To suggest that my new electric riding lawn mower has changed my life would be an oversimplification. I mean I don’t mow lawns for a living. But since I acquired mine I’ve spent so much time aboard it, slaying grass and weeds, that it sometimes feels that way.
It might help to explain the scope of the problem. Our lawn is approximately the size of a golf course but with far more obstacles; unless you’re thinking of one of those Scottish links courses by the sea molded by the wind, rain and the last ice age.
Our place is where lawn equipment goes to die. Which is why the gentleman who mowed our lawn recently quit, forcing me to take matters into my own hands. I knew it would eventually come to this. Our lawn is distinguished by woodchuck holes, or rather full-fledged woodchuck metropolises and their accompanying cave-ins, rock outcropping and twigs, branches and even whole trees that tumble across the lawn after a good storm.
Indeed, it was our lawn mowing guy who politely suggested that I invest in a riding mower. I’m not sure whether he was being entirely sincere, or if he was trying to teach me a lesson. Our parting occurred after I suggested that the lawn might not need to be mowed very often in the dog days of summer and he judged my gambit a sign of disrespect to his equipment.
But his departure was — if not a blessing in disguise since he did a great job using not one but three lawnmowers and a brush hog, and there’s no way I’ll ever be able to equal his performance — the fulfillment of a modest fantasy. That was to buy an electric riding mower. I’d test-driven one at my friend David’s house last summer and he swore by it. He loved the sophisticated way it maneuvered, ran on batteries and quickly recharged using household current. Gone was gasoline with all its implications and complications.
My wife was apprehensive when I suggested that it was time for me to take matters into my own hands. She somehow believed that mowing a lawn, even astride a riding mower, required physical stamina and I wasn’t getting any younger. But after I pointed out all the unhealthy looking people sitting behind the wheel of their riding mowers she conceded that I had a point.
A more legitimate fear was that I might kill myself. Our property is an excellent candidate for those car ads where the happy family leaps mountains and surfs tsunamis all on their way to the supermarket. At my electric mower friend’s suggestion I bought the model controlled by twin sticks rather than a steering wheel. He touted its zero turning radius and the fact that you can go backwards if you missed a spot without ever having to thrown the mechanism into reverse.
As space age as the mower is — did I mention that it comes with 32 LED front, side and rear lights, cup holders, a USB port and Bluetooth? — I’ve discovered it also includes a steep learning curve. I do fine on flat surfaces, to the extent that the property has any that conform to that crimped definition; it’s the slopes where I routinely risk death and where I’ve found myself careening towards a ditch or hugging a tree.
Like a dog that refuses to obey commands the mower seems to develop a mind of its own when I try to execute one of those celebrated zero-turn maneuvers on a steep incline. I trust that I’ll eventually get the hang of it. Unfortunately, there’s nothing in the instruction manual about what to do when you find your heart in your throat.
This is the first time I’ve ever owned anything that might be called state-of-the-art. You’ve heard the expression “leading edge of technology”? Our family proudly inhabits the the receding edge of technology. We defiantly adhere to tradition no matter how outmoded. But I’m forced to admit that it’s really cool, totally Star Trek, when I plug in the lawn mower and its six lithium batteries — it came with four but I bought two more considering the size of the challenge — glow green while its panel provides a digital readout on what percentage remains for a full charge. By the way, the manufacturer claims that six batteries will buy me over three acres of mowing before needing to recharge.
Best of all it gives me a completely novel sense of agency. I don’t have to sit around wondering if our lawn mowing person is planning to quit or already has without telling me. I guess all that remains is to buy headphones so I can listen to music or podcasts while I mow. But thus far I’ve been so distracted merely surviving that I doubt I’d be able to focus on the sounds in my ear.
There will undoubtedly come a time when other family members will want to get behind the wheel, or rather the sticks, because it’s so much fun, and hopefully not because I’ve suffered catastrophic injury. But I’m not ready to surrender the mower just yet. One of the more traumatic moments in my childhood came on my fourth birthday when my baby sitter made me lend the kid next door my brand new toy push mower and he promptly broke it. I learned a lesson that I can never un-remember.
Ralph Gardner, Jr. is a journalist who divides his time between New York City and Columbia County. More of his work can be found be found on Substack.
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