“Riding a Vespa is like having sex with a transvestite. It’s a lot of fun until one of your friends see you doing it.”

Of course it’s always fun if you have a naked girl riding behind you.

That wasn’t the case in the summer of 1966, when I rode on the back of a friend’s Vespa down to Wollaston Beach. My brother was on the back of another friend’s motorcycle. The beach wall was packed in front of the Clam Shack. Teenagers from around the South Shore flocked to the hang-out, although most of them were from Quincy and a good percentage of those were greasers and greasers regarded anyone on a Vespa as a sissy. I didn’t even get a chance to get off the back before someone sucker-punched me in the head. Luckily I was wearing a helmet.

I got off the Vespa to face my attacker. He was not alone. The greaser has three friends. I was only 14. I turned to my friends and brother. They acted like they didn’t know me.

“Take off the helmet.” The greaser had a bloody fist. His knuckles scuffed from contact with the helmet.

“I don’t think so.” I had done nothing to deserve their hostility and had no intention of letting them punch my unprotected head. “I’m fine the way I am.’

“Great, then we’ll just kick you a little.” The greaser wasn’t wearing shoes, but even barefooted kicks could break a rib. Their assault was cut short my another teenage boy. He threatened the quartet with a broken beer bottle.

“Step the fuck back or else I’ll cut you.” He was wearing cut-off jeans and his hair was long for the time. The other boys took a look at the bottle’s jagged end and swore under their breath. My savior chucked the bottle in the trash. “Kid, better be going. They’ll be back for you, if you don’t and another thing.”

“What?” He was my hero.

“Never ride on the back of another guy’s bike.” It was sound advice, although he said nothing about riding behind a beautiful woman. That’s a lot of fun too.