Category Archives: Travel

Leaving Bayonne – The Gays

Personal Bits, Queer stuff, Travel

On a ship of 3300 passengers, you’d probably think that some were gay. If you subscribe to the 1 in 10 theory then there should have been at least 300 gay people. Three hundred butch fems or flamboyant floaters should not be hard to find in two weeks of sailing.

As we were in line for embarkation in Bayonne, I scanned the crowd to see if any sisters were coming on board with us. PING went my Gaydar and I spied two gentlemen travelling together and wearing near identical jeans, t-shirts and male pattern baldness. Dead giveaway. As our line to the check in desk snaked by them a couple times I made three official efforts to catch their eye and smile, with the hopes of striking up a conversation.

All three times was met with them turning their back to us after a cautionary glance. Snubbed, but not let down I started to look around for more family. Fuck you, dudes, we’re not cruising, we’re being friendly!

Our first breakfast in the main dining room had us randomly seated with two women in their 70s on a bus/cruise tour who asked me outright if we were brothers. SharkBoy was not part of that conversation so I said “Yes,” and proceeded to let that lie fester in their heads a moment. I wondered if they wondered what the hell two brothers in their 40s were doing out on a cruise…

Two other occasions we were asked if we were brothers by passengers. I would say yes and hold onto SharkBoy’s arm in a confusing/awkward display of affection.

By day 7 I had given up looking through the crowd for possible homo contact and turned off my Gaydar. SharkBoy says there were at least two other couples on board that he could tell (I never saw them) and one lovely lad who was taking his mother on a trip (questionable at best but that just stank of a Tennessee Williams play). There was a bespectacled lesbian we sat with a couple times at breakfast (rainbow tattoos on her forearms!) but she refused to offer up anything other than “hello” and “see ya!”, but I expect she was painfully shy. The two guys spied at the top of the cruise still refused to make eye contact and I decided that they were on some sort of relationship rebuilding vacation after one of them admitted to a terrible admission to sex addiction.

Not that I wanted to be on a gay cruise. If I wanted to be surrounded by my own I would have booked an all exclusive vacation but to tell the truth, I have no desire to run with my own. Sorry StevieB, but I’m what The Advocate calls “Self Hating”. After years of working in a bar I can’t imagine an all gay vacation let alone being trapped on a boat for any amount of time with rainbow beaded, whistle blowing, Aussie Bum wearing party queens. Sure I’ve travelled en mass with other gays and have even done Gay Days twice at Disney World but, for me, to “travel gay” is like living in the gay village – ghetto gets you nowhere. You really need to get out there to experience other things. That being said, I was missing a bit of the old catty banter that comes with a fruity drink in your hand and a good gay by your side. Especially since we were in such a ripe environment for ridicule.

As we left Antigua (after the Prickly Pear Island) SharkBoy and I were up on the top deck watching the boat leave the island. SharkBoy says “This is a really good vacation, considering.” I know he means that despite the uncooth masses, he (we!) were having a good time. And I thought to myself “It is. A bit lacking in the gay companionship department…”

Suddenly a crew member came and stood beside us at the railing. We started to talk and within moments he revealed that he had a boyfriend on another ship within the fleet and that they were considering moving their home to Toronto. We spend a very long time talking as the ship sailed out and he told us a lot of stories which I will not repeat here to keep his anonymity. Not that he was shy about his status and his partner, he offered first, but I’m not one to leave trails of career shattering evidence all over the internet. He had us fascinated and laughing at the same time with stories of ship operations and shenanigans. It was a nice gay island in the vacation of gaylessness.

Leaving Bayonne – The Best Excursion

Personal Bits, Travel

SharkBoy and I left the ship at every port. For all but two of the ports we did ship sanctioned excursions where we were assured that we’d have our asses back on deckchairs, drinks in hand before the ship left the dock. One woman experienced the horror of not getting back to the ship in time and experienced having the entire 12th deck chant her name as she ran down the pier (the PA system had been calling for her for 15 minutes). From that day, SharkBoy said he would never be “The Susan”.

The excursions were fun and well worth the extra couple bucks for “The Susan” insurance. We visited Water Island where the hotel in the book Don’t Stop the Carnival was based and where I was attacked by a hibiscus eating iguana. We did ATV carts along a St Maartin highway which just sealed my desire to purchase a Vespa in the future. We did a waterfall tour in Dominica, which I’ve mentioned that the road led straight up into mountains with a dizzying drive.

