MANILA, Philippines ? Not long after I hit the big Five-O, an acquaintance of mine, a contemporary, told me at a dinner party:

?Pare, nag-midlife crisis na ?ko. I bought a Harley!?

Shortly thereafter, I had my own midlife crisis. I bought a Vespa.

It was obviously a different kind of midlife crisis.

Not for me the outlaw image of the leather-clad, chopper-riding biker (no matter that they were likely orthodontists, certified public accountants and advertising execs). No way was I ever going to wear a bandanna.

With its loud V-twin engine and air of slouching menace, a Harley chopper was a little too conspicuously macho for my tastes. The quintessential Harley movie was ?Easy Rider?, the counterculture?s romanticized ode to the outlaw biker, and it was obvious why the chopper-riding heroes had to die in the end: like their bikes, they were a little too in-your-face.

On the other hand, the Vespa was a humble, unassuming, totally non-threatening machine. The quintessential Vespa movie was ?Roman Holiday,? and I?d rather be Gregory Peck than Peter Fonda any day.

Besides, Harleys were out of my league. Even when used, they cost more than my car. I could barely afford the Vespa as it was.

But I had to have it. I had wanted one ever since I saw ?Quadrophenia? in the early 1980s at the Manila Film Center. Based on the Who?s rock opera, the 1979 film is set in 1964 when England?s main youth subcultures, the greasy leather-clad, motorcycle-riding Rockers and the smartly-dressed, scooter-riding Mods, clashed on the beaches during the summer holidays.

The film?s hero rode a Lambretta scooter but the coolest Mod in the film, Ace Face (played by a pre-fame Sting) rode an iconic, fully-chromed Vespa GS 160, immolated in the film?s cliff-hanging finale.

Thus were the seeds of desire planted. Used Vespas were plentiful, but I never had the cash. In 1995 a brand-new Vespa PX 150 sold for only P60,000, but I could never scrape together that much.

Not long after my encounter with my Harley-riding cohort, however, I happened to have a bit of spare change when by chance I walked by a scooter showroom. Lo and behold, there was the Vespa of my dreams, in British racing green even. Okay, it wasn?t quite a Vespa, it was an LML Star de Luxe, an Indian-made clone, but identical in almost every respect except provenance, and half the cost of the Italian original. Before I knew it I had parted with my hard-earned money and was the proud owner of my first scooter.

Only one slight problem.

I had never ridden any sort of motorcycle or motorized two-wheeled vehicle before. Except for one time in Boracay when I borrowed the resort?s twist-and-go 50cc to explore the island, I was a total scooter virgin.

When the dealer asked me if I was going to ride it home, I had to sheepishly ask them to deliver it instead.

And so it sat in my garage for days while I tried to figure out how to ride it.

It should have been a cinch. I had been driving cars since my teens, and at one time had been a fearless bicycle commuter battling cars and trucks on Manila?s mean streets. That should have shortened the learning curve quite a bit.

The Vespa?s Italian designer was said to have disliked motorcycles, and consequently had designed it to be ridden more like a car, with the rider sitting upright and shifting gears by hand. There was even a foot brake, rare in most scooters. Unlike most motorcycles, where a foot-operated lever shifts the gears, the Vespa?s gear shifter is operated by the rider?s left hand: press the clutch, twist to first gear, pop the clutch, twist the throttle with your right hand, and away you go. Shouldn?t be that hard for anyone who had driven a stick shift before.

Or so I thought.

My first ride around the village turned out to be my first introduction to the pavement, an embarrassing slow-speed crash in front of spectators when I panic-braked while the front wheel wasn?t facing dead center (like it should be whenever you hit the front brake, as I found out too late). My pristine scoot had its first battle scar, a deep ugly gash that I had to cover up with spray paint, and so did my pride, the first of many.

In retrospect, I should have admitted my own incompetence and signed up for a motorcycle riding course then and there. But I had to learn things the hard way. Midlife crisis = old dog trying to learn new tricks.

