John B. Marek is a storyteller with dirt under his nails who weaves tales inspired by a lifetime immersed in nature. His insightful essays and award-winning fiction delve into the complexities of sustainable living, the heart of rural communities and the thrill of outdoor adventure. You can find more of his writing at johnbmarek.com.
When I visited my hometown of Port Clinton, Ohio, in the summer of 2014, I needed a place to stay for a few nights. I could have bunked with my brother’s family, but they had only recently moved into our parents’ house following the death of our older sister, and I didn’t want to impose on what I was sure was a work in progress. So, I took to Airbnb and was surprised and delighted to see a familiar name as the proprietor of an establishment with good ratings and an excellent lake-view location.
When the trip arrived and the time came to check in, however, it became apparent that, unless my classmate had shed 20 years, he and the proprietor were not one and the same. As I explained to the bemused host, my classmate of the same name was a bit of a character back in the day, a large, cheerful dude with a shock of unkempt black hair frequently falling across his face. He worked at the local drive-in theater, spooling up the movies and serving up the popcorn. But what made him stand out in my memory was his mode of transportation. He was often seen putt-putting around town on his black moped.
For certain 1970s teenagers not yet old enough for a driver’s license or able to afford a car, the humble moped, with its minuscule engine and bicycle pedals, promised an economical and carefree way to zip around town. Municipalities didn’t know what to make of mopeds early on, so most considered them bicycles for legal and licensing purposes, meaning anyone old enough to reach the pedals could legally ride them on the road. For some, they symbolized freedom – a way to explore beyond their neighborhoods and get to school or a summer job. Others found their gas-sipping tendencies a positive during a decade of oil shortages and the skyrocketing cost of a fill-up.
But the moped’s rise to popularity wasn’t without its bumps. Safety concerns swirled around the pseudo-motorcycles, the fastest of which could cruise at a respectable 45 mph. Their small size made them vulnerable on busy roads, their lack of features like turn signals left some motorists confused, and their snail-like acceleration made them candidates to get run down at every stop sign and red light. And since helmets were not part of ’70s teen culture, even a modest spill could result in serious injury.
By 1978, laws began to tighten, generally categorizing mopeds as motorcycles, requiring drivers to be 16 years old, and limiting speeds to 30 mph. Meanwhile, as the oil crisis subsided, gas prices and availability became less of an issue by the decade’s end, and environmentalists called out the moped’s two-stroke engines as polluters. The love affair with the moped started to sputter, and by the early 1980s it had fizzled out altogether. The moped’s market share narrowed, leaving it relegated to a niche mode of transportation for budget-conscious commuters and those unable to maintain a driver’s license for … various reasons.
Less well-known is that I nearly joined my classmate in moped infamy. Sometime in the mid-’70s, my father, who was always scouting around for small engine projects to work on in his spare time, heard about a co-worker at USG who had a “non-running” moped he wanted to get rid of. Puch, Motobecane and Garelli were the major European moped manufacturers, but this was a more obscure VeloSolex. Dad and I drove out to look at it one Saturday afternoon, and I won’t lie, it was a gawky-looking thing. While the more famous brands resembled lightweight motorcycles, the VeloSolex looked like a spindly lady’s bike with a tiny cylindrical motor strapped to the front. Dad poked and prodded it, toyed with the engine a bit, and then made the guy a lowball offer. It was countered with a figure three times as much. Dad checked the sad-looking machine over again and came up with $10, barely closing the gap. The guy declined, and Dad walked away.
When we returned to the car, he explained, “I don’t think it’s a big repair, but you’ll never find parts for that thing, not around here. Cleveland, maybe, but who’s got the time for that?” It was just as well. I was only a year from getting my driver’s license, and showing up to school on that mechanical monstrosity wouldn’t have improved my already flimsy cred. Or, as my buddy Jeff put it, “You can be an Uneasy Rider (referencing a popular Charlie Daniels song) but not an Undecided Rider.”
While the moped may have been just a passing fad of the ’70s, like bell bottoms and disco balls, its legacy lives on in today’s e-bikes and scooters, whose powerful lithium-ion batteries and modern aesthetics offer a stylish and practical way to navigate urban environments. The streets of Charlotte teem with tight-trousered banker bros on pay-by-the-mile Lime scooters and fat-tire electric bikes that unironically channel mid-century motorcycles.
In that sense, the moped mirrors broader societal shifts. Its rise coincided with a youth culture seeking independence and rebellion, while its decline reflects growing environmental consciousness, invasive regulation and evolving transportation infrastructure. The moped’s story is a microcosm of how technology, economics and cultural attitudes intersect to shape our mobility choices. While it may have been a mere footnote in transportation history, the moped, like those bell bottoms and disco balls, serves as a nostalgic reminder of a bygone era, a time when the open road held a different kind of allure, even for The Undecided.