The author on her Vespa with model Tyson Beckford.

By Katie Barry

Clinging to the obliques of an Italian man zig-zagging around the Tuscan countryside, I knew that one day it would be mine: a Vespa. My history with wheels begins with a baby walker, which I promptly took on a road trip down the basement stairs. My mom refers to it as “like watching a horrible nightmare in slow-mo played out in broad daylight.”

From there, I moved onto adjustable plastic Little Tyke skates, to bulky Hot Wheels that my siblings and I manically raced off a diving board like renegade gangsters into a swimming pool. We progressed to rollerskates, rollerblades, a tricycle, an adult bike, and an unsuccessful stint on a skateboard before moving to NYC.

I still have my three-speed red Huffy obtained at age 20; somehow I shielded it from bike thieves and reckless drivers. I zipped all about the city on that thing in my early twenties, going from internships to restaurant work, countless softball games, and weird corners of the city to meet cute boys. I was on the giving and receiving end of handlebar rides, usually while tipsy and feeling invisible. Helmets only messed up my hair. I rickshawed friends and drunk girls in heels around on the back ledge meant for a crate, and pulled people on a rope as if we were land-skiiing through Central Park.

My only close call with calamity happened while biking through the West Village when I got doored by a cabbie passenger. I sustained an ugly galactic thigh bruise, but thankfully my brain and bike were okay.

When Hurricane Sandy hit, I took that puppy to my bartending job in Brooklyn and back 12.2 miles. Biking back over the Brooklyn bridge to a black-out lower Manhattan state felt so apocalyptic in its pure darkness. I’d see a shadow, fear it was a blood-thirsty zombie, and was relieved it was a bug-eyed Dutch tourist. I couldn’t see my handlebars. Bars were speckled with candles and “CASH ONLY” signs, while pedestrians used flashlights to indicate their path. Cars were sparse but welcomed for their headlights.

>During the bone-chillingly cold winter months, I dreamed of spring and being back on wheels. I was pulling double-duty bartending and working in the field at NY1 feeling like the infamous Annie, but instead of a window sill, I was singing from the slimy subway benches. Sure my “Subway Series” photo album flourished, but I was wilting. There is no way I’d own a car here. When family and friends visit, the street cleaning schedule gives me anxiety and I feel rising rage to wreck parked cars taking all my spots.

Right around the time cherry blossoms came out to play, I enlisted the help of a Swedish superstar to help me make my Vespa dreams come true. We found a midnight blue 150CC Vespa on Craigslist that I can take on highways, over bridges, and pot-hole ridden roads. It was in great shape with low miles and a sexy, classic look. With the muted cover, strong booty and high rear view mirrors, it looks like a llama. Which is funny, because my current helmet was used for ostrich races three years ago. I got insurance, a motorcycle permit, and heavy-duty locks and the love affair began to balloon.

Buzzing around on my llama has made commuting fun, and surprisingly it’s completely changed my life. I no longer dread the three avenue walk to the nearest train or brain-drain underground when books and newspapers aren’t holding my curiosity. I’m constantly taking new routes, making mental maps of cool spots I want to circle back to. I go down little side streets I never knew existed. I go fast from A to B. I wiggle in between cars to park, throw on a cover and lock, and hit the town wearing whatever shoes I want because I won’t be walking long.

A friend quipped, “It’s like you’re a new mother now,” laughing how I was so protective and responsible. I drink less when I go out with friends, and wake up early to see how it fared in the night. I polish it with baby wipes. If it ever got bullied, pushed over or peed on, my scream would be audible on Coney Island. I’d seek out security footage and extract revenge.

Other Vespa drivers always give that helmet nod, like we’re in the Cool Kids Club. There’s a camaraderie. Ducati and Yamaha drivers look at me like I’m riding a Red Flyer wagon with a motor on it….until I blaze ahead leaving behind only a wink and some exhaust. Harley Davidson dudes just smile. Automobile drivers will pull alongside me at red lights, especially on the West Side Highway, and offer a “yo, be safe girl” message. As if I’d pop a wheelie when I peeled out, turning on my aftermarket neon undercarriage lights.

Pedestrians will stop in crosswalks and ask about make, model, mileage, and license information which is fine, but don’t you think Google is a better source for information than a girl wearing a Jan-sport backpack, braids, and a sundress? A guy bee-lined it over to us in traffic to tell my sister and I that we should go to Florida and learn kungfu from his friend. Another cabbie asked if I had a boyfriend because he should be driving. If there’s a dude on the back, women will cackle and men will snicker. When my sister is on the saddle, we fly like The Flash, flirt with Citibike riders in the bike lane, and taunt drivers into drag racing. We’ll work on singing duets and make to-do lists for global domination, before parking and cuddling into our UWS apartment with West Side Market groceries.

My teammate AJ took a few spins as backseat passenger. “I become more intimate with the city, the terrain of the each street, and inevitably my driver,” he said candidly. “As a man, riding on the back can be emasculating, but it also provides a new illuminating perspective – She’s in control and it’s ok!”

My mom, prone to vehicles that can carry all her children and thrifting finds, was flummoxed by my little motorcycle choice. “But where will you put people and things?” In a backpack. What can’t fit, can’t ride. Simple as that. Streamlined. From spot to spot, I’m a heat-sinking missile with Danica Patrick agility and diplomatic parking privileges.

A cabbie nailed me while I was stopped at a red light nearly sending me over the handlebars. I first saw him in my rear-view mirrors when he was flying up behind me but not stopping. I wish I could say I had grace and emotional intelligence. Those stood no chance in the face of a crazy cabbie who sprung out of his car to say, “THIS IS YOUR LESSON!” and ranted on about what he would tell the cops. He called me everything but a woman, and said, “This is a warning for you, I saved your life. What if you have someone else on the back?” His logic made no sense, the person on the back would sue him for their hospital bills. I had graphic “Fight Club” thoughts.

Tourists stood slack-jawed as I came unhinged on this schmuck on Ninth avenue in Chelsea. I have never screamed louder in my life at a stranger. Or family member or friend, for that fact. An NYC cabbie, notoriously the most aggressive drivers on the planet, want to “teach me a lesson” about the city streets. The bumper is beat up and he cracked my light. Friends asked if I called the cops. No, he drove away. Yes, I should’ve gotten his license plate, a picture of his delusional face, or marked up his cab in someway but my only thought was taking justice into my own fireball fists; my vision was going in and out like some “Terminator” movie and my concern was for myself not landing up in jail.

I accept the challenge, the race, the maneuvering magic everyday behind any set of wheels and fuel off that adrenaline. There’s the life mantra of “HAVE NO FEAR” but I feel the opposite on the road. Have fear, it will keep you grounded and out from underneath a FedEx truck. My sister would kill me if got killed on my llama. Caution has its place in the wind on whimsical nights but I’m rolling with the big kids now to a nice hum and rhythm. With my brain sheltered in a big white DOT-approved globe, my hair is a hot mess and I’m happy as can be.