There is no better way, in my mind, to witness Cruisin’ Downriver than from the cushioned seat of a 1987 Trac Clipper moped.

The Clipper is a moped unlike any other. Though the frame is steel, the body is made entirely of bendable plastic.

A dull red, the Clipper’s body is emblazoned with black-and-white pinstriping along the bottom near the exhaust pipe. It has a thick, wide seat for extra comfort.

The wheels are similar to those on a BMX bicycle with spokes and dirty, worn tires.

Probably the most striking feature of the Clipper are the thick, black bicycle pedals used to start the small, yet resilient 49cc two-stroke engine.

With a top speed of 18 mph — though the speedometer reads 30 mph — I was able to keep up with the flow of the day’s crawling traffic. And, the Clipper’s small stature made it effortless to stop and see the makeshift car shows littered along Fort Street.

To cover the cruise, I needed to be able to talk to the community and get inside the mind of the average Cruise participant. I would not have been able to cover as much ground on foot as I did on a moped.

With the breeze in my face and my sunglasses on, to avoid bug eye, I zipped in and out of the cruise, talking to countless car enthusiasts. Many greeted me with a smile as I pulled my “hog” up to the sidewalk.

Everyone wanted to know what year the Clipper was built and where I got it.

“It’s an ’87, and the truth is, the Clipper belongs to my little brother, Bryant,” I would say. “He was nice enough to allow me the privilege to borrow it for the day.”

The low-puttering engine of the Clipper struck fear into the hearts of no one. In fact, some laughed at the sight of the soft, red plastic body and sarcastically asked if I’d had time to polish her up. Everyone knows you can’t polish plastic.

At one point during the day, I drove quietly behind a massive ’78 Chevelle. People along the roadside prompted the driver to “light ’em up.” After the smoke cleared, their attention was fixed on me.

The crowds would suggest to me, by waving signs or using hand signals, to somehow spin my tires. Embarrassed, I looked back at them and politely said, “I drive a Clipper.”

For six straight hours the Clipper performed like a champion. The engine purred like a kitten and seemed extremely reliable.

Then, just as the sun began to set on the good people of Downriver, the Clipper began to experience some technical difficulties.

It seemed that no matter how hard I gripped the throttle, I couldn’t get the engine to stay purring for more than a quarter mile. That forced me to pull off Fort Street and restart the “hog” about every two minutes.

The bystanders must have had enormous faith in the Clipper because no one made an attempt to find out what was wrong with her.

Eventually, she stopped turning over and I had to walk the half-block back to my house with the Clipper in tow.

Yet, it was a small price to pay for one of the best rides of my life. Despite a breakdown, laughter and somewhat disparaging remarks, I would never see the cruise from any other vantage point than the seat of a 1987 Trac Clipper — well, except for maybe a go-kart.

Contact Staff Writer Nate Stemen at nstemen@heritage.com or 1-734-246-0882.