination of a big, hooded parka, blaze orange vest, camouflage gloves, jeans, and black boots hinted that the rider used their scooter for utilitarian transport with little thought about the style and convention of the riding fashionista companies that consume a lot of us.  The jury was still out on courage or insanity.

After an initial comment, “Quite a day to be on a scooter,” a conversation ensued that was both intriguing and frightening.  Allow me to begin…

It was a dark and icy day.  All the riders were home snug in their caves.  But one rider was on the road, using his scooter to retrieve required medications,  and take care of a friend’s dog.  He had already ridden twelve miles in the icy mess and had displayed the soaking wet pants from knees down due to the constant out-rigging of his boots to stay upright.  I know the technique and it’s tedious and tiring.  At this point I was leaning towards the courageous side of courage or insanity.

But there was the matter of the handicapped plate.  The rider shared his conversion from four-wheels to two which hinted at financial need.  The scooter was his daily transportation.  He also related the incredulity he faces when people try and balance a handicap with a two-wheeled scooter.  Listening I was saying to myself “emotional or mental handicap of some sort,” though the conversation did not reveal any hints of this.  Then the facts emerged.

Nerve damage affecting both arms to the point they could not reliably be used unless a surgical intervention took place.  Current status has several vertebrate fused and a titanium plate and rod keeping the neck together.  “Nerves are like bare wires,” made me cringe as he discussed how sudden jerks and movements could impair movement or cause permanent damage.  I’m now moving towards the insanity side of the courage or insanity balance.

And then he becomes quiet for a moment and says, “I want to live my life.”

The statement hangs in the air like a slowly fading smoke ring until I reply, “I understand.”

And then he went outside and was gone.  When I left a few minutes later I could see his single track across the parking lot with his boot marks dragging along side.

And I’m still wondering now if it’s courage or insanity.