Mopeds

In the spirit of John Green’s book of the same title, our theme for the month of October is “the Anthropocene reviewed.” Writers were asked to review and rate some facet of human experience on a five-star scale.

Resale value – four out of five stars

I bought my first moped from a friend of a friend who was moving back to Spain with only what she could fit in her suitcases. She lingered for a moment after she handed me the title and keys. “Her name is Libertad,” she said in her castellano lisp. “Take care of her!”

 

Safety – three stars

The last time I’d driven a moped was on a cycling trip from Honduras’s south coast to its north where I buzzed along keeping the slowest rider company and radioing updates ahead to the organizers. On a gravelly stretch of highway I braked too fast and tumbled off the side of the road, tearing my knee and arm open. The scar on my leg had since faded to a wrinkled spot the size of a quarter and I was ready to try again. 

 

Ease of use – five stars

As her name suggested, Libertad would be freedom for me. My first few years in Honduras saw me utterly dependent on others for transportation. I learned to navigate mototaxis and city buses, to call radio taxis and beg friends for rides. But options were limited after dark – which, close as we were to the equator, fell stubbornly at 6 p.m. 

Libertad takes me to the Honduran philharmonic choir and its late-night rehearsals with the mercurial maestro who fired half the choir in a fit of pique. Libertad takes me to the National University to help with a youth English program founded and run by Honduran college students. She takes me to salsa class and French class. When my brother visits, she takes him around too, his long legs folded up behind me and his eyes screwed shut as I zip through traffic. 

 

Durability – four stars

Libertad takes me up the hill at the edge of the capital to see my former host family and I park her outside. A loose donkey wandering down the street headbuts the moped, knocking her to the ground and then, spooked, takes off running. We laugh until our stomachs hurt. “He was getting rid of the competition!” we joke. I have to replace the handbrake where it hit concrete.

 

Commuting – five stars

I might not have bought another moped in Washington D.C., but the pandemic brought a  year-plus slow-down of bus and metro services. So I brought home the 250-pound turquoise belle Bertie (formally Libertad II). 

I pushed Bertie to her thirty-miles-an-hour limit along pandemic-empty roads past the Capitol. Now she takes me through gridlock to park neatly on sidewalk bike racks along the Mall. Bertie took me to my grad school classes, located a mile off the closest metro line. She takes me back and forth from my fiancé’s house. When my sister visits, she takes her around too, her hands clinging to the back rack and grin wide.

Mopeds can be driven on the same roads as cars, but get more than eighty miles per gallon and can be parked with bikes. You can’t take a moped on a trail and you lose the physical exertion of bikes (if you’re into that sort of thing), but on the plus side, you arrive to work windblown, not sweaty. 

They’re not fast—but in Washington D.C., where there are stop lights every thirty feet, your options are presidential helicopter or take your time. 

Mopeds don’t have the hauling capacity of a car or the off-road options of a bike. A donkey can put a dent in one and a tumble can draw blood. But I can’t imagine a better vehicle for any city center. I wouldn’t know the streets of the two capital cities I’ve called home without my two-wheeled friends.

I give mopeds five stars.