Curbside stories: A scooter’s day in San Diego

I was there before the city even fully woke up, resting on the edge of a quiet downtown San Diego curb in the soft light of a mid-May morning. My kickstand dug slightly into the concrete, and the faint hum of the ocean breeze carried scents of saltwater and freshly brewed coffee from a café down the street. People always say scooters like me have no stories, but they’re wrong. Every scratch in my paint, every worn patch on my seat, is a chapter. And that day? That day was a whole novel.

You noticed me first when you turned the corner, camera in hand, chasing the early morning glow. I could see the way you looked at me: curious, like I didn’t quite fit the moment. I’m not abandoned, not exactly. Let’s just say I’m between adventures. You walked past, probably thinking you’d never see me again. But this city has a way of keeping familiar things close.

The sun crept higher, painting the buildings in shades of warm gold. Downtown San Diego in May has this magic: warm but not heavy, the air light and fresh, shadows long and playful. I watched joggers in neon sneakers pound the pavement, tourists fumble with phone maps, and a man in a crisp suit speed-walk past holding a latte like it was the most precious cargo in the world. 

I saw them: my riders, passing by on foot. No helmets today, no rush. They didn’t even glance at me, too caught up in their conversation. That’s the thing about scooters like me; we’re part of their world for just a moment. We carry them to their brunch spots, their meetings, their sunsets… and then they’re gone, off living their lives. But oh, the stories we could tell if they stopped to listen.

By midday, the street was alive. The air smelled like grilled fish tacos from a stand a block away, mixed with the sweet burn of cinnamon churros curling in hot oil. You were somewhere else in the city by then, wandering past the harbor or sipping iced coffee under the shade of an umbrella. But if you’d looked back, you’d have seen me still there: my shadow shorter now, my paint reflecting the sharper midday light. People leaned on me to tie their shoes, snapped selfies next to me like I was some quirky street prop, and one kid even patted my handlebars as if I was a pet.

I imagined, for fun, that I’d slipped away. Down to the Embarcadero, wind rushing past, weaving through the afternoon bustle. Maybe I’d park myself in Little Italy, watching friends clink glasses of sangria under string lights. Or zip along the waterfront, feeling the sunshine bounce off my mirrors. I’d hum happily past the convention center, where tourists craned their necks to take it all in. And then I’d loop back, my tires carrying the dust and stories of the day, returning to this exact spot before you came back.

The light began to change again as the afternoon stretched toward evening. Shadows grew long and cool, and the warm tones of the buildings softened to muted peach and lavender. Downtown San Diego in May has a way of making you slow down, even when you don’t mean to. That’s when you returned: your hair a little windblown, skin kissed by the day’s sunshine. You stopped when you saw me again. I could tell you noticed something different. My green paint no longer looked quite the same—it had taken on a deeper, richer hue in the fading light.

The thing about the city is, it changes its colors by the hour. Morning brings fresh greens. Noon, heavy golds and oranges. Evening—oh, that’s when it’s magic. The sidewalks reflect the fading sun, the glass towers glow, and even a humble scooter can look like it belongs in a painting.

You stood there for a moment longer than most people do, watching the streetlights flicker on. The sound of clinking glasses from a nearby rooftop bar drifted down. Somewhere a busker’s guitar picked up again, softer this time. You didn’t take another photo, you didn’t have to. The image was already stored in your mind.

That’s what your art is about, isn’t it? Capturing these fleeting, ordinary moments that somehow feel extraordinary. The kind that, once frozen, become more than just a memory; they become something you can hold, display, revisit whenever you want. Maybe that’s why you lingered by me. Maybe you understood that even a day-old scooter story was worth remembering.

The thing is, downtown San Diego is full of moments like this. A stranger’s laughter echoing through an alley, the taste of just-made gelato under a perfect sky, the way the late sun turns steel and glass into fire. You can live here for years, like you did, and still be surprised by them.

As the sky shifted into deep indigo, I sat there, still on my curb, still waiting for my next ride. I like to think that’s how it is with your art—it waits for the right person to come along, the one who needs it most, the one who sees the story in it.

When you finally turned toward home, I watched you go. You didn’t look back this time. You didn’t need to. Because somewhere, maybe tonight or maybe in a week, you’ll start painting me into your story. And then, long after I’ve been picked up or moved along, I’ll live on your canvas, in someone’s living room, in the heart of someone who needed a little piece of this day.

And that’s the magic.