Out and about on the Suncoast.
By Hannah Wallace
Same old song, sing it with me: I played kickball! (Another homerun!); I played hockey! (Falling down! Falling down!) I slept till noon! (Zzzzzzzzzz!)

OK, I did get a little variety this weekend, too. Namely, a group outing to Emerson Point Preserve in Palmetto for some mountain biking, sans whoop-dee-doos. So I guess that’s “gravel biking.” It’s only a 10-minute drive for CCB and me, but it took Mrs. Harrible, Little J and Big J to get us out there finally.

The biker gang: Little J, CCB, Mrs. Harrible and Big J,

on the observation tower at Emerson Point.


Great way to take advantage of gorgeous weather, riding the easy trails from lookout tower to sandy beach, spotting tortoises, osprey and fiddler crabs along the way. (There’s hiking and a canoe launch there, too.) Mrs. Harrible was determined to find an American Indian refuse collection she’d heard was somewhere in the park, but that only led us to silliness surrounding the word “mound.” Also, “Phillip’s head” and “embedded screws.” Yeah, we’re grownups.


A self-portrait from my new book, 101 Ways to Die on a Bicycle.

Emerson Point, with the Skyway in the distance.

CCB and I also went to two Rays games last week, which doubles the number of trips to the Trop I’ve made since the team was created in 1998.

Our view for the Rays' home opener last Monday.

I’m…not a huge fan of that stadium. I mean, I’ll grant the logic behind a dome—namely that it’s a pain to try to play baseball in Florida during hurricane season. But the weather was so gorgeous on Sunday, it was a shame to have to go inside to watch baseball. Plus, with the Rays getting their asses handed to them by the White Sox, sitting under those florescent lights started to feel a little like detention.

Also, I don’t have the specs, but I’m pretty sure Tropicana Field has fewer toilets than the Asolo. Which seats about 500.
What’s up for this week? Soccer tonight, and Tuesday night is drinks at O’Leary’s with Copy Editor (Emeritus) Megan (*sniffle*). But other than that, hey, it’s the Stanley Cup playoffs, which means we’ll be camped in front of the TV for eight hours a night, eating cookie dough and moving as little as possible. Ain’t sports great?