BREAKDOWN!

May 25, 2012       A day that will live in infamy!  The weekly events rag told us that this was graduation week at Annapolis.  While we could not get into the actual grad ceremony, the public was welcome at a dress parade to be held today.  We debated trying to get there via public transit, but abandoned that as too cumbersome.  We decided to take the scoot.  Our only reluctance was the weather.  Scattered thunderstorms were forecast.  So, we packed our ponchos and overalls raingear and hit the road.  With the help of Google and AAA, I plotted out a route that hopefully we could follow and which avoided freeways.  About 30 miles or so, we figured an hour would do it.  This was our first significant ride since I, uh, dumped us in the Santa Monica mountains, so Loni was a little wary at first.  But all went well, and we cruised into the brick streets of Old Annapolis . . . until the scoot sputtered, caught, sputtered, and d-i-e-d.  There being no hood to pop, I crouched and gave it the good stare.  I thought I’d let it cool, and then retry to fire.  Nope.  It would cough and die.  Repeatedly.  This is not good.

Fortunately, I had done two things before setting out on this trip.  I added the scoot to our Coachnet road service policy, and I bought our first smartphone, an iPhone 4.  I was still a rookie at using it, but I went online and searched for Vespa dealers.  There were only two within 50 miles, but one of them was right here in Annapolis.  Hooray!  I phoned them up, explained the situation, and asked if they could take us in.  The nice gal said yes, although unsure how much could be done on a Friday afternoon during grad week.  They didn’t have a fetching truck of their own, but she gave me the names of two tow companies that they use.  I called the closest one and gave them our location and made sure they understood that it was a scooter.  About a half hour later, he comes rumbling down the street and, miraculously, finds parking just beyond us.  We had to push the scoot up onto the flatbed, which wasn’t flat at this point.

I had to hold it at the top while the driver jumped down to fiddle with the tie-down straps.  He had a lot of trouble figuring out how to secure it, and finally admitted he was fairly new and had only hauled motorcycles, never a scooter.  After a lot of fumbling, he finally got it tied to his satisfaction.  I was dubious, and said so, but he said this would work just fine.  We piled in and rode with him to the cycle shop.

All went well, with me craning back to check on the scoot’s stability as we drove along.  We reached the shop’s driveway, and made a sharp turn into it.  BANG!  I looked back through the window and did not see the scoot.  He stopped immediately, uttered a low, unintelligible curse, and we got out.  The scoot had fallen over, but was still on the platform.  But, the fairing had landed edge-on to the side rail of the bed, and now sported a nice gash-dent where the impact point was.  The side pod was further dented (old readers will recall that I dropped the scoot off the back of the RV), the left brake handle was bent, the left marker light was demolished, and who knows what internal injuries.  The driver couldn’t stop apologizing, begged me to let him pay for the damage and not tell his employer, etc. etc.  I said we’d have to first let the shop sort it out.  He lowered the bed and I backed the scoot down and off.  He then “helped” push it to the shop.  In doing so he broke the plastic gripper that keeps the folding carrier in the open position.  Why didn’t he just shoot the scoot?  It would be a quicker death.

The shop guy came out to look it over.  He hit the starter and . . . it fired right up, and kept running!  WHA?  He took it for a brief ride and then into the shop.  About a half hour later he comes out and says we have a busted fuel pump.  Estimated cost:  hundreds of dollars.  Oh, and he doesn’t have one in stock.  We went outside to mull our options, like, go get the rig and pile the dead scoot on it.  The mechanic came out and told us he had some good news.  He was researching the part, and found that there had been a recall for these pumps.  Apparently, Vespa tried to save money by having them built in China, and the Chinese manufacturer used some plastic part that was subject to meltdown.  So, the repair would be free, but he’d still have to order a replacement from Atlanta.  Over Memorial Day weekend.  From order to complete fix, he estimated a week.  We were due to be moving on in a week, so we told him to go ahead.

That left us lost in Annapolis;  actually, lost on the outskirts of Annapolis as we were in the boonies in a commercial park.  The guys at Chesapeake Cycles couldn’t have been nicer.  The manager went online and researched bus routes, and found us one that would get us to the nearest terminus of the metro system.  Unfortunately, its nearest stop was a couple of miles away.  No problem, he gets out his own truck and drives us over to the spot.  He wasn’t too sure which side of the street we should be on, but said to ask around.  We thanked him and got out.  Well, none of the signs seemed to indicate the line he had identified.  We walked around to see if there were nearby stops, and went in to two businesses to ask, but no one had heard of it.  We finally found a stop that had multiple bus line signs, including an old one that had our company’s name on it, but a different route number.  I used the iPhone to google the company, found a website with a number, and called them.  The person who answered just said “hello.”  I asked for the company.  He said they’re out of business.  “AUGH",” I said, or words to that effect.  He then told me that they were a new company that had taken over the old one’s route.  After explaining what we needed, he directed us to a stop about a half mile away, and gave us the only remaining pick-up time that afternoon, about an hour away.  We hoofed it down the road, found the stop, and settled in.  We had no idea what the bus would look like, so we were hopping up and down as an assortment of city and private buses/vans came by this stop.  Finally, about 20 minutes late, one of those airport shuttle-type vehicles (like take you to remote parking lots) pulled up with the right name on it and we got on.  I have to say, I felt we were in the third world as far as the casual nature of this operation.  People standing up talking with the driver the whole time.  The driver himself a teenaged kid.  An eclectic clientele.  A bus that, while fairly clean, had seen better days.  Beggars can’t be choosers.  We were happy to be heading in relatively the right direction.  We must have traveled an hour and a half, both city streets and freeway, before getting to the New Carrolton metro terminus.  We then made our way back, changing trains, and catching the park bus home.

This had been our most frustrating day of all our travels.  But, if this is the worst, I can’t complain too much.  Loni made a “leftovers hash” for dinner (a whole lot tastier than it sounds), and I bought a tub of peach ice cream at the park store.  All, gradually, is well.  But it’s strange not to see the scoot parked outside.