how to ride a vespa

While on vacation recently, our boys rented Vespas on the small Croatian island of Korcula. It had been years since I had ridden one, but in the early morning before heading off by boat to our next destination, I decided to join our eldest son and ride to a neighboring town.

Waiting for us at the edge of a parking lot were the brightly colored Vespas, calling out to us, “Buongiorno! Ciao Bella! Andiamo!” Images of beautiful Europeans on scooters, hair flowing in the wind, gliding gracefully on ancient streets in ancient towns with baskets of goods from the farmers market flashed through my head.

I’ve got this.

Gingerly, I straddled the bike with its weight balancing between my legs and pushed back the kickstand. I started the engine, twisted the throttle, and wobbled out of the parking lot, maneuvering – barely – around parked cars (and certainly not winning the confidence of pedestrians in the vicinity).

Following our son out onto the road, I noticed that he rode like he was born on a Vespa – leaning into the turns and looking around casually at the passing scenery. On the other hand, I felt like a 100-year-old Vespa virgin, tightening my helmet and adjusting my speed – accelerating then decelerating then accelerating – to adapt to my fluctuating comfort level.

We approached a traffic circle, and again my son effortlessly weaved through the cars and trucks, while I tried to find my sea legs or Vespa legs or any legs. I panicked.

And my instinctual response to that panic was to gun it, right into the oncoming traffic; I may have even closed my eyes. There were loud honks and what I assume were Croatian curse words…but I made it through.

But it made me think.

Is that how I react to an apparent threat? Rushing full speed ahead, eyes closed, without much thought and hoping for the best?

I could think of circumstances when that was certainly the case. There was the time when our dog got into a fight with another dog and, without taking my own safety into consideration and without much thought, I jumped in to break it up.

But perhaps more daunting is my reaction to emotional peril, when my natural instinct is to go full throttle: attacking, defending, and protecting like my life depends on it – and leaving a trail of destruction in my wake (or a number of cursing Croatians).

Having raised four children, over the course of many years this “mama bear” response has reared its ugly head on a number of occasions, but one in particular stands out. At a parent-teacher conference, a teacher said to us, “Sometimes I look at your child and it’s like there is nothing going on inside of his head – crickets.”

Crickets? Small cylindrical insects with large eyes and long antennae? Hmmm. And whether it was true or not (I would like to think the latter) – and without much thought – I gave that teacher a piece of my mind, which then demanded an apology. Crickets.

But if I am being completely honest, I have been stricken by the polar opposite reaction, too. Sometimes rather than riding the Vespa into the oncoming traffic at great speed, I have become completely paralyzed – stalled, stuck, and unable to do anything.

And neither reaction is very helpful.

Psychologists call this the fight or flight response – an automatic reaction to an event that is perceived as stressful or threatening. While these responses were helpful to our ancestors for actual survival in dangerous situations, our bodies can still instinctually react in much the same way, although these modern-day events may not merit it.

And since I was on vacation and had the time to dig a little deeper, I considered the words “without much thought”; they seemed to be a recurring theme. I wondered how much better an outcome could be if I was able to pause and think through a reaction, rather than struggle on autopilot.

Sometimes twisting the throttle or slamming the breaks makes everything - both the physical and the emotional - more problematic.

That day in Korcula, though, ended well. After enduring the traffic circle and a number of busy intersections, I actually sat back in the seat and enjoyed the scenery. We made it to the neighboring town and were rewarded with a quiet little fishing village and a beautiful old chapel that overlooked the harbor.

I found my Vespa legs, and I got to spend the morning with our eldest son – gracefully gliding on ancient streets in ancient towns.