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About Hamilton

Last summer, I dragged my sorry butt up there—total shitshow. Slipped on scree, twisted my ankle, yelled “I’m too old for this crap!” at a marmot. Made me so mad I could’ve chucked my trekking pole into the abyss. But then—bam!—summit views hit me like a truck. Snowy peaks, wildflowers, air so crisp it’s like snorting freedom. I was happy as a pig in mud, giggling like an idiot. “Nothing’s hidden anymore,” I said, quoting Haneke, ‘cept I was probs just delirious from altitude.

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First stop, Queen St. I’m cruisin’ down, jamming to some tunes, when BAM! I hit a pothole. Seriously, Waiuku, fix your roads! My coffee nearly flew outta my hand. I’m cursing like a sailor. “Great start, mate!” I mutter to myself.

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