One unsupervised trip we did in Barbados where we were met by my Mom, who is wintering in an ocean front villa. She picked us up at the port with her two neighbours and were toured all over the island. We then went back to her villa and were fed like good Italian sons should be when they visit mama. We also met more of the villa-gers, one of which SharkBoy and I instantly liked due to her Guyanese accent (British and East Indian coming from an East Asian woman, tanned like all get out) and her no nonsense attitude and warmth. Loved. Her.

However, the best excursion, for me, was the trip to Prickly Pear Island off the coast of Antigua. Here’s a map:

View Prickly Pear Island in a larger map

As you can see, it’s small and remote. But according to Wikipedia the island held 12 islanders, 6 of which contracted an annoying case of thyroid cancer after WWII, due to the spent fuel rods stored in bunkers in the middle of the island.

We were told this by our dinner mate who we tagged along with to the island. Just as we set foot on the pristine coral white sands. Thanks.

I think we’ll be ok. How bad can 4 hours of radiation exposure be?

We were given free drinks, a BBQ lunch and snorkeling equipment to look around the reef/coral that surrounded the island. I took to the water like a fish with my underwater digital camera in hand. Pics here.

Teef!I went out snorkeling a few times, more than SharkBoy (he got a cut on his knee and was too worried about bleeding into the ocean – Sharks, you know) and for my efforts, we discovered that the 60spf sunblock worked well. There’s a white border all around my back tattoo which is suitable for framing. The rest of my back is flaking more than a dried tuna sandwiches your drunk mom would send you to school with.

The last time I came back I think SharkBoy was suitably drunk. I sat and settled into my lounger, we shared a quiet pause and he spoke up:

“I watched you out there in the ocean. I know you’re having a great time because you keep popping up and going under again. I can tell you’re happy.”

And I looked at him sideways and thought “Where the fuck is this coming from?”

And then I thought “Holy shit. I AM happy!”

When I was 10-12 yrs old I use to go out into the lake where our cottage was and stay out there for hours. I would wear rubber boots because I didn’t want to get leeches on my feet. I would go through swim suits like they were underwear. My parents were utterly cool with me being out in the lake and would leave me unsupervised to play with my plastic boats and floaty devices. SharkBoy’s comment sent me right back to those days where I would turn brown in the sun within seconds and take to the summer lake like it was my fish oxygen.

After he tells me this and I have a moment where I relive this memory, I’m overwhelmed with emotion. I pause and compose myself.

“You’re gay,” I say, keeping a brave face.

Leaving Bayonne – The Jersians

Travel

A tame version of one of the many

How was my trip?

Before I start I just want to say that I’m going to write some seriously scathing things about a group of people in a broad and general manner. I do so in 99% jest. I do so because it happened to us almost every time we came in contact with this particular group of people. I do so because these fuckers nearly ruined a perfectly good vacation.

If you belong to that group of people I’m going to mention, if you have an open mind and you find yourself amused (hopefully), then we’re cool. If you’re from that group and you’re pissed, fuck off.

My trip was great except for the roving packs of New Jerseians that seem to not understand the concept of decorum or social graces. There. I said it. I officially hate most of the population of New Jersey. I know this hate-on for a single state of people is probably shared with quite a few New Yorkers, but it’s new to me. I’ve not been exposed to this kind of rabble before. Nor do I think I wish to do so ever again.

Why this sudden slamming closed of my open mind? I’ll start at the beginning, shall I?

SharkBoy and I get to the port in Bayonne, NJ and enter the snakey line into the security screening area for the ship. As the initial excitement of getting on board faded while we stand in line for the metal detectors, I begin to notice things about the people that we’ll be sailing with on the 3300 passenger ship:

  1. Everyone is grossly obese. I’ll talk about that later.
  2. The majority of the crowd was well over 55. This wasn’t so much a problem for socialization as it was for mobilization. Often during the trip we found ourselves behind slow moving flesh mounds that didn’t seem to care that they just walked in front of two guys who could manage a human normal gait. This usually happened in line for the gangplank or the buffet.
  3. And finally, I begin to notice a lot of sweat pants. A LOT of SWEATPANTS. I use to think that air travel was a great time to dress up in presentable clothes but in the last few flights I’ve had, I’ve been seeing sweatpants on travellers with increasing dismay. Imagine my horror when I started to see sweatpants on travellers that should be wearing sport jackets and ascots and jaunty hats.

