He’s got a small blue scooter, and he’s parked it neatly on the walkway to the main entrance canopy of a Best Western hotel in Indiana. It’s a see-’em-everywhere type of small-engine Chinese machine.

A thin cable lock circles the back wheel and back fender, not much of a theft deterrent, just enough to keep honest people honest, as my father would say.

We meet the rider as we’re leaving the next morning¹, a guy in his early 60s carrying a dark gray helmet. We introduce ourselves – let’s call him Dave – and I ask about the scooter.

“I ride this to get around,” he says. “I lost my driver’s license.”

The scooter is a Bintelli moped. “It’s a 50cc, so I don’t need a license. I use it to get to work.”

Dave is remarkably open with us, complete strangers. “I got pulled over for driving with a suspended license, so they took my license away. I get it back next month, but I have to find a car to take the test.”

The Bintelli was cheap, “about $999,” Dave says. However, it later developed electrical gremlins. The headlight kept blowing out, a rear brake switch had problems, and other difficulties cropped up.

This morning, he’s going to his job at the truck stop on the turnpike. “I do things like clean up, wash out the truck drivers’ showers, things like that.” he says.

It turns out he’s living at this Best Western because he can’t get an apartment because he has bad credit. The weekly rate isn’t too bad, he says.

“I do some work around here,” Dave says, and points out the shrubs and hedges he’s trimmed around the hotel. “It’s okay.”

I ask if he rides the scooter year-round and he says yes and describes how he bundled up in the winter. He talks about riding in the snow and tells us how he slid and tipped over in the icy parking lot of a bank.

The scooter’s rear wheel somehow went over his right foot and hurt it – he slips off his shoe to show us the golf-ball-sized lump. He’s been to a doctor but isn’t sure if he can afford to take time for the 8- to 12-week medical recovery.

He tells us this in a matter-of-fact way that quietly astounds me, yet I have no reason to disbelieve him; it’s coming out of him like it’s the first time in a long while that someone has asked how he’s doing. I could be wrong about this, of course; he could be playing on my sympathy.

But he asks for nothing. He’s in clean clothes, is well-mannered, and despite his story, isn’t feeling sorry for himself.

His forthcoming manner reminds me of the time I spent in Al-Anon meetings decades ago in support of a dear friend. If I recall correctly, AA members are so used to hiding what they’ve been doing, they sometimes do a 180-degree turn and become open about what they’ve done.

Something like that may be happening here, right now. I really don’t know.

Dave has to get to work; we shake hands, wish him well, and say good-bye. The Bintelli is difficult to start, but he gets it going and rides off.

We go back inside, and Linda talks to the nice front desk lady, who knows Dave and says he’s a nice guy who’s had some bad luck and is working hard. We give the hotel some money, strictly anonymously, toward Dave’s weekly rental; she gives us a receipt and promises to keep our secret.

Days later, I marvel over the fact that [1] none of this would have happened without that conversation, which [2] wouldn’t have taken place if Dave did not have a scooter, and [3] still wouldn’t have happened if I hadn’t asked about the scooter. It gave me entrée to an unexpected sad part of someone’s life.

I’ll never know if helping with his rent was the right thing to do. I’ll always hope it was.

________

1 – On our way to Seaside, Oregon, for the 2025 Scooter Cannonball.