A tree died on the promenade by the water’s edge. There’s a long row
of them about 10 feet apart. They’re each planted in a round hole in the
concrete about 4 feet in diametre with a raised concrete lip about 2
inches high. The tree on the end died. It was always in the way, because
the path gets narrower there. The next path is angled in a way that
makes it hard to get around the massive bed.
Actually, I don’t remember the tree, but I remember the stump. For months I looked at and navigated around it.
They finally came and took it out, the tree stump, at which point
someone probably said, What are we gonna do with this big hole? And
someone else probably said, I know! Let’s fill it up with the same
colour gravel. It’ll be almost like it’s not really there!
Almost.
At dusk a street lamp casts a shadow of another tree on that exact
spot. It really does look like it’s not there. But it’s there.
The way the connecting path is situated it leads exactly through the
centre of the invisible hole. The day after they took the stump out of
the hole and filled it up with gravel I rode through it. It was also the
day after I got my new bike. I felt myself go over the edge, sink down
into the gravel like sand, panic, and come out the other side with a big
lurch that threw me up off my seat. my feet off my pedals. When I
landed back on my seat. My shin hit the pedal, and made a big bruise.
The next day I called 311. What’s the address, the bored woman on the
phone said. We had to determine if the area was city property. I don’t
know the address. It’s a park, I said. It’s behind 55 Harbour Square.
We agreed I would navigate her there from the nearest intersection on
a map she was looking at. That took at least 10 minutes. From there you
go towards the lake, then you turn left, I said. That’s east? Yes, you
can’t go west, cause that’s the quay.
I really don’t think she figured out exactly where it is. And I also
really don’t think she understood what the big deal was. I explained it
to her a couple of times. Someone is going to get hurt. That took at
least 10 more.
She took my name and phone number and email address. I’ll pass it on
to my supervisor, and we might get back to you in case we have
questions, she said.
That night I saw a fresh tire track trough the gravel pit. The
following night I watched a man ride through it, lurch, look back to see
WTF. I was going to roll a garbage can into the centre, but they’re all
chained down.
It’s been over a week. No one has bothered to mark off the area,
paint the edge, stick an orange cone in. There is now more gravel around
the pit than in it, There’s a new tire rut in it every time I pass it.
It’s still invisible in the dark.
I have some pink spray paint! Maybe I should take care of it myself, but I don’t want to get caught vandalizing city property.
Well, at least I know where that hole is.
After two more weeks of no action and more fresh tracks through the
gravel pit almost daily, they finally came and planted a skinny new oak
tree.
Saturday, October 11, 2014
Wednesday, October 8, 2014
by the way, windy's not white
Bone, officially, so says the manufacturer, Simcoe. But really that slightly greyish warmish off-white of almond milk.
Or Nougat! Actually.
38 lbs of metal, plastic, leatherette, and disintegrating 40 yr-old padding is my brand new Simcoe. And a red silk rose in her hair. A red, black and Nougat-coloured Tango queen. Windy.
Or Nougat! Actually.
38 lbs of metal, plastic, leatherette, and disintegrating 40 yr-old padding is my brand new Simcoe. And a red silk rose in her hair. A red, black and Nougat-coloured Tango queen. Windy.
Friday, October 3, 2014
perspective
The other day I had the joy of placing an ad on Craigslist:
Lost Sun Hat: Last Sunday I went through a pothole on Sherbourne going north towards The Esplanade on my bike, and didn’t notice my hat fall out of my rear basket. You were driving behind me and you honked at me. I get honked at all the time in construction zones, because I often take up the whole lane. I turned around to communicate patience please.
When I got home I realized my mistake. I went back to see if my hat was around. It wasn’t. Did you pick it up?
Good hats are hard to find. And I feel like an asshole. Thank you for honking! Ugh.
(the hat looks almost exactly like this one I found on the internet)
Here is its fictional counterpart. I seriously looked for it the first couple of days:
Sun Hat Found: Dear cyclist. You dropped your hat off the back of your bike. I was driving behind you. You were taking up the whole lane. When you hit that pothole your hat flew out. I tried to tell you and I honked, but you turned around and waved your arm as if to say, cool your car-centric jets!
Now I have your hat! It’s a nice one.
