At one point or another a scooter became a priority. I hardly ride it, and when I do it doesn't go very fast. I can't remember what bug bit me and gave me scooter fever...

Well, after spending pretty much the whole weekend cleaning, rewiring my bathroom fan (not a new fan, mind you, a new fan motor and fresh wiring) and bleeding brakes on one of my four stroke girlfriends, I took the old Honda C-70 passport out for a spin. Despite sitting in a motorbike coma for five months, it sputtered to life, coughing through the dust and was eager to please. "Ride me."

I zipped down the street and clicked up from first gear into second. It was getting dark and the Bap Bap Bap Bap rhythm of the motor seemed a good match for the night. I twisted the cute bitsy throttle to the stop and clicked up into third gear. I think I was clawing my way past 30mph but I couldn't tell because the speedometer light is out.

My little town of Monroe is much different at night. The hustle of cars heading to the lake or the mountain fades quite a bit. The neon hum of Hwy 2 still burns through the remains of dusk but really arrives at full brilliance in the dark hours. Truckers are lured to fish sandwiches, pizzas and other cheap eats. Toursists fuel up, piss and head on their way. Monroe did itself a disservice be becoming a rest stop on the way to better, funner, glossier destinations.

It is this underdog, under appreciated status that gives Monroe an authenticity I dont' find in say Woodinville. Feeder communities that thrive on being able to look down their noses at the podunk shouldn't be so quick to judge. Monroe is at a crossroads, pun intended. I hope that my community sees fit to revamp itself and seize this chance to be more than a slurpee stop.

Time will tell. But as I whizz around town with my 70cc's of retro Japanese thunder, I dig the fact that nobody bugs me and nobody cares. Everyone is too busy in Monroe to worry about what everyone else is doing. That totally rules.