Actually, there was one couple in their upper 70s who did dress like they were going on the QEII but we didn’t see them nearly enough. They arrived at port wearing pink, her in pink furs and he in a pink leisure suit. I would have loved to be sitting at their table every night just to see the 30 year old Bob Mackie gowns. These two were the exception. The rest of the ship dressed like they were going to fix cars or watch Monster Truck rallies or fix Monster Trucks.

My fantasy of fine travel dashed across the rocky shore of plebeian fashion.

The outfit of choice for the men were “World’s Greatest Dad!” or “…Grampa!” t-shirts that barely contained their medicine ball sized guts. There were a couple 9-11 firefighter memorial t-shirts (worn ironically because they looked like they couldn’t carry a single axe without a stroke) but for the most part, the men all had that look that their wives dressed them using the finest polycotton pulled from seconds bins from WallMart. Most men had a look of long suffering or dour disposition etched into their faces, as if their wives, work and life in general had pulled their cheeks down all these years.

The women were cankel-riffic. Post-children obesity was rampant with the ladies on our cruise. By Day 3 I had decided that they were all part of the “Titanic Tits” set. We’re talking G cups that rested like deflating dirigibles atop of fleshy mounds of c-section scars. These ladies were partying like they were 16 again and many had shrill voices that could cut titanium. Mostly yelling at their husbands to get them more food from some buffet.

“Why Dead Robot! How can you hate someone based on their body size when you yourself are 40lbs overweight?” I hear you sputter.

I don’t fart on elevators.

A few times we entered an elevator that had been gassed. One New Jersian did right in front of me. Unapologetic, she let one rip and then without even a bat of an eyelash. Then she straightened the back of her t-shirt across her polyester-wrapped, newly relaxed ass. She walked off the elevator without a look back or “HA! Got you!” Nothing.

I don’t talk with food in my mouth.

One lunch SharkBoy shared a table with two couples: a mother/daughter combo who, after a few moments of conversation, we dubbed the daughter “Basement Girl” because it was evident with her constant announcements that she just bought the DVD of House on Amazon.com on Black Friday, that she didn’t get out much. The other couple maybe had 5 teeth total between them. At one point all four of them had spat food from their mouth as they complained about their TIVOs working improperly. But Basement Girl won the Oscar for Most Dramatic Performance of Spitting Out What Isn’t Mozzarella Cheese At All. One taste of the offensive cheese and she wanted all of us to know that her dear mom had tried to poison her with Brie cheese with napkin and gagging sounds. Pleasant! Meanwhile the other couple at the table just spat food from their yaws as they complained that they didn’t “get” The Office.

I don’t let myself get so morbidly obese I can’t raise my leg further than my knee.

At one excursion to a secluded beach, one of the Titanic Tits ladies got herself hip deep into the ocean only to find that the 2ft drop off past the surf break meant that she was trapped, unable to raise her bloated ham sized feet higher than her mid thigh. The weight of her gargantuan flesh would make the sand shift under her as she tried to get her foot high enough above the drop off. She eventually got herself into a sitting position and hauled herself up over the drop off and shimmied her ass most of the way back to shore. Not pretty. Quite embarrassing to watch but fascinating at the same time.

I can hold onto a conversation even if it means going down to the base level of discussing the weather.

Each breakfast or lunch that SharkBoy and I had in the main dining room meant that we were randomly sat at a large table with other shipmates. At every sitting we managed to get a few New Jersians with us and they never once started conversations with us. Did they know we were homosex lovers and could not bear to start a conversation with us? Or were they just socially inept that they couldn’t start a pleasant talk? I may be paranoid but I think it was a healthy dose of both. In every instance, SharkBoy instigated discussions with a deflating “This is my husband! I suck his cock nightly!”

No. He didn’t. But you could imagine my fantasy of that: To watch the table devolve into pandemonium, screaming and “Oh my lord!!”-isms. No this only happened in my head when the awkward silence we had to endure so many times during a meal suddenly loomed over the table. Sure I could have started some pleasant chit chat but I can only badmouth weather (something so out of our own control) for so long.

I don’t complain about everything under the sun for the sake of complaining.

