Hey, scooter drivers, get off my sidewalk

There's a certain fury that rises up in the throat of a man of some years, and compels him to say something — if he can catch up with the miscreants he wishes to admonish.

In this case it wasn't a matter of wind or strength, but motors and traffic lights. Two people had been whizzing down the sidewalk on motorized scooters in a heedless fashion, and they needed shaming and correction, particularly since there was a bike lane right next to the sidewalk.

They had helmets on, too. That somehow made it worse. It's as if they were saying: "We're very safety-conscious! That's why we're doing top speed alongside a building where someone could stroll out any second and get noggin-clobbered back to Tuesday."

Now, it's possible that the person who was flattened and knocked back to last Tuesday would be happy, because that was a pretty good day. Nice compliment at the office, good weather, a cold beer at supper with a steak, the basics of a normal life that make up the warp and woof of existence. If it takes a concussion to make you realize how the simple things are really the best, maybe you'd better thank that scooter driver, eh?

No. Look, I understand the appeal of these things. Once while hanging out in Fort Lauderdale I took one all around town, and went through the usual stages of scootering: At first you feel vulnerable and cautious, but after sufficient experience — say, a minute — you open it up and enjoy the ride, convinced that you appear cool. (You do not.)

The fun stopped when I crossed a bridge made of corrugated steel grate that shook every molar loose. If I sneezed, I would expel a fine cloud of calcium dust that had once been my skull.

My urge to scold these scooter scofflaws is also an urge to save them. Yes, that's it! It's not busybodyism at all, but civic virtue. So I walked fast, hoping to catch up to them at the light and tell these public menaces to have a care.

Unfortunately, the light changed and they sped away, preventing me from taking action. I figured I would write about them in the newspaper, write so hard with such a scowl that they would feel a disturbance in the universe's karmic balance and slow it down a bit.

To be honest, I'm surprised scooters are still around. They're a remnant of that strange world before the pandemic, when there was so much stupid money sloshing around you could go to investors and say: "We propose to buy thousands of electric scooters, dump them in all major cities, charge people a dollar or two to ride them for novelty's sake, hire people to drive around at night and pick them up for recharging, knowing that roughly 30% will be thrown into the river by miscreants."

The venture capitalists look at each other, nod: "So, 2 billion dollars?"

"We were thinking ... 3? We'll lose money on every ride, but we'll outlast the other seven companies doing the same thing."

"Three it is."

Later that day, I saw another scooter speed down the sidewalk, only to come alongside a police car at the light. The scooter driver promptly got into the bike lane, which is the scooter equivalent of touching your brakes after you pass a parked Highway Patrol car.

Restored my faith in people, it did.