Lost Sun Hat: Last Sunday I went through a pothole on Sherbourne going north towards The Esplanade on my bike, and didn’t notice my hat fall out of my rear basket. You were driving behind me and you honked at me. I get honked at all the time in construction zones, because I often take up the whole lane. I turned around to communicate patience please.
When I got home I realized my mistake. I went back to see if my hat was around. It wasn’t. Did you pick it up?
Good hats are hard to find. And I feel like an asshole. Thank you for honking! Ugh.
(the hat looks almost exactly like this one I found on the internet)
Here is its fictional counterpart. I seriously looked for it the first couple of days:
Sun Hat Found: Dear cyclist. You dropped your hat off the back of your bike. I was driving behind you. You were taking up the whole lane. When you hit that pothole your hat flew out. I tried to tell you and I honked, but you turned around and waved your arm as if to say, cool your car-centric jets!
Now I have your hat! It’s a nice one.
Saturday, September 27, 2014
buying a bike is like falling in love
Really! It’s super emotional. And you kind of take a chance, too.
Riding around the store and around the block is like a first date. Some dating folks don’t call the first date a date. They call it “the obligatory introductory drink”, or “date zero”, and all sorts of other un-date-like things. But I digress!
So, you take some bikes out for a test drive, and you probably know that none of them is likely to be perfect. But you need a bike, just one bike, cause your last one tried to kill you, and you’re going to find one that’s pretty close, and gives you what you need.
Then you try one that’s really beautiful and comfortable, and it’s the right size, and colour and you can afford it. And you buy it, but there’s so much still to find out about it. Stuff you’ll only notice as you spend a little time with it, er, on it.
The only difference is, with a bike, if it’s not quite right, you can make it over and it doesn’t take offence. And it doesn’t break up with you. In fact you have to count on customizing your bike a little bit. Even then you can’t have everything.
Especially if you’ve ever had your bike stolen. It’s a bit like being widowed, because what bike will ever measure up to the one that got away!
For example, I was looking for something very much like my old Miele, my beautiful lovely 40’s style two-tone white-walled Miele, that made old ladies and children smile! Upright, so my hands don’t hurt from leaning over, but not all the way upright, which makes it harder to maneuver. Something with winter tires, something low maintenance, with elegant lines, wide handlebars. Then I also wanted internal gears, … And as time passes, how long till I get used to the different shape? Does everything really work right? Is the bike going to live up to its name, to its promise of durability?
OK, never mind. Buying a bike is nothing like falling in love, …except now that I’ve fixed it all up, and it’s standing in my living room, I just can’t stop looking at it.
Riding around the store and around the block is like a first date. Some dating folks don’t call the first date a date. They call it “the obligatory introductory drink”, or “date zero”, and all sorts of other un-date-like things. But I digress!
So, you take some bikes out for a test drive, and you probably know that none of them is likely to be perfect. But you need a bike, just one bike, cause your last one tried to kill you, and you’re going to find one that’s pretty close, and gives you what you need.
Then you try one that’s really beautiful and comfortable, and it’s the right size, and colour and you can afford it. And you buy it, but there’s so much still to find out about it. Stuff you’ll only notice as you spend a little time with it, er, on it.
The only difference is, with a bike, if it’s not quite right, you can make it over and it doesn’t take offence. And it doesn’t break up with you. In fact you have to count on customizing your bike a little bit. Even then you can’t have everything.
Especially if you’ve ever had your bike stolen. It’s a bit like being widowed, because what bike will ever measure up to the one that got away!
For example, I was looking for something very much like my old Miele, my beautiful lovely 40’s style two-tone white-walled Miele, that made old ladies and children smile! Upright, so my hands don’t hurt from leaning over, but not all the way upright, which makes it harder to maneuver. Something with winter tires, something low maintenance, with elegant lines, wide handlebars. Then I also wanted internal gears, … And as time passes, how long till I get used to the different shape? Does everything really work right? Is the bike going to live up to its name, to its promise of durability?
OK, never mind. Buying a bike is nothing like falling in love, …except now that I’ve fixed it all up, and it’s standing in my living room, I just can’t stop looking at it.
Tuesday, September 23, 2014
free bike
Got waved over by a police officer the other day. He was kind of
friendly looking, and I reluctantly and dutifully stopped and he said,
hi there, would you like to register your bike with the Toronto police?