On one excursion two heffers heaved their fat asses into the bus that would take us up the side of a mountain to see twin waterfalls of Trafalgar. The first thing out of the husband’s mouth was a long loud rant to the driver about how dirty the windows were. They weren’t, in fact, dirty at all. They had slight dew stains and dust but they were still viewable. Not that you wanted to see the edge of the road that led up that mountain. Yikes. This is only one example of the constant flow of complaints. As we walked the halls or swam in the pools we were privy to many conversations that compared the ship, the food, the weather, the floorboards to other places that were so much better than where we all were at that moment. After 12 days I am convinced that New Jersians like to complain about anything at all.

I know how to behave in a restaurant.

We had one nice dinner in the smaller restaurant on the ship called Portofino’s – extra charge is expected and there is a strict suit and tie dress code. There is one waiter per table so the service is personal and attentive. Half way through our wonderful meal they walked in. He was about 300lbs of back street muscle stuffed into an ill-fitting suit. She was wearing a Vegas whore black dress. They sat them two tables away and we could hear her drop F-bombs like the waiter was Hiroshima. I swear I can’t recall when the word “fuck” was used as an adjective, verb and compliment all in one sentence. I knew we were in for eavesdropping gold when she couldn’t pronounce “calamari” yet that fun faded to pity as she told the waiter to just bring her a “fucking margarita”. Her conversation poured over to the table next to us when she said “I saw you getting a massage! Your face was ORGASMIC! I was all like ‘I want what she’s fucking getting!'” The restaurant literally stopped. She didn’t. Near the end of the evening (we cut our meal short), the entire room learned that they were to be married on the beach the next day in a small eloping ceremony. I placed a silent bet in my head that the husband would be banging the babysitter inside a year.

I could go on. Know that I wanted to get through this post without using the word “class” because we all know that those who mention “class” usually have none. But I’m going to do it. New Jersians have no class. They may be the hard working backbone of the Eastern Seaboard, but they’d crumble in an audience with the queen.

More later.

Satellite of Love

Distractions, Travel

Home again! The whole trip was… well… a trip.

Every Caribbean internet cafe I visited had blocked my site. I’m assuming because I’m rated as “adult” on someone’s list due to the word “gay” in my meta tags. Whatever, Caribbean IT dicks. I’m home now and you can’t stop me.

But the trip really was awesome! I need a day to sort out the pics and videos. And the stories. We have stories. Here’s a hint: I have a new mortal enemy: Anyone from New Jersey.

More later.

Explorer of the Seas

Personal Bits, Travel

Lately I’ve been scouring the innernetz for reviews on Explorer of the Sea, the ship we’ll be on in Feb 2010 for 12 days. What I’m finding is that a lot of people out there can’t express their opinions without some kind of gripe. That and The English hate cruising with people from New Jersey.

This review of a couple’s trip aboard the same ship reads like a play synopsis by Chekov (the dead boring writer, not the cool Star Trek guy). If you spend the time reading it (it’s long and oddly detailed), please do so in a Betty Draper, bored housewife nasal twang. Gems like this will become hillarious:

4:30pm was the Muster drill in the Maharajas Lounged. It was packed in there. It lasted until about 5pm and was very crowded trying to leave when the Muster Drill ended. We started sailing away while we were in the Muster Drill.

5pm We went back to our room to watch the sail away from our balcony.

I finished unpacking. I was shocked because I was able to find space for everything and we both are big over-packers. The suitcases/bags all fit under the bed.

Around 5:45pm maintenance came about the safe and fixed it He also looked at the metal shower shelf, tightened the screw a little and said he would tell someone else about that.

I was debating whether or not to get the soda card. I don’t really like fountain soda so didn’t know if I would really get much use out of it. I decided against it after all.

I can imagine their dinner conversation consists of pointing out other people’s clothes and what they’ll eat within the next hour:

We stayed in our formal outfits for the evening. We didn’t see many tuxes – maybe one or two.

We wanted to take a peek at the dinner offerings in the Windjammer just because we’ve never done dinner there. We wandered through. They had most of the entrees from the dining room available (but no Grand Marnier soufflé). The Jade section had sushi so Paul took a few pieces.

9pm Showtime. There were various songs from different Broadway shows. Paul fell asleep during the show.

The end of the review mirrors the end of their relationship:

After dinner Paul and I went back to the Casino. I played Let it Ride at the table. Paul played poker. I was having fun so didn’t go to the 9pm Vibeology Show. I found out that the later show is at 10:45.

