A Blur, a Sonogram, and Adaptation
Bruises, New Life, and Trading Two Wheels for Four
Monday night, October 27, around nine o’clock, I was traveling down Atlantic Avenue in Long Beach on my Vespa GTS 300 Scooter, my sole means of motorized transportation by choice, having chosen to go car-free in this phase of my life, when a figure jumped out from between two parked cars. He was stomping his feet, swinging his arms, fighting whatever demons his meth-fueled brain was generating. Looking right at me, maybe I was a firefly he wanted to catch.
To better set the stage…bear with me as I rewind to thirty-six hours earlier. I’d been aboard a four-masted tall ship permanently docked on Penn’s Landing in Philadelphia. Surrounded by forty friends and family, for a brunch celebrating my father’s 98 years of life. This iconic restaurant, the Moshulu, was one of Pop Bernie’s favorite places to dine out in his later years.
The stories flowed like the Delaware River beneath us—tales of my dad, his life as a freelance photographer, and also of my mom, who’d been gone for over a decade now. A neighbor, Pat, now in her late early 90’s, shared her recollection of first meeting my mom, a “welcome to the neighborhood, hope you aren’t like the rest of the uptight folks that live in this town” visit.
We had just moved from downtown Philly to a house at the end of a cul-du-sac in suburban Moorestown. Pat recalled that when she came into the house that first time, the living room had no furniture at all. Just a grand piano my mom had recently purchased. Pat asked my mom who knew how to play, to which she replied, “No one, yet. Wanna learn together?” They became lifelong friends.
Saturday, the day before the memorial brunch, I’d taken my nephew to Moorestown High School, where his mom, his Uncle Pete, and I all attended—it happened to be Homecoming Week. Sitting in the football stadium bleachers along with three of my classmates from back in the day, we shared stories about our youthful adventures and misadventures, doing our best to bridge the half-century between who we were and who we’d become.
Late Sunday, I flew back to Long Beach, where I’d moved in August to be neighbors with my daughter and son-in-law and to enjoy retirement. When I got home that Sunday, I practiced my beginner’s lessons on my mom’s electric piano, one that I inherited and brought with me cross-country. Grateful that she downsized from that baby grand many years ago.
Monday, during the day, I tended my tiny SoCal garden, one that I’ve been coaxing to grow despite my tendency to overwater everything. That night, I went to the second meeting of the Long Beach Backgammon Club, where I’d been the month before. Played a number of games with newfound friends and then headed back home on my scooter along now familiar streets of Long Beach.
As I noticed the white t-shirt appear suddenly in my path on Atlantic Avenue, I squeezed the brakes hard. ABS kicked in. I stopped in time. The driver behind me didn’t.
What happened next is, as they say, a blur. I got struck by two cars and somehow landed on my feet, then I watched my scooter get run over by a third vehicle. The intoxicated guy wandered off. The two cars that had hit me drove away. Only the driver who ran over my bike’s kickstand – and got a flat tire – had the courtesy and necessity to stop.
My Apple Watch detected the crash and dialed 911 from my phone, which lay flashing in the street. The guy with the flat tire asked if I was fine, if I believed in God, and then helped me drag the bike out of the roadway.
The cops came. I called my daughter. She arrived at the scene a few minutes later. The flatbed tow truck came within an hour. Before midnight, I was home, body full of adrenaline, trying to process what had just happened.
Two and a half years, nearly 5,000 miles on that Vespa without incident. And then Monday, despite being hit by two vehicles, I walked away with only bruises. X-rays confirmed nothing broken, and a physical examination showed no internal injuries – my high-tech riding gear did its job, and perhaps a bit of luck too. I’m not inclined to believe in divine intervention…
But it was Tuesday that really changed everything for me.
I was having dinner with my daughter and son-in-law when she said she had a new photo and a question to share. Which one did I want first? “The photo,” I replied. She produced a small black and white – a sonogram. They were eight weeks along. Then came her question: “Are you thinking of getting back on a motorcycle?”
In that moment, four days collapsed into a single understanding. Saturday’s recollection of youthful risks taken. Sunday’s goodbye. Monday’s close brush with what might have been a devastating, life-altering moment. Tuesday’s hello. The cycle revealing itself with the subtlety of a drug-fueled figure jumping into traffic.
On Wednesday morning, my bruised right hip now a sunset of purple and green, I went shopping for a new mode of transportation. Not because I’d given up on adventure at 65, but because I’d accepted something about adaptation. The same trips I’d planned up the Pacific Coast Highway – the ones I was going to take on that Vespa – I’ll still take. Just now in a convertible.
I’m learning at 65 that reshaping isn’t retreat. When an erratic stranger changes my trajectory, when my daughter’s question changes my perspective, I don’t stop wanting the wind and the road, freedom and adventure. I just accept that my mode of transport will have four wheels instead of two (plus ample room for luggage and heated seats for these aging joints).
Here in Long Beach, my garden continues to confuse my East Coast seasonal memory – sunflowers blooming and tomatoes ripening as Thanksgiving came and went. The orange tree out front is producing fruit in January. My mother’s piano in my living room patiently tolerates my clumsy attempts to make music.
I’m learning the art of being exactly where I am. The best I can do is keep tending what grows, keep practicing what’s hard, one hand at a time, until I’m ready for both.