Polly Gillespie: To the fat kids and the scooter babes

Polly made do with her sister's old scooter. Photo / iStock

I'm waiting at the lights. In my periphery across a heavily trafficked street is a man in his forties.

I assume his age based on his penchant for skinny jeans, Converse sneakers, and shaggy grey hair. He is waiting with his scooter.

His scooter?

I'm not sure how I feel but I'm fairly sure it's something between amusement, revulsion and envy.

I'm staring now and he smiles at me - or perhaps past me - and I attempt a furrowed brow. Botox does not allow a decent furrow, really.

A grown up man, possibly in the advertising industry or an architect, is about to scoot.

His cross light turns green and instead of walking across the road, he scoots, and then he scoots down the footpath and off into the day.

I had a scooter. Well, I was the youngest child so I never actually had my own scooter.

I had my older sister's hand-me-down scooter. It was wooden with chipped red paint. I loved that scooter. I probably loved it because I was chubby and it made life easier. And because I was chubby it made me faster!

I loved that scooter right up until the age of 10 when I was bequeathed my sister's hand-me-down bike.

The scooter was discarded, and as far as I can recall, I haven't 'boarded' one since.

I watch the old dude on the scooter as he sails off with his man satchel and sneakers and part of me longs to join him, but the ridiculousness of it annoys me.

How preposterous to be a middle aged scooterer. Or am I just caught up in my own 'arseiness'?

Who said a grown man shouldn't ride a scooter? Even as I'm asking the question I'm internally sneering at him.

I think I'd like to eventually be the old lady who wears the purple hat and the leopard print leggings, but I honestly think I'm secretly still afraid of being teased.

Maybe grey haired men who ride scooters through town and old women who wear leopard print are so incredibly relaxed internally that they have no morbid fear of being laughed at.

I'm envious more than anything because Scooter Guy really doesn't give a damn what I think of him.

I wonder who he was as a kid? Was he that kid whose father had a long cool beard and wore black turtleneck sweaters with worn Doc Martins? Was Scooter Guy the coolest kid in the class who rode a skateboard to school before skateboards were cool? And had ridiculously good hair for a boy? And although he was short, was adored by all the girls?

Yes, Max Chrisstofferson, I'm talking about you. The thought crosses my mind that perhaps the pseudo silver fox was actually more like me: a fat kid who only ever got a second hand ride from their older sibling.

To sneer or not to sneer? That is the question.

I swap out my sneer for a wee, hardly enthusiastic, cheer. Scooter Guy is cool because, for whatever reason, he has decided to pull the finger at awkward, easily embarrassed conservatives like me. And he's allowing his mane to fly along behind him in the wind. Sure he looks like a douche bag, but a speedy douche bag.

The fact is I miss my super groovy old wooden flying machine, so "You go Scooter Hero! You go!"