The Surrey Ride
Miss Mae
February 18, 2008
The next time something screams, "I´m fun!" watch out, people. You´re liable to be on the receiving end of my thrashing elbows as I make a mad dash for the exit.
"What?" you ask. "Don´t you like fun?"
That idiotic question might warrant you a good dousing in the pig trough if you´re referencing the last time I set foot on a semi-tropical island.
"What?" you ask again. "Don´t you like islands? The sand, the surf, the palm trees?"
Get real. The truth is, islands are a haven for vampire mosquitoes, winged cockroaches that swarm darker than Dracula´s cape, and those specially nasty critters called surreys.
And then, of course, you say, "What´s a surrey?"
Ah. Allow me to enlighten you to a 21st century torture instrument.
Last time I and my mate, who I´ll affectionately call ´hubby´ for no other reason except that´s who he is, visited such an island. One day we decided to rent bicycles. At the back of the lot set a row of surreys.
Those innocent looking two-seater carriages sported four wheels, a cutesy red-fringed top, and broadcast a subliminal plea of, "Try me. I´m fun!"
After plopping on the concrete hard seat we pedaled down the sidewalk. At the first intersection, we headed through a break in traffic. Hubby and I floored the pedals to the metals, but that contrary surrey sedately stuck to its Texan mosey. Cars lined up, their motors growling impatiently as we inched across the road.
Once on the other side, we rode around gnarled live oak trees, coasted under strips of Spanish moss—and dropped abruptly off the pavement. We sat for a moment to take in our surroundings.
The air lay heavy like Grandma´s crocheted shawl. The placid, coffee-brown swamp water pooling around dead tree stumps and the silence filling the woods told me one thing—no other human was close by.
Hubby clapped a hand on my arm. "I hear a gator blowing!"
"Let´s boogie outta here!" I cried, my feet spinning the pedals like a Geritol-induced hamster let loose in a squirrel cage.
Have you tried to boogie out of quicksand, especially when you´re sitting in a stubborn surrey? That machine snickered at our Herculean efforts to dislodge its mired wheels. But apparently it became bored with our much wailing and gnashing of teeth, for suddenly it scooted forward.
Freed from the death grip of the sand trap, we tried to find our way back to civilization. But that surrey had other ideas. It took us down a twisty, bumpy, overgrown path so forgotten from the real world we expected to encounter T-Rex at any second. After circling the same tree six times, Hubby and I threw up our hands and decided to wait for the Calvary. Obviously, rescue wasn´t part of the surrey´s scheme, so it relented of its little game enough to lead us to a gravel trail. When Hubby and I recognized that black strip before us as actual pavement, we hooted in jubilation. We´d returned to the land of baking sunshine, brisk air, coarse people, and honking horns. Drivers cared not one red cent that we´d barely escaped being publicized in the latest ´Have you seen me?´ posters. We allowed them to pass by edging off the side of the road. The surrey promptly bogged down in the grass and like an ornery mule, it refused to bulge.
"Wife," Hubby said. "There´s only one thing left to do."
"What´s that, Hubby?"
"Change your name to Wilma and mine to Fred."
With that, we made like the Flintstones, and used foot power to push that hateful contraption back on the pavement and down the sidewalk.
We arrived at the rental lot sunburned and sweaty, walking on noodle-limp legs. Slowly, we climbed into our vehicle´s air-conditioned comfort. As we drove away, I saw two women enter the lot. Their eyes shining with eagerness, they raced toward the row of surreys.
And I, kind soul that I am, leaned out my window and screamed, "Run for your lives! Save yourself!"
Hardly! Far be it from me to interfere when someone´s about to embark on an adventure of fun.
Copyright Lula M. Thomas 2008
"What?" you ask. "Don´t you like fun?"
That idiotic question might warrant you a good dousing in the pig trough if you´re referencing the last time I set foot on a semi-tropical island.
"What?" you ask again. "Don´t you like islands? The sand, the surf, the palm trees?"
Get real. The truth is, islands are a haven for vampire mosquitoes, winged cockroaches that swarm darker than Dracula´s cape, and those specially nasty critters called surreys.
And then, of course, you say, "What´s a surrey?"
Ah. Allow me to enlighten you to a 21st century torture instrument.
Last time I and my mate, who I´ll affectionately call ´hubby´ for no other reason except that´s who he is, visited such an island. One day we decided to rent bicycles. At the back of the lot set a row of surreys.
Those innocent looking two-seater carriages sported four wheels, a cutesy red-fringed top, and broadcast a subliminal plea of, "Try me. I´m fun!"
After plopping on the concrete hard seat we pedaled down the sidewalk. At the first intersection, we headed through a break in traffic. Hubby and I floored the pedals to the metals, but that contrary surrey sedately stuck to its Texan mosey. Cars lined up, their motors growling impatiently as we inched across the road.
Once on the other side, we rode around gnarled live oak trees, coasted under strips of Spanish moss—and dropped abruptly off the pavement. We sat for a moment to take in our surroundings.
The air lay heavy like Grandma´s crocheted shawl. The placid, coffee-brown swamp water pooling around dead tree stumps and the silence filling the woods told me one thing—no other human was close by.
Hubby clapped a hand on my arm. "I hear a gator blowing!"
"Let´s boogie outta here!" I cried, my feet spinning the pedals like a Geritol-induced hamster let loose in a squirrel cage.
Have you tried to boogie out of quicksand, especially when you´re sitting in a stubborn surrey? That machine snickered at our Herculean efforts to dislodge its mired wheels. But apparently it became bored with our much wailing and gnashing of teeth, for suddenly it scooted forward.
Freed from the death grip of the sand trap, we tried to find our way back to civilization. But that surrey had other ideas. It took us down a twisty, bumpy, overgrown path so forgotten from the real world we expected to encounter T-Rex at any second. After circling the same tree six times, Hubby and I threw up our hands and decided to wait for the Calvary. Obviously, rescue wasn´t part of the surrey´s scheme, so it relented of its little game enough to lead us to a gravel trail. When Hubby and I recognized that black strip before us as actual pavement, we hooted in jubilation. We´d returned to the land of baking sunshine, brisk air, coarse people, and honking horns. Drivers cared not one red cent that we´d barely escaped being publicized in the latest ´Have you seen me?´ posters. We allowed them to pass by edging off the side of the road. The surrey promptly bogged down in the grass and like an ornery mule, it refused to bulge.
"Wife," Hubby said. "There´s only one thing left to do."
"What´s that, Hubby?"
"Change your name to Wilma and mine to Fred."
With that, we made like the Flintstones, and used foot power to push that hateful contraption back on the pavement and down the sidewalk.
We arrived at the rental lot sunburned and sweaty, walking on noodle-limp legs. Slowly, we climbed into our vehicle´s air-conditioned comfort. As we drove away, I saw two women enter the lot. Their eyes shining with eagerness, they raced toward the row of surreys.
And I, kind soul that I am, leaned out my window and screamed, "Run for your lives! Save yourself!"
Hardly! Far be it from me to interfere when someone´s about to embark on an adventure of fun.
Copyright Lula M. Thomas 2008
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