Flying into Honolulu in a window seat will make you think of Pearl Harbor. If you don't, then you are heartless, asleep, or not American, and only the latter is excusable. Once you land, and you're not in a movie or on an Apple Vacation, you will not get lei'd. You might get screwed though, like I was, and end up one bike-in-a-box short of complete.
My bike was in Phoenix, doing who knows what. She showed up the next morning though, delivered to my hotel room door, and I didn't ask any questions. I was just glad to have her back. I reassembled her and was so excited in doing so that I over-cranked a bolt in the stem and snapped it.
Thankfully, the bolt was one of two, so the handlebars won't fall off since it has the added security of the headset bolt, but it's not ideal from a self-preservation standpoint. So, as it was last year, I gotta find a bike shop, again, and plans are delayed, again.
I find one (out of three stops) that has a bolt. It's in a garage, with no signage, on a backstreet. I get there by following the directions of the big, clean, touristy shop guys. The dudes there are just as you would suspect: bro-shaking my hand and listening to hawaiian music and moving slowly. Yeah, man, we can take care of that, no problem bra.
But in one day, you will see that everyone really is wearing Hawaiian print shirts, saying aloha and mahalo. They are all achingly sweet and pleasant and helpful and shaking their thumbs and pinkies at you. There really are surfers and flame twirlers and mist settling just on the tips of the mountains like wispy comb-overs.
There are tiki torches, and great sushi, and palms swaying, sometimes violently. Rain really does quickly pass over a half dozen times on some days, just to refreshingly spritz you and move on. There really are mocha-skinned girls in sari's and flip flops, although none of them quite live up to my Mila Kunis fantasy.
And one other thing on that note: do not come to Hawaii and think you are tan enough to go for a 3+ hour ride with no sunscreen. You will get bitten in the ass and any body part you leave exposed.
Dont expect to be happily frugal either, as this place ain't cheap. After all, everything they have that isn't a pineapple or a flower in your hair comes from at least 5,000 miles away. My hotel though, the Modern Honolulu, is off the crazy train main route of Waikiki proper and is just my style.
Not because of the elevation gain, because there is no shoulder and there are three tenth-of-a mile tunnels that I had to wait at the beginning of, until traffic lightened, and then sprint through as so not to be killed. Just don't do it, or if you do, make sure you have a rear light and practice prudence. (Don't call me prudence.)
But, oh, the sights, and the warmth, and the breeze, and the summer kit with no gloves. I'd do it all again tomorrow, and I will.
Today's ride map:
