My mother had a moped in the late seventies; they were the “in” thing. Why she had one I can’t recall. It might have been for her to drive to work or because she had several fender-benders and my father was tired of fixing vehicles. The last reason sounds most plausible to me.
After a few years the moped found itself at the farm for us kids to use. Barbara and I thought this was a wonderful idea. Of course, my older sister always had to drive. She enjoyed scaring the pants off me driving it like we were in a dirt bike race. I can’t complain as I jumped on the back of the moped with her regardless or I’d never be on it. I also didn’t want to walk the mile and a half to Nan’s farmhouse by myself. Barb and I did have fun most times. I just wish occasionally, she would have let me drive.
Then came the day when I probably complained enough times to my parents that, “Barb never lets me drive the moped!” Now that I think about it, maybe my parents said I couldn’t drive the moped alone. But that rule still didn’t work for me because my sister never let me drive if she was on it.
Whatever the case, on a warm sunny day all eyes were upon me when I got on that moped in the field by the trailer with my helmet on. I started the engine full anticipation and glee. I revved the engine and took off towards the back road. I felt free. I drove down the dirt road to the four corners, turned around and headed back. I was beginning to feel confident driving when the end of the road came into view quickly. I had to turn toward the open field and go down a small hill. I realized I was going too fast around the corner. I became fearful and forgot I shouldn’t hit the front brakes. It was supposed to be my moment of glory to show my family I could do this. I hit the front brakes and flew over the handle bars butt over tea kettle. I went in one direction, the moped went in the other. I remember lifting my dazed self up over the tall grass to witness everyone staring in shock.
That was the end of driving for sometime.
Nancy Simard