I decided to go on the Monkey Run ride to Port Townsend (via Whidbey Island–see the shamelessly stolen Google map right) yesterday. Monkey Run is a camping rally, and with my tent and sleeping bag in storage… no, it’s more that I was worried the Seattle scooter crowd would be as annoying as the San Francisco crowd, and I didn’t want to commit to an entire weekend with them until I knew. But I thought it would be fun to go a part of the way and scoot on Whidbey Island. I figured I would turn around before getting on the second ferry to Port Townsend.
I had trouble finding the starting point. There are, by my count, six distinct and unconnected Fifth Avenues in Seattle: northwest, northeast, west, south, southwest and normal. I discovered this useful fact the day after the ride. I was only able to find two Fifth Avenues on the map the morning of the ride, and neither was the right one. I finally stopped for directions 20 minutes before the ride was supposed to leave. Not that I was worried: I’ve never seen a scooter ride leave earlier than 20 minutes after the published starting time. Forty-five minutes late seems normal.
So I was more than a little bit shocked that, when I arrived 10 minutes before the published departure time, everyone was putting on their helmets and starting their scooters. I had barely enough time to run across the street, buy a Twix bar, and stuff one half of its chocolatey goodness in my gob before the ride took off (I hadn’t had breakfast yet and was planning to do so during the 30 to 40 minutes I expected to wait for the ride to start).
Then came the next bit of shock. Everyone rode calmly in two staggered lines just like they teach you. People weren’t jockeying for position or trying to get to the front of the pack at every stop sign. No one tried to gun through the center of the staggered lines, and no one raced past the pack in the shoulder. They were just riding.
Taking my scooter on the ferry to Whidbey Island was really cool. I’ve never had my scoot on a boat. Not much else to say about it, though.
At the Port Townsend ferry, three other riders–CJ, Kelly and Angelika–turned around and headed back to the city as well. Angelika told me that the Vespa Club of Seattle actually has rules on how to ride. I guess they enforce them somehow. It was great. CJ (unlike the San Francisco CJ, she is a woman and does not bleed two-stroke oil) also invited me to a scooter barbecue that evening. A barbecue at someone’s house in a nice neighborhood with a fantastic view, good (free) food, no annoying ska music, and conversations that went beyond the restoration of rusted out Vespa hulks from the 1960s.
Not that I’m opposed to restoration of rusted out Vespa hulks from the 1960s. I think that’s pretty cool. I just don’t want to talk about it for more than five minutes.
I think I may actually like this scooter crowd.