There was never a time where I felt like I had more control than when I was gripping the red foam handles of my Razor scooter.

The age of the scooter was one of freedom, during which I would think of a destination, hop onto my slender metal contraption-on-wheels, and off I’d glide. The world was as big as the streets would take me, and so I skated to every edge the concrete earth offered.

My house sits right on a massive hill. The road on this hill is extra wide too, and there was plenty of room for all types of vehicles: cars, bikes, sleds in the winters, and for me, scooters. It was a weary trip up. You had to give yourself a little pep-talk beforehand, I remember. You put your hands on the handles, and gave them an imaginary rev, as if they were going to make a motorcycle roar. Then you took a deep breath, trying not to focus on the looming giant of a hill before you, and kicked off with your non-dominant foot.

A true master of the art of scootering knew that if you were right-footed, you pumped at the ground with your opposite foot. The strong leg was the plant leg, the anchor, keeping the entire contraption upright by the force of muscle since the thing was too skinny to balance on its own. The weaker leg paddled at the sea of asphalt, heavy pushes propelling the scooter forward, and sending you into sliding bliss. But the hill, the hill was grueling labor. You pumped and you pumped and you even had to switch legs sometimes because the hill never ended and the spring in your step was gone. But then you’d make it and look down on your accomplishment like a king surveying his kingdom. And then you’d scooter back down that magnificent hill.

It has been quite some time since I’ve brought out the old Razor. The standing platform between the wheels aches when you step on it, and the foam handles have long since disintegrated. The Razor logo has chipped and peeled off and the brake squeaks when you compress it onto the wheel. But boy does it ride like it used to.

One day I got back on it and took that first kick off, gliding down the sidewalk of the same old driveway, many years past its glory days, and immediately I was back in my element. I was pleased to find that it rode in that same teetering way, weaving back and forth and cutting turns like slicing through cheese. I gripped the handles and pulled up violently, bringing the scooter up with me as my feet pushed off the ground, and I was airborne, the scooter meeting my lifted feet so that I was still riding it, but yet suspended in the air. I landed the jump, and turned a corkscrew in celebration. What a wonderful vehicle!

My mother once told me that scooters are actually more dangerous than bicycles, but I don’t believe her. I’ve fallen my fair share of times from both. The bike feels detached, the wheels too clunky, the sitting position too leisurely, and my body too far off the ground. On the Razor I’m one with the elements. I can feel the bumps and cracks on the pavement, the vibrations coming right up to the tips of my fingers curled around the grips. The scooter becomes an attachment, an extension of my body, and to fall on it would be similar to falling naturally: dramatic, painful, but all too real--not like the awkward mishap of falling on the bike.

On the scooter, I feel invincible. The prospect of tumbling always manages to fade from my mind when I’m riding. I’m in full control, flying down that giant hill by my house, wind whipping my hair into my eyes, and the blood of my youth climbing into my laughing cheeks, and when I reach maximum speed the Future becomes a beautiful thing. I don’t know where exactly I’m headed, but I know the direction, and the sensation of just going is too wonderful to worry about where I end up.