It worked

It was the same scooter Rock had ridden thirty-five years earlier when he was in graduate school in Fayetteville, Arkansas. Now he was back in the same environs, inhabited by the same faces he remembered from his mid-twenties.
He found the scooter, a lime-green Honda with eight-inch tires, parked in the back of the old Razorback Pub on Dickson Street, and it started right up. As he rode it up toward and into downtown, he noticed it had become unbalanced. The hand grips were loose, and it tended to stall at low speeds, but it worked, and it was still fun to ride through the halls of the Aransas Democrat Building in Little Rock.
Rick McFarland flagged him down on the ground floor, which had the dusty, barren, and unfinished look Rock remembered from his first year or two at the paper. Several of the old men from the print shop were with him.
"Rock, we're putting together a Classix ticket," Rick said. "You want in?"
Gamblers had to pick winners of six consecutive races to cash in the Classix at Oaklawn Park. Rock always tossed in a few bucks.
"Of course," Rock said. "What do y'all need?"