Every now and then (read: every chance I get), I take Lady Luck's Vespa to run little errands. And every time I take the Vespa out for a ride, Lady Luck asks me to be nice to it.
She doesn't know how hard it is for me to ride the Vespa "nicely." Every time I get on it, I swear it starts whispering "Let's take that corner at 45 mph, and then ride down the sidewalk for a couple miles," in a sexy little Italian accent. "Maybe we could steal a cup of coffee right out of a cop's hand, while we're at it," it says.
Sure, the Triumph begs for a good spanking every time I ride it, but it's easier to resist. The Triumph is up front about it's intentions. It screams, "Hooligan!" I know what that bike is up to, and I can keep it under control. Mostly.
The Vespa, on the other hand, is a wily temptress. I'll think I'm riding responsibly and at a reasonable speed, then notice I'm actually dragging my knee through a blind right turn onto a pedestrian mall and yelling, "Wahoo!"
If there's a gap I can cut through in traffic on the scooter, I've already taken advantage of it by the time my brain registers the opening. This lead to disconcerting thoughts like "waitaminnit, how did I get into this lane?"
Now I'm more suspicious of the Vespa. I still like riding it, but I know that it's top agenda is not getting me to my destination in a safe and conscientious manner. Of course, no matter how careful I am to mind my speed and obey traffic laws, I still end up riding the Vespa like a crazed spider monkey.
I'm pretty sure I shouldn't get one for myself.