There are apparently still new careers available to me at my age.

On Friday evening in Indio, California I discovered one of them.

For approximately five seconds, I became an illegal Uber driver for Coachella.

It was not a successful venture.

As happens every year, the Coachella Music and Arts Festival descends on Indio like a traveling nation of youth, music, fashion, dust, impatience, and a notable shortage of clothing. The Empire Polo Grounds, where it all happens, are only a few blocks from my winter place, where I have been coming for more than 20 years.

Every year, I marvel at the sheer scale of it.

The people.  125,000 each of two weekends.

The buses.  500 estimated.

The outfits.

The sheer improbability of it all.

The confidence with which young people can walk great distances in the desert heat while wearing almost nothing and still look as though they are headed to a gala.

By about 5 p.m. Friday, 48th Avenue, the street my place is on, had turned into something between a parking lot and a mass migration.

There were what looked like hundreds of giant charter buses lined up two deep for blocks and blocks, barely moving. Some had simply opened their doors and released their passengers into the wild. Young festival-goers were pouring out and starting the long walk to the grounds, even though they were still many blocks away.

It was sunny, warm, crowded, and chaotic.

Naturally, I wanted to go look.

That is so often how these things begin. Not with a plan. Not with wisdom. Just with curiosity.

Normally, I would have taken my bike. But my bike is in Denver. What I did have, however, was a golf cart.

So I took the golf cart.

As I left my gated community, I stopped at the guard gate and chatted with Greg, who was on duty and is a terrific guy, just a week away from retirement. I told him I was going out mainly to inspect the spectacle.

Greg said, “Don’t be surprised if some of those kids ask you for a ride.”

Then he added, rather casually, “They may even pay you.”

This had not occurred to me.

It would have been better if the thought had died right there at the gate.

The moment I pulled out toward the street, I found myself in the middle of a human river of young people walking toward Coachella.

Almost immediately, two young women in their early 20s approached me and asked if I could take them closer to the festival. They were urgent. They needed to get there quickly. Could I please help?

I said I did not know.

They asked how much.

I said I had no idea.

They said they would pay me $100.

There are moments in life when a person should pause, reflect, and make a sound decision.

This was not one of those moments.

The two young women tried to climb into the back seat of the golf cart, but that proved awkward. So instead, both of them squeezed into the front seat with me, where there was really room for only one person besides the driver.

At that point, I was no longer simply a curious bystander.

I was, however briefly, in the desert transportation business.

Off we went.

Because the sidewalk was crowded with pedestrians, I moved slowly along the bike lane, which seemed the best available option. We made our way for a block or two, creeping through the madness while buses loomed beside us and festival-goers streamed everywhere.

As we approached the intersection of 48th Avenue and Madison Street, the bike lane narrowed because buses were crowding into the curb. So I got back up onto the sidewalk and proceeded at a crawl. My passengers, now fully committed to my new line of work, called out to pedestrians to make room.

We reached the corner of 48th and Madison, where the scene was complete bedlam. People everywhere. Traffic everywhere. Confusion everywhere.

I looked ahead and thought I saw a way to get off the sidewalk and into the bike lane on Madison.

So I came down the ramp at the corner and entered the street.

And that is when my transportation empire came to an abrupt end.

To be precise, I had been on the street for about five seconds.

I had gone about five feet.

I was traveling at roughly two miles per hour.

Apparently that was sufficient.

A police officer immediately motioned me over and told me to stop.

At that exact moment, my two passengers made a decision that now strikes me as swift, sensible, and deeply disloyal. They jumped out of the golf cart and vanished into the crowd, leaving me to face the consequences alone.

The officer informed me, with a level of intensity that suggested I might have been fleeing a crime scene, that I was violating the law.

I had not known that in California you cannot drive a golf cart on a street with a speed limit above 25 miles per hour.

I know it now.

He then asked where my seatbelt was.

This was a challenging question, since my golf cart does not actually come equipped with seatbelts.

That detail did not seem to improve my standing.

I apologized. I explained that I lived just down the street. I said I had not realized I was violating the law. I asked if he might consider giving me a warning.

He was not inclined toward warnings.

So there, amid the mayhem of Coachella traffic, surrounded by giant buses, thousands of pedestrians, and an atmosphere of near-planetary disorder, I was cited for two violations: illegally operating a golf cart on the street and not wearing a seatbelt in a vehicle that does not contain one.

Later, when I got home and looked it all up, I discovered that the likely cost of my very brief and highly unsuccessful rideshare venture will be just under $400.

That is a remarkable charge for a trip of five feet.

I confess that the whole thing now strikes me as unbelievable.

Yes, I was curious.

Of course I was curious.

How could I not be? Coachella was flowing past my front door in all its youthful energy, impatience, extravagance, and near-total lack of fabric. I wanted to see it up close. I wanted to feel the scene, not just observe it from a comfortable distance behind the gate.

And then these two young women appeared, needing help.

There I was.

There they were.

They needed a ride.

How often does life hand you such a direct invitation to be useful?

I did not bring up money. They did.

And when they offered to pay me, I thought, why not?

Why not help them?

Why not see where this curious little episode might lead?

Why not become, for a few minutes, part of the story rather than just a spectator of it?

For a brief moment, I felt less like a lawbreaker than a public servant.

Then came the intersection of 48th and Madison.

I had been in the street for five seconds.

I had gone five feet.

I was moving at about two miles per hour.

And yet, somehow, this was enough to bring my promising transportation career to a dead stop.

The officer made clear that, in his view, this was not whimsy, not assistance, and not remotely amusing. In his mind, I had crossed over into a different category entirely: rule-breaker, violator, offender, man to be dealt with firmly and without mirth.

What to me felt like the beginning of a ridiculous little adventure was, to him, apparently something closer to organized crime.

And maybe that is what makes the story so funny.

One person sees a curious old man, two impatient young women, a golf cart, a traffic jam, and a small chance to help.

Another sees a menace to civilization.

I cannot say the experience was profitable.

I cannot say it was wise.

But I can say this: for five seconds, five feet, and two miles per hour, I was no longer merely watching Coachella.

I was a participant.

Not a successful one.

But undeniably part of the show.