Some big dog bikers around here call us bees, but Vespa riders know the real buzz. Sure, we’re less robust, lacking a manual clutch, and often come in pastels and flowers, but we’re nothing to trifle with.

Vespa is Italian for wasp. I found that very humorous the first time I encountered Vespas in Italy. They seemed to me like something a Barbie doll would ride—hardly aggressive enough to warrant “wasp” as its namesake, and then I experienced them in motion.

In Italy, scooters outnumber vehicles and swarm about you at stop lights, hovering in flight just beyond the cross signal and ready for the charge even before it turns green. Pedestrians beware. These seemingly innocuous machines dart through traffic, onto sidewalks and around unsuspecting strollers like hornets after meat. Miraculously, their fluid movement seeps between cars and flows unobstructed through the streets.

Upon relocating to Utah from Europe, I found myself missing that chaos. I needed to have a little slice of Italy here in Salt Lake, so I purchased a Vespa for my summer commute to the U. Mine is sea foam green, 200 cc, and heavy enough that if I drop it, I can’t pick it up. No little honey bee here…this machine lives up to its name, yet still seems soft enough even for Barbie to drive.

I muse at my commute every morning, as do I am sure, many drivers. Me, in my high heel sandals, skirts and blonde hair flowing out my helmet, I feel like Vespa Barbie, and maybe a little like Audrey Hepburn in Roman Holiday. 

The day I went for my motorcycle driving exam reinforced my newfound identity. It was July, nearly 100 degrees, and I floated down North Temple in my turquoise skirt, floral tank top and high heel sandals. When it came time to take the exam, I zigzagged through the orange cones (only nipping one of them), accelerated to a sudden stop, and flat out failed the L-turn. The air undulated off the asphalt hosting the obstacle course and my Vespa went into cooling mode for the first time ever. I was sure I’d broken it. I also looked down and noticed I’d taken the entire test with my left blinker going.

Sure that I’d failed, I took the slip from the examiner and prepared for my defeated return to work. He handed me the slip and told me I could get my license renewed to show the endorsement. What? I was dismayed, delighted. I only failed one section of the driving test, which still was a pass. I was legal. I had a motorcycle endorsement. Maybe the examiner felt sorry for me. Maybe he was amused by me. Either way, I was legal.

That winter my husband and I went to visit his family in Germany and I was giddy with the gift I’d found for my 8 year-old niece. I’d found a Barbie who rode a sea foam green Vespa. When I gave her the doll, she promptly named it “Taunya Zwei,” or Taunya Two, after me. It was official, I was Vespa Barbie, and she was me.