Changing to a Vespa is a romantic journey into its heritage

It’s not easy convincing those you love that you’re not about to die, assuring them that each time you fire up your scooter is not the last time they will see all your body parts attached to each other. But ditching your car for a two-wheel lifestyle is a process, and proving that Joburg’s mean streets can be conquered is part of the journey.

For me, it was more difficult. When I was eight, I volunteered to be a human test-crash dummy for the windscreen of a Ford station wagon, which was being driven by a perfectly nice gentleman. It’s a long story that involves a bicycle, a busy road and a hospital, but the end result was that I was forbidden from ever owning another bike.

When I grew old enough to not need permission, I bought a BMX and promptly began donating my skin to a skate park. By the time I decided to buy a scooter I was in my 30s and back to needing permission, this time from my wife. Although supportive, she kept reminding me that I was a father now and had a responsibility to stay alive as long as possible.

But something inside me was stirring. It wasn’t a desire to ride a superbike at 250km/h or join Sons of Anarchy. It wasn’t about adrenalin or defying death to feel alive. I had done enough of that. What I was after was a different way to connect to my city. To crawl out of the metal skin that was my car and feel freedom. To stop spending so much time stuck in an air-conditioned bubble, pretending to not be checking my Twitter timeline while crawling along in traffic, doing everything humanly possible to not make eye contact with the pamphlet guy.

I was desperately bored of the routine and felt agony at losing hours of my life to my daily commute. I thought about how much more connected I felt to downtown Jozi as I walked along Pritchard Street, the eyes of history following me from every building.

So I did it. I bought a scooter and began to ride. At first, I was that new kid at the ice rink, moving slowly on wobbly legs, holding onto the rails and trying hard to be invisible. But the beauty about confidence is it grows quickly with experience and within days I was exploring new lines through tricky corners or bends in the road. Leaving home at 5.30am on a fresh summer morning I gulped down the air, swallowing great big mouthfuls, filling my lungs with the breath of a sleeping city.

I loved driving past a large construction site near my house, my nose filling up with the soapy smell of dozens of workers washing for the day ahead. I loved feeling an icy chill as I drove over a bridge. I even enjoyed waiting for a robot to change behind the exhaust pipes of an Audi RS5, its fumes making me wonder about the man or woman inside. Coming up over the hill near Sandton Clinic at sunrise, with the panorama of the new CBD unfolding on the red horizon, became one of my favourite moments of the day.

As I approached the office, I tried to catch the sun flares that bounced off the futuristic buildings in Sandton. I found myself constantly gazing up at the sky, reading the clouds, timing my rides on rumbling thunderstorms rather than rush-hour traffic. The thought of looking up at the sky delighted me.

My drive to and from work became my private time. On a Sunday morning, I would ride to buy freshly baked rolls and newspapers from the Spar, or to Parkhurst for a cappuccino.

Do I feel safe? Yes. My experience has been of drivers who are mostly considerate, while I try my best to respect the number one rule: don’t be an asshole. In a jungle, the biggest animal wins. On a scooter, you are the smallest creature. In return for vigilance, you can slice your way through an hour’s worth of traffic along William Nicol Drive and make your petrol bill all but disappear.

Learning to ride a scooter is a journey of discovery. First you discover fear. Then freedom. Then you discover why gloves are important (operating a bike with frozen planks of wood for hands is challenging) and that you can never have too many layers on a cold morning. Later, you discover that getting caught in a rain storm takes you back to the ice rink and that not having windscreen wipers for your face sucks. And then, after all that, you discover it’s not really about where you’re going but the experience of getting there.

For me, this discovery coincided with Vespa’s 70th birthday. For almost two weeks, I got to play with a brand new 150cc Montebianco White Primavera. When I say brand new I mean that when I drove it out of the parking lot it had 0km on the clock, its tyres were all spiky and its glowing blue instrument panel flashed me a virginal wink.

The Vespa model I was test-driving sells for around R100,000 and my quest was to see if I would find where all this money goes. At first glance it’s difficult to understand how something so small could cost so much. But within hours, the Italian seduction begins. The Vespa is perfectly balanced. I’m not sure what sorcery occurs beneath the saddle (I’m told the chassis has a lot to do with it) but even when you are virtually stopped, the bike sits upright and allows you to drop your feet at the last second. It’s like one of those punching toys that never falls over.

This makes a huge difference to riding because it gives you extra confidence to lean the bike a little lower while carving out a corner (multiplying the enjoyment factor) or to cruise along just a little longer. Then there’s the ABS brakes. On a scooter! Being able to stop quickly and securely lets you pick up extra speed between robots or push the engine a little further on the open stretches. This is a great joy booster.

The brochures say Vespas are built for life and it does feel that way. The bike is solid and the throttle responsive. The power is not going to rip your arms off but it’s there instantly and downhills are exhilarating. The scooter glides around town and has no trouble climbing up to 100km/h and beyond.

For those of us not born to play basketball, the Vespa is the perfect height, allowing for a flat-foot pause at intersections. The seat feels like two soft hands cupping your buttocks. I’m sorry, but there’s really no other way of explaining it. My only gripe is the silent indicator, which I constantly kept forgetting to switch off. But you probably get used to it.

The cost lies in the quality: the quality of the engine and of the finish. The owner of a limited-edition Mini Cooper will tell you that what matters is how a dashboard switch feels when you flick it. A user of a Macbook Pro knows that he can get a cheap laptop for a quarter of the price, but won’t. A Bic pen will do the job but for some writers there’s nothing quite like a fountain pen. The Vespa answer lies in the experience, not in the practicality or purpose of the machine.

Ultimately, it’s about owning an object of desire. Tapping into the romance of it. The beauty of the lines. The classic flair of its heritage. It’s about that second glance you give it as you walk away.

One afternoon, I parked the Vespa at the entrance of a little Italian restaurant in Parktown North. A tall man in a brand new BMW 7 series, worth R1.5m, maybe more, parked next to me and climbed out, the fine gravel crunching under his designer shoes. He noticed the bike and we fell into a conversation, which quickly attracted the restaurant owner, who also happened to own a Vespa.

“How much do you want for it?” the BMW driver eventually asked. I couldn’t tell whether he was serious. I think he was. I had a feeling he could literally dig into his pocket and produce the cash. “I wish it was mine to sell,” I replied, knowing full well that even if it was, I wouldn’t be selling it.