The Accidental Adult by Colin Sokolowski

The Accidental Adult by Colin Sokolowski

Author:Colin Sokolowski
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Adams Media
Published: 2010-07-15T00:00:00+00:00


7. transportation

SUVs and Minivans—It’s How We Roll

“Ed, this is not the car I ordered. I distinctly ordered the Antarctic Blue Super Sports Wagon with the CB and the optional rally fun pack.”

—Clark Griswold, National Lampoon’s Vacation

My journey from childhood to accidental adulthood took place atop a black and purple 1986 Honda Spree scooter. And I couldn’t be more proud.

I give full credit to those funky scooter commercials from the ’80s. They played about every fifteen minutes on MTV, and I was there soaking it all in from the vantage of my corduroy beanbag chair slumped about two feet away from my parents’ Zenith television set, changing channels with my toes in the harsh, pre–remote control era. There was the megalomaniac Chicago Bears quarterback Jim McMahon endorsing “outrageousness!” and “waking people up” with a scooter. Another spot featured the new wave band Devo (as if they weren’t in MTV’s rotation enough) encouraging viewers to “Choose a scooter that best expresses your individuality” and to “Always wear your helmet.”

But my favorite ad was the one with the robotic and chiseled pop culture icon Grace Jones and pretty boy British singer Adam Ant, whose playful exchange went something like this:

Grace Jones: “It’s easy! It’s quick! It’s fun! It’s sexy!”

Adam Ant: “I’ll take it!”

Grace Jones: “I’ll take you!” (Biting his ear.)

Announcer: “Honda scooters. They’re everything but ordinary.”

At sixteen years old, that’s all I needed to hear.

“That’s me!” I thought. “ I am everything but ordinary. In fact, I’m extraordinary! Where do I get one?”

Looking back, I must have fit their target market perfectly: cash-strapped, media-manipulated, teenage male in need of transportation and hoping to boost his social status among high school females. So I emptied my savings of $450 and became one of the first in central Wisconsin to take a walk on the wild side astride a Honda Spree.

By that summer, though, my town’s streets were besieged by high school scooter gangs—packs of punks wildly weaving and speeding through traffic on their black and red scooters. But I wasn’t among them. Nope. When I kick-started my Purple Rain (yeah, I lamely named my black and purple scooter in honor of Prince), I left the claustrophobic confines of Marshfield (pop. 18,290) and imagined myself entering Lou Reed’s New York City urban playground. When I was two blocks out of sight from my parents’ house, I’d take off my mom-required (and Devo-endorsed) helmet, throw it into the makeshift basket on the back rack (a purple milk crate I strapped down with a series of bungee cords), and let my mullet blow free in the wind. And instead of joining a scooter gang, I chose to ride solo with only a Sony Walkman, earphones, and a few mix tapes of Duran Duran and Phil Collins for company.

But I was about to get a permanent copilot.

A few years after high school, I decided to haul my scooter to college 100 miles away in Minnesota, thinking it might transform me into the Big Man On Campus.



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