Trusting Your Boyfriend With Your Life

Not to be overdramatic, but riding on the back of a motorbike in Bermuda where everyone drives on the left side of the road and is zooming around at 50mph around tight curves IS f#ckin’ scary!   When you’re warned by the natives that tourists are regularly found on the side of the road with missing toes, red flags do rise. But to be fair, when those natives are also taxicab drivers that charge $20 to go 5 minutes you have to put things in perspective.

Since J. and I are urbanites, I was completely unfamiliar with his driving skills — car or motorbike. When he said he had ridden one before, I just had to believe him. Since the vision of missing toes was stuck in my head, I cautiously donned sneakers every time and began each ride with a prayer.

Day 1, I clutched him tightly, and acted as a backseat motorbiker :

STOP sign ahead! Slow down, slow down…Crazy Bermudian about to pass!”

I leaned into his body on each turn and made sure we were both tilting in the same direction. By Day 2, I began to relax, and didn’t get nervous if we had people on our ass because we weren’t speeding. I flashed them my tat to keep them entertained.

Bermuda Motorbike


By Day 3 and 4, I finally began to look at the water to our left and not the road ahead. And it was amazing — I felt free and wild and young! I never attempted to ride the motorbike myself, the left hand-side of the road thing was confusing enough for me, but I recommend this mode of transpo to all island travelers, especially those who have ridden before.

Mom, if you’re reading this, we were totally SAFE the entire time! So what’s next — tandem skydiving?

Motorbiking In Bermuda


Have you ridden a motorbike in the islands?



Escape to the Dogskills

The water gushes past with little effort marking its territory and providing its own hypnotic soundtrack.  It’s not the sound of a busted open fire hydrant drenching the neighborhood kids on our scorching city block. This water doesn’t have a cool-down mission. It’s just riding the land, grooving down the creek, maneuvering its ways through the beaten rocks.

We left the city this morning, and I’m trying to adjust to the stillness, the quiet…the no cell phone service, no Stephen Colbert. I was fidgety for the first few hours — what do I do with these mountains, trees and dirt paths? And what’s that — sniff, sniff. Oh, fresh air.  Such a silly statement, but true, it’s like switching from rusty tap water to Evian. With a silent iPhone I’m instantly brought back to the 80s traveling with my dad and grandparents aimlessly driving around upstate NY, looking for a pay phone so we could find some distant 3rd cousin’s summer barbecue. Ah, that reminds me, we may have to go cousin-hunting tomorrow…with Facebook tagging it’s hard to take a quiet weekend away anywhere.

At this moment, it’s just me, J. and super-pooch who looked up at us with raised eyebrows and a little drool when we told him we were now in the Catskills. Catskills?! Who’s representing the mastiffs? He asked us in his canine murmurs to call it “the Dogskills” for the weekend. You got it Cozi.

Here we have no distractions…except for maybe a bear? I suddenly wish I had read those warning signs back on the winding roads. And J. is of course grilling on the back porch, inviting any beasts lurking in the woods to come on down and take a bite — of the bratwurst, not us!  If I don’t post again, you know the bears got us….