Although I saw many indications during my retrospective trip that cities in which I lived showed great evidence of their having become so much better than they had been in their low in the valley years, there was one item that symbolized the completion of gentrification more than any other to me, rental scooters.

Once I found my Uber app could be applied to these conveniences, I had an alternative to walking beyond bus and local transit routes. I could then go to more places quicker.

I used to roller-blade well into my fifties and only stopped because I eventually ended up living where there were no decent surfaces for it and the few I knew of were more of a drive to get to them than exercise implies.

In San Antonio, Texas, there was a choice between standard scooters and those that had seats. I chose the ones with seats and saw a great deal of the city.

At first, scooters laying all over the place seemed to be a failed idea until it was explained they are all traceable by GPs and are gathered regularly for recharging and placement in designated areas after being recharged. In some cities the dead or dying battery is replaced without needing to move the scooter. There are subcontracts for that. In Long Beach, California, you could not end your ride and stop the cost per minute rising unless you went to the closest gathering area which keeps the scooters from littering the landscape. Like the rites of spring, sighting a scooter standing alone with no human near it attracted other scooter renters toward it like birds hoping to mate, and the collection grows.

I do caution to be aware of one’s surroundings as not being used to the presence of rental scooters lined up in waiting, there is the possibility of encountering them as I did when rounding a corner and looking at the signs above windows and doors looking for familiar ones, I walked into a neat line of about a half a dozen scooters knocking them and myself over like dominoes as is often seen in comedies with motorcycles lined up at a bar and a hapless person bumping them. This in front of an open fronted bistro with people sitting both inside at the window tables and outside on the sidewalk ones, who were very helpful in getting me extricated from my handiwork. With the little pride I had left I explained why I had not been paying attention as if that absolves all and restores dignity.

It was a legitimate reason.

This fiasco of an introduction to perfect strangers was followed by a conversation with someone who had been in town when I was and still ran her store. I chose not to cross the street and pass the bistro on the other side, instead, I made the brave choice  to walk by all those who had seen the earlier ballet and boldly announced as I did so that I was walking pass them to show that I could, indeed, do it successfully.

Aside from the convenience of their being everywhere, nothing beats a fast scooter ride on the Pacific Coast Highway from Redondo to Cherry in Long Beach, California, on a spring night at 11:00 pm.

I did not notice people using many scooters in San Francisco, but besides there being plenty of modes of transportation to choose from, the fact that many use rails that could make riding scooters a little treacherous and the wear and tear from the number of very high hills would make the proposition costly. 

Or, I never noticed.

To me, as long as a person is able to roller-blade or use a scooter without falling over, they should.

On my last day in Long Beach I rode around a bit taking pictures and videos of my old stomping grounds and to do so, I rented a scooter. I usually wore and still wear a loud colored shirt over a t-shirt when I roller-blade, or used to, and ride scooters so I can be very visible to traffic, on-coming or from behind, and, although cell phone videos seem to have me setting land speed records, I do not go all that fast, except that night on the PCH. 

I was so clothed as I was whizzing down a familiar street near my former apartment, my hair flowing in the breeze behind me as my hat had blown off at an intersection too busy from which to retrieve it when a pickup truck pulled up next to me matching my speed as the window on the passenger side lowered. The driver, a young, twenty-something woman with a big friendly smile yelled to me,

“I have been behind you since Seventh, I hope I am as spry and adventurous when I am as old as you.”

And with a friendly wave, assuming I was complimented, she sped off.  

In a way I was because what I thought was no big deal apparently was to other people, and in my innocence I was somehow unaware of my accomplishment when I thought I was doing well not falling off anymore as I had done a few days before when, forgetting I was on a stand up scooter and not one with a seat, I attempted to rest at a red light. I was alone on a side street at the time so my dignity, outside of the internalized, was not harmed.

If they had had them in Oakland the night the Amtrak station closed for eight hours, I would have had more to do than look for a place to curl up to sleep, convincing myself this was fun.

The first phase of bringing these to my present city, New Bedford, would be repaving the streets with the potholes families have moved into as they lose their homes to gentrification.

They would be most convenient for tourists who could see more of the history of the city, minus, of course, what is in the Historic District National Park as the Belgian blocked streets, cobble stones in generic terms, which can make riding there quite the jolting and wheel grabbing trip.

And the present and future remaining residents would benefit too.

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