10:30 I went up to the cabin to change out of my formal clothes.

10:45 I watched the Vibeology show. It was OK.

12:30 I got a slice of pizza at the promenade and went upstairs. Paul came up to change out of his suit. We had pizza together.

We played a game of mini golf. The course was pretty beat up.

I did a little packing.

We ordered a snack from room service – cheese & crackers, fruit, pizza, and cookies. We gave the guy who delivered it a $5 tip.

After our snack Paul headed down to the casino.

3pm We went to watch the Karaoke finals. The woman that won was fantastic. She was a better singer than some of the performers in the shows.

I know cruises get a bad rap since they’re seen as fat, old people barges and her review doesn’t assist on dispelling that myth. I know SharkBoy and I are going to have much more fun than her.

Too Much Reality TV

Celebs and Media, Distractions, Personal Bits, Travel

amazing-race-15-12I woke this morning and decided that I shouldn’t let TV rule my creativity.

With Mad Men in-between seasons I can now ease off on the self conscious art director dreams I usually have after watching a single episode. The dream is always the same: I walk into my boss’ office and lay down 5 years of pent up anger at how our company’s brand is more fractured than a plate glass window in a Bruce Willis action film. I usually wake from them weirdly optimistic that work will get better if I just take more initiative.

Now that Amazing Race is nearly over and that Matt Tomljenovich (at right leaning on his father) are out of the race I can stop dreaming about him. Not in a creepy school girl way, he just is in my dreams.

Last night I dreamed I was on a really rusted out ship headed for Tokyo with cameras following 60-70 of us passengers all over the rust bucket as we search for …things… that would better our placement in the game when we arrived. Contestants were practically falling over camera equipment…

…and caged animals… (???)

…as we went from one part of the ship to the next. I had to share a 3 bedded room with 20 guys, which strangely looked like the room I shared with Canadian ex-pats in London’s Earls Court Road. Meanwhile, a camera was thrust into my face as I offered up my bed to a 8 year old kid who thanked me but I could see in his parent’s eyes that I had made some critical strategic reality TV game show error and they were going to crush my spirit at the next challenge or something. Meanwhile Matt was taking off his pants so I was utterly distracted.

We’re Going On a Cruise

Personal Bits, Travel

I know how much you Torontonians hate “Harold the Jewelry Buyer” commercials but I couldn’t resist. We are actually going on a cruise. SharkBoy let it out of the bag yesterday in his post.

Y’see, old SharkBoy and I have had a KD Summer. By that I mean with his strike pay and my “Workshare 4 days a week paycheque” we’ve really been stressed about money all summer. Now that it’s all over we started to look into a nice winter vacation to pump money back into somebody’s economy.

Since it’s announcement of delivery from it’s Nordic shipyards, SharkBoy has been wispfully dreaming of the massive, oil tanker of a cruise ship: Royal Caribbean’s The Oasis of the Seas. I have too – the thought of drinking in an overgrown elevator bar gets me kind of alcoholic:

While I think the ship is amazing, I had reservations that the first couple months of this ship’s life would be like owning a first generation Apple product. And we all know that any first gen Apple product doesn’t resolve certain issues until it’s third reincarnation (see: iMac growing from bulbous Bondi blue to the swinging iBoob to the current simplistic flat design; or follow iPhones up to the 3GS; iPods arrived with a click wheel, to touch pad then back to a physical wheel; and finally Steve Jobs himself with his fancy new liver). I’m concerned that if we were to go on The Oasis inside it’s first 6 months of operation we’d end up with a malfunctioning something/anything. I’m not being a doomsayer Titanic freak here, I’m just saying “lets let the other people iron out the kinks first”. We do plan to sail on her in the next couple years, promise.

So what to do? Quick! To the Internet! I found us an interesting 12 day Caribbean cruise at the same price as a 7-day inside room on The Oasis. But this had two deal breakers, ladies, that sealed the deal:

One – it’s on the Explorer of the Seas, my first cruise ship. The same ship we discovered that SharkBoy and I are totally “travel compatible” and can vacation together in love and harmony with a minimum of over-togetherness snark. But know that SharkBoy does take up a lot of space in a cramped ship cabin. He’s a clothes horse.

