Scootland
Perhaps your city, like mine, has been besieged by an invasive variety of scooter.
Of the genus, there are several species: Lime, Bird, Lyft, all the same save for markings. There are reliably dozens here in downtown Roanoke at any given time, although you will find them parked in lonely, unlikely places throughout the area, where a rider gave up. Novelty meets affordability, here: for pennies on the minute, they whisk you about and when you are done, you toss them aside, taking a quick picture for Uber to prove in the inevitable lawsuit that, at the time, the scooter was not blocking traffic. It is the thrill of a beating a rented mule without even having to return it.
At night, nameless contractors scoop them up, recharge them on their home electric grids and disgorge them into the streets the next morning in clusters which remind me of how stinkbugs mate — and I can envision a venture capital-funded future where scooters reproduce in dark alleys and spare their owners cost of manufacture. Even in their neutered present, they are the future of transportation, I understand, and like anything whose sole boast is that it is the future, I hate them.
Not content to judge from my apartment window, I recently took a ride on one to see what the kids are up to — it was a good, long ride, about twenty minutes across two miles, and I am sorry to have not walked it. Technically speaking, they are wonders of engineering — effortless movement with all accoutrements tucked into a compact metal frame proudly boasting “Designed in California,” and so they are. They are all representative of Silicon Valley's uncanny ability to detatch you from your surroundings even when you must engage with it. They are just swift enough to be simulate danger to the rider without actually being too dangerous, although it is a delight to see them struggling up hills.
The process of unlocking one, like beginning any sin, was streamlined; a wave of the phone, three kicks and you are off, upon agreeing not to do anything fun via your app. The ultimate flaw with these scooters, which ought to ultimately prevent their legality, becomes obvious when you ride one; you are neither a vehicle nor a pedestrian, but simply a weak third-world state or a malevolent superpower depending on your lane. Cars swerve menacingly around you; on the sidewalk, you ride the heels of every decent human being there was. This compels you to seek out side streets and quiet neighborhoods if you can, places where you can ride unmolested in the streets and leave the sidewalks alone. Unfortunately, these are all either neighborhoods which you’d would prefer to tour in an armored truck or wished you could walk in and enjoy, and in both cases, the scooter is a liability.
The reasons cities allow these parasites in are the usual ones for bad ideas in city development, including roundabouts: ideally, they will theoretically reduce the traffic burden while increasing mobility for poorer residents. In reality, the primary usage of scooters, as far as I can tell, is amusement for suburban teenagers with whom the state has not entrusted a driver’s license. And the idea that a scooter is any better — or safer — than a regular commute to work is absurd. It is well above the cost of the bus and well below the pleasure of just walking. At any great distance, they are dangerously out of place on the connecting avenue or freeway, and they ignore the reality if neighborhoods were improved and assisted in their development, people would not need necessarily to scoot anywhere. The only beneficiary, as always, are distant shareholders. Even after my joyride, I maintain: city council members who allow “alternate transportation” companies to take over their streets should be hanged, much like those who admit Dollar General stores.
Or at least have their front yards designated as scooter mating grounds.
