My nine-year-old son bought himself an electric scooter a couple of days ago. He'd been asking for one for a couple of years. I finally told him he could have one if he bought it with his own money. That's what he did.
We brought it home and I put it together. He hopped on and started scooting up the street. If you are unfamiliar with electric scooters, they look like regular scooters you push with your feet, but they are much heavier. Normally, you start them by pushing with your feet, until they reach a speed of 5 miles per hour, and then the electric part kicks in, and you can just stand on it and let the scooter go by itself. Eventually, they run out of power, and need to be recharged.
Anyway, my son scooted up and down the hills of our neighborhood. I followed. When we were a considerable way from home, the scooter conked out. My son had to use old fashioned leg power to scoot up and down the hills. This was apparently exhausting.
"Mama," he complained. "You have to stop, because me and this scooter have something in common."
"What's that, Bubba?"
"We're out of power, and can't go another inch!"