The 40-Year-Old Vespa Virgin is an abridged version of Peter's book Vroom with a View. It first appeared in the Lonely Planet anthology, Flightless. It recounts the summer the author turned 40, bought a Vespa as old as he was and rode it from Milan to Rome – a trip that took him through medieval stone towns, patchworked fields and into the hearts of all the Italians he met.
THE 40-YEAR-OLD VESPA VIRGIN
Milan
I've just handed over €1,200 for a 40-year-old Vespa that may or may not work. I'm sitting at a pavement café having lunch with the man I've bought it from. His name is Gianni and he looks like Derek Jacobi in Gladiator. I'm in Italy following a boyhood dream. As a teenager with lank hair and a wardrobe full of flannel shirts I swore that one day I'd go to Italy, buy a Vespa and be as cool as Marcello Mastroianni in La Dolce Vita. This summer I turn 40 and I'm finally doing it. I found the Vespa advertised on eBay. It is a coffee-coloured 1961 model with saddle
seats and a little too much chrome. It was exactly what I was looking for: a Vespa as old as I am and in the same condition – a little rough around the edges but going OK. As motor scooters buzz past in manic packs, Gianni is teaching me everything I need to know to ride this one from Milan to Rome. Petrol stations close between noon and 3pm. Old Vespas are restricted to B-roads. The Italian word for a slice of Parma ham is fetta. I can ignore metropolitan police but never the carabinieri. Most importantly, my safe passage on this quest depends entirely on mastering a simple hand signal and the pronunciation of the word vaffanculo. I point to a cluster of Vespas parked on the pavement and ask if it is legal to park like that. Gianni finishes a mouthful of carpaccio and looks me directly in the eyes. There is the law,' he says sagely. 'And there is intelligence.' I've bought a Vespa from the Italian Yoda
Lake Como
One week down and I still haven't seen any sign of the intelligence Gianni spoke of. I've seen Vespa riders going the wrong way up one-way streets. I've witnessed them bearing down on people crossing streets as if intent on hitting them. And I've watched them mount the pavement to get around a momentary traffic jam, scattering pedestrians and dogs in the process. Just this morning I saw a scooter rider laying on his back on the street after being knocked off his bike. He continued talking on his mobile phone as the paramedics attached a brace to his back. Gianni's idea that I ride north to Lake Como before heading south to Rome was a good one, though. He hasn't ridden this Vespa for over four years. A quick jaunt around the lake will reveal any problems while I'm still close enough to Milan for him to fix them. I have learnt two things up here on the lake: riding a Vespa is the perfect way to get around Italy (nippy, exhilarating and small enough to wheel on to a ferry), and I need a new intake valve on the carburettor.Broni
I am 70 kilometres south of Milan and drinking spumante in the restaurant attached to a modest hotel. Broni, it seems, is the heart of one of Italy's premier spumante producing regions.The manager's wife is astounded that I am Australian - even more so when I tell her my plan to ride to Rome. When she discovers my journey is inspired by old black-and-white Italian movies she insists I name my Vespa after Sophia Loren. I am on my third glass of
spumante and readily agree. Sophia the Vespa already shows many of the same characteristics as her celluloid
namesake. When I try to start her in the morning she does so with the reluctance of a movie star happily dozing in bed. She will only stir after I give her a little choke, the motor-scooter equivalent of a shot of espresso. And when she finally emerges into the light, she looks dropdead gorgeous. No matter what angle you look at her from.
Most importantly, my safe passage on this quest depends entirely on mastering a simple hand signal and the pronunciation of the word, vaffanculo.
Ponte dell'Olio
When Sophia breaks down, good things happen. I am spending the night in a luxurious hunting lodge atop the rolling hills behind Ponte dell'Olio because Sophia has decided she doesn't want to go any further. The manager of the Locanda Cacciatori is a romantic at heart. He has decided that a quest as foolhardy – and so obviously Italian – as riding a 40-year-old Vespa to Rome needs encouraging. For only €40 he has given me a room with views over patchwork fields and carte blanche to eat whatever I want from the lodge's highly regarded restaurant.
His friend, a mechanic, is replacing Sophia's points, in the morning.
Bobbio
I am high in the Apennines, the mountain range that separates the regions of Emilia-Romagna and Tuscany. Sophia has spluttered to a stop again. I am surrounded by empty mountains and enveloped in silence. There are no houses, only wildflowers; no passing vehicles, only birds. Sure, it is lovely. But I haven't seen the upside yet.
I take Sophia's cowl off and start tinkering with her engine. I pretend I know what I am doing. I go through a series of mechanical gestures like removing the spark plug and cleaning it. They are more talismanic than useful.
I look up and see an old man with a walking cane and a flat cap hobbling towards me. The nearest town, Bobbio, is 12 kilometres back. His demeanour suggests he is on his morning constitutional. He stops beside Sophia and silently hands me his cap and his cane. He siphons petrol from the tank and pours it directly into the carburettor. He kicks the starter pedal with his gammy leg and Sophia springs immediately to life. He takes back his cap and cane and hobbles on.
