Words By Whittall

Doug and I loved going to Aruba. It’s a beautiful, arid island that’s small enough to travel end-to-end in a day, but full of beautiful vistas and quirky spots like Charlie’s Bar where business cards from around the world layer the walls. In the early 90’s, touring the island meant leaving the two areas where resorts were located. At the time, all of the high-rise hotels were located along one long sandy stretch. This meant you could easily walk up and down the beach, choosing from any of the cantinas, cabanas and sandy spots. A pink tractor – the booze-mobile – covered the entire area, so you could plop down for the day, with all your needs, wants and desires close at hand, napping to the sound of the waves, and the scent of coconut and pineapple. One day, we decided to take a break from lying in the sun and getting drunk to exercise and do some sight-seeing.  We saw a sign for bike rentals and hatched a plan.  The sign did not say “functioning” bike rentals, nor “properly sized” bicy