I hated our Vespa when I was a kid in the seventies but their calendars were cool. You know that instinct you get when you're slowing down or coming to a stop, where you just want to stick your feet out for balance? Well, every time I did that, I felt like those sharp metal edges on the Vespa were just waiting to scrape my leg or catch my ankle. It wasn't a bike to me; it was a hazard on two wheels. So when the opportunity came to "borrow" it while my father was napping, I gladly handed the honor over to my brother. Off we went, buzzing through the dark to see the aftermath of an airstrike on an oil refinery at the edge of the city. It was pitch black out there, and before we knew it, we'd tipped right into a ditch on the side of the road. Panic was not because we were hurt, but because we were convinced our father would somehow know we'd taken his Vespa. Luckily, a few strangers happened to pass by and helped us haul the thing back up. You'd think we'd have learned our lesson, but soon after, I pulled a similar stunt, this time with our white Volkswagen.