Matt and I are vacationing with friends in Naples, Florida, and today we decided to be adventurous and check out some local sites. There were lots of outdoorsy things to do in the area, but most of them involved hiking and doing manual labor, and we didn’t come to Florida to work out. (We don’t engage in a strenuous workout program at home, so why would we start while we’re on vacation?) So we decided to take the lazy approach and head to Sanibel Island for the day.
We hopped into our sweet rental car, a Hyundai Forte, that is purple and looks like an eggplant exploded on it. (Hey, we’re high rollers). It’s also a complete piece of junk, but it has Satellite radio, so the rental agency seemed to think that made up for the mildew smell and the coffee stains on the seat. Sadly, this was an “upgrade” from what we booked. I can’t imagine what is lower on the rental car totem pole than a Barney colored tin can that smells like old man farts. (And maybe a few of mine….)
So we grabbed our nose plugs, held our breath, and headed out to the island. Much to our chagrin, we were required to pay $6.00 to cross the bridge to the island, and after that steep price, I was expecting to see Elvis himself greet us on the other side with his blue suede shoes. No such luck, although we did see several seagulls attempting to dive bomb our car as we crossed the bridge (most likely because of the smell emanating from our ride).
As soon as we arrived on the island we saw a bike rental shop. Maybe it was the smell of the rental car clouding our judgment, but we decided to stop and rent a scooter for the day. We met with a worker who was clearly stoned and not happy about being at his job. He showed us different scooter options as he munched on Cheetos and most likely had an inner monologue where he continuously reminded himself he was at work and needed to be professional (the tattoo of the naked lady on his arm definitely gave the “hard worker” vibe). He pointed out a few bikes with his yellow Cheetos fingers, but we weren’t interested. Why in the world would we pay for a workout when there were perfectly good motorized vehicles that would do the labor for us? We let him know we wanted something that required no work on our part.
We settled on a red double scooter that glimmered in the sunlight and yelled out “rent me!” (Seriously, it did. It was printed on the front of the scooter in large letters.) I liked the way she purred when we started her up so we decided she was our ride for the day. I named her Lola. The sign at the checkout stated the weight limit for the scooter, and let’s just say we definitely exceeded it…by a lot (the fact that I had two donuts and a soda in my belly probably didn’t help). We were just glad the stoned worker was too busy filling his pipe to notice the size of my behind.
Next we had to get helmets, which was a traumatic experience for me, as I don’t think I look good in hats. The helmet I chose was grey and said “outlaw” on the front of it. Since I was far exceeding the weight limit on the scooter, I thought this helmet was appropriate so I took it. (It really makes my eyes pop, doesn’t it?)
After looking at her up close, I decided that Lola needed a man to drive her, so I let Matt take the lead and drive. He hopped on and started her up, and couldn’t have looked more manly than he did at that moment, in red floral shorts and a sassy helmet. I was reminded at that moment why I married him…for the way he looked on motorized vehicles. I then mounted (hee hee) the scooter and we took off down the road, going approximately 10 miles per hour (most likely with the exhaust pipe dragging the ground).
We scooted (is that a term?) around the island for about an hour and then decided that riding was hard work, so we stopped at a local restaurant for lunch. I got off the scooter only to discover my butt was completely numb. I could barely walk, and I looked like I had been riding a stripper pole all day instead of a 30 pound scooter named Lola. We took off our helmets and lifted the seat to store them, only to discover the storage area had a sign that specifically said “no pets,” as if we were going to drop our Chihuahua in the storage space while we grabbed some food.
After eating, we returned to the glorified Hoveround and got back on for more riding. As we felt the wind in our helmets, we contemplated the name of the biker gang we would form if we had a scooter all the time (it was between Scoot Squad and Rolling Thunder). We drove around the island, honking the horn at other scooter-goers as we passed. We were a brethren of sorts, and the other drivers returned the honk in good form, all except the 300 pound man we saw driving the scooter alone, sweating profusely, most likely in the beginning stages of a heart attack. We let his faux pas slide, as he seemed to have more important things to worry about…like breathing.
After a day of sightseeing on the scooter, we returned Lola to the stoned workers with heavy hearts and numb butts. We had so much fun on the hog that we were sad to see her go. We promised to return soon, but next time we would be prepared…with duct tape and a pillow.