And Two: the ship leaves from NYC. Well actually New Jersey, but it’s just a hop across the river via the PATH and we’re on the Island of Manhattan. We’re going to wander NYC like saucer-eyed tourists the day before and the last day of our trip. We’re equally excited about this portion of our vacation as much as the whole cruise itself.

Add to the fact that I found a great hotel in Jersey City AND a Porter flight deal, this vacation seems to be playing itself out in front of us. Kismet!

Expect updates and blubbering for the next 90 days.

Monday

Toronto, Travel

At 7am, the line up for passports starts, even though the front doors don’t open until 8am. SharkBoy and I are there, first in line with our applications filled, t’s crossed, i’s dotted. We’re planning ahead to the inevitable winter vacation.

Other people start arriving and stand like zombies at the door. The same door with the sign on it in 72pt font: NOT OPEN UNTIL 8AM. When confronted with an unexpected set of obstacles people tend to just shut down, I guess. The locked door and sign is enough for people to blow a circuit and just stop where they discovered their inability to continue on with no regard to the other people who’ve been waiting. As the crowd grows, no one is even considering creating a line which baffles SharkBoy and I. Do you really think rushing the door at 8am is a solution?

“Lets all start a line behind us,” SharkBoy commands to the 10-15 people aimlessly milling around the front door. To my surprise, they all comply without complaint. Thing I Learned Today: using an authoritative voice, people will WANT to be herded like sheep.

As we wait I notice two things about the government building we’re waiting out front of. One: The 70’s awning/marquee has no roof – just a big brushed metal loop that frames the doors, hanging out over the sidewalk, offering no protection from the elements – just the illusion of such. Typical government office.

And Two: the key-card door is not closing, offering no security protection to the vital documents inside the building. Yet the employees still wave their pass cards and yank on the unlocked, un-secure door. Except for one aspiring bureaucrat who walked up to the door, pushed it closed, THEN got her key pass card out and then opened the door. But didn’t bother to check to see if the door closed behind her.

SharkBoy and I instantly look at each other. What the fuck was that?

I imagined we’d get her when we entered the Hall of Passports: in my head I could see a massive empty airplane hanger sized room. Like some Ridley Scott film, pigeons fly randomly around, water drips lyrically down from the high ceiling above…Bladerunner fog makes shafts of sunlight stream through the large room falling on me and one desk. And a yellow line… Our bureaucrat, in high 80s hair and huge 80s glasses squares her shoulder pads and calls out to me: “I can’t serve you until you are fully standing behind the yellow line! BEHIND! I SAID BEHI–good, next please!”

Thankfully after a few moments a frail security guard (why do they always look like you could knock them over with a feather?) came out and sorted us all out into a proper Government of Canada queue. Whew!

On the upside, our passports were renewed within minutes by the most friendliest government worker I have ever encountered. She noticed that I was wearing the same shirt in my old passport as well as my new ID pictures. Bless her!

As an aside, on the way home, I got to do the scramble at Yonge and Dundas as well as encounter an Aboriginal shaman in Allan Gardens doing a morning sun welcoming ritual. I do love Toronto…

Bikey!

Personal Bits, Toronto, Travel

A horrid incident between a bike courier and the ex-Attorney General Monday evening which led to one man dead, the other disgraced. This whole story is sounding like two strong willed people, “colliding” as it were, by chance and as usual, the car “won” (if you can call a man dying in the streets a win).

I find it weird that comes within 24 hours of my decision to start biking to work. Don’t worry: I’m not riding on major streets; keeping my distance from cars, parked or otherwise; and wearing a helmet so chances are I’ll be ok if I keep my head up and eyes on the road.

When I say I’m biking to work it’s not entirely what it seems. Between home and office there is a massive ravine and a monster hill that would render me drenched in sweat if I were to attempt it. So I bike 2/3rds the way, about 30 min tops, to a secluded station and subway ride the rest of the way. The ride home is virtually all down hill so it’s not such a struggle to get home, post-work.

“Epic Fail,” I hear you shout.

At least I’m out there, I respond. I think 30 min of bike riding is a lot better than the 25 min walk to the subway every morning.

I’m still trying to find a good “stride” to the whole commuting thing – like strapping my helmet jauntily to my hip when I ride the subway or how to juggle that bike seat with my Starbucks morning tea. Who knows? If I get energetic enough, I may wind up conquering that hill in the next month or two.