After a few days of gingerly riding around the neighbourhood at a snail?s pace, I summoned up the courage to take it out on the city?s mean streets.

It was like learning to drive all over again. A bike doesn?t handle like a car. You have to lean to turn, and you have to leave plenty of braking room between you and the vehicle in front. Annoyed motorists honked their horns behind me as I crawled at 20 kph on the road, fingers poised tensely around the brake lever, panic-stopping every time some jeepney stopped to load or unload passengers in front of me.

Eventually, I summoned up muscle memories of riding a bicycle in traffic. In my fitter years, I commuted to work on a road bike, and often rode my mountain bike around the city. I learned to think and act like a car, claiming my space in the flow of traffic, and letting motorists know my moves in advance with hand signals. The first rule of riding a bike in traffic is to act predictably so motorists know what to do. Instead of hugging the curb you need to claim your space on the road so other vehicles won?t be tempted to squeeze into it, most likely cutting you off in the process.

Translating this and 35 years of car driving experience proved easy enough to adapt to riding the scooter, and within weeks, I had gained enough confidence to take my place among the two-wheeled fraternity.

Not that I was immune to crashing. In fact, after my third or fourth week of riding, I turned the scoot into a patch of loose gravel, and laid it down. I flinched as I heard car brakes squealing behind me, and other motorcyclists stopped to see if I was OK. I was, thanks to my helmet and jacket. The bike didn?t fare as well, but it was still rideable. I picked myself and bike up off the ground, dusted myself off, cursed at the myriad new nicks and scratches on the paint job, thanked my lucky stars and rode away.

Part of the thrill of riding the scoot was the fact that it was the first new thing I had tried in decades. Everything I did I had been doing since my twenties. Working the same kinds of jobs. Meeting the same kinds of people. Buying the same things. Over thirty years I had settled on the kind of food, intellectual pursuits and activities I liked. My tastes had been formed. Even my choice of scoot was influenced to a great extent by my po-mo bohemian inclinations (otherwise I would have gotten a Honda like everyone else).

What better change of pace then than something that could get you killed or catastrophically maimed or at the very least, scuffed and bruised? The thrill! The danger! Feelings I had nearly forgotten I had over thirty years of sedate living.

That was the thing about riding a bike. At the core of the two-wheeled experience is riding exposed. Being in a car, enclosed by a metal cage, lulls you into a false sense of security. On a bike, with the asphalt whizzing by inches below you and the diesel fumes right in your face, there is no room for such a thing. You have to be in the moment at all times. You know that every motorist out there is trying to squash you like a bug, and it is only your skill, your street smarts, your good sense in wearing a full-faced helmet and armoured jacket, and not a little luck that keeps your skin intact.

On the other hand, the Vespa?s puny 150cc engine discourages you from pushing your luck the way you would, say, on a Suzuki Hayabusa. You putt-putt along at a sensible 60 kph, speed demons whizzing by you on their souped-up XRMs and Mios, smugly contemplating the fact that a 5 per cent increase in speed represents a 10 per cent increase in the likelihood of serious injury, according to recent statistics. You also putt-putt past checkpoints while those same XRMs and Mios are being harassed by the law. Cops see a souped-up underbone and they think: ?riding-in-tandem gang.? Cops see a Vespa and they think: ?harmless old codger? and wave you past.

And did I mention the mileage? A couple of hundred pesos of unleaded was enough for a week?s worth of short errands, commutes to work, joyrides. I stopped driving my car and took the scooter everywhere. Weekly gas price hikes are no laughing matter, but for someone who rides a scoot that gets up to 30 kilometres per liter, they?re something you can live with.

In the end, a Vespa is more about style than substance which, in one uncomfortable moment, you realize is the essence of being a fifty-something midlife crisis man. What you?ve lost in terms of hair, youthful charm and prostate function you make up for with panache, that indefinable quality that says: old coot on a scoot, but stylin?.