Behind him I saw some people milling about at a table near the entrance
of the station on this beautiful late summer day. Makes it easier to
keep track of it in case it gets stolen, he said, just takes 5 minutes.
We’ll take your name and your serial number….
I don’t have a serial number, I thought.
Last year I bought an old bike. A banged up cornflower blue 1973 Raleigh cruiser. A pretty thing, especially with the purple bell, and the yellow and violet flowers on the baskets. I tried to register it back then, because my previous bike had been stolen, but when I finally found the place where the serial number should be I noticed it had been ground off. There’s probably only one reason someone would grind off a serial number. So my little Dusty has history, I thought. Good for her. In more recent history, since I’ve owned her, she also lost the use of one of her three gears, and one of her brakes.
But she runs. I should say she ran. That changed later that day. Well, wait, she still runs! It’s the stopping that’s the problem! Or the lack of stopping. And it’s a fluke I didn’t get seriously mangled.
Old rusty Dusty tried to kill me, you see, but timing is everything, and hasty Dusty jumped the gun and missed.
I’ve been looking at new bikes. Dusty wasn’t supposed to be a permanent solution, but what I want is very expensive. I was still contemplating putting some money into Dusty instead, but she would never be what I wanted her to be, so to be honest, I just put off the decision, frankly at the cost of my safety, and I’m a bit embarrassed about it.
I said to the officer, that was a great idea, but that I couldn’t do it right now, and he said I could also do it online, and I said, I’ll definitely do that!
Then I went to visit a friend.
On my way home I was slowing down at the end of my friend’s side street about to turn left, and down a very steep hill, but Dusty’s only working brake snapped inside the handle, and I was entirely brakeless, but coasting to a halt towards the edge of the main road.
I took a moment to consider the fate I’d just escaped. Then I made a decision that today was the first and last time Dusty and I would take the bus, and that tomorrow would be bike shopping day.
Taking the bus was fun. A couple of guys showed up at the bus stop, too. Really interesting characters carrying clear garbage bags full of old stuffed animals. One of them knew how to work the rack on the front of the bus and racked my bike for me. I knew in theory, had watched a video on YouTube, but had never done it. Getting the bike off was easy, but I forgot to flip the rack back up, and the bus driver had to come out, and reprimand me.
The next day I got a ride from a friend to the bike shop, tried out 3 bikes, and fell in love with the most expensive one. The mechanic gave it a little tune up, made sure everything was symmetrical, and tight, and buffed up the warm matte white body with a soft cloth. I said don’t make it too shiny or someone will steal it right from under me – just push me off: I want that! and ride away on my new bike.
At the cash register, the sales guy asked me if I had a good lock, then he told me my receipt had my serial number on it, and the website where I should register my bike with the Toronto police.
I hugged my “driver”, sent him home, and my new friend and I took our first, somewhat shaky, trip together. Everything works! What a treat.
I spent a lot of money, and I’m not quite done spending, but when I think about the money I’ve saved on bus fare in the last 5 years, it’s sort of like I’ve got a free bike!
I don’t have a serial number, I thought.
Last year I bought an old bike. A banged up cornflower blue 1973 Raleigh cruiser. A pretty thing, especially with the purple bell, and the yellow and violet flowers on the baskets. I tried to register it back then, because my previous bike had been stolen, but when I finally found the place where the serial number should be I noticed it had been ground off. There’s probably only one reason someone would grind off a serial number. So my little Dusty has history, I thought. Good for her. In more recent history, since I’ve owned her, she also lost the use of one of her three gears, and one of her brakes.
But she runs. I should say she ran. That changed later that day. Well, wait, she still runs! It’s the stopping that’s the problem! Or the lack of stopping. And it’s a fluke I didn’t get seriously mangled.
Old rusty Dusty tried to kill me, you see, but timing is everything, and hasty Dusty jumped the gun and missed.
I’ve been looking at new bikes. Dusty wasn’t supposed to be a permanent solution, but what I want is very expensive. I was still contemplating putting some money into Dusty instead, but she would never be what I wanted her to be, so to be honest, I just put off the decision, frankly at the cost of my safety, and I’m a bit embarrassed about it.
I said to the officer, that was a great idea, but that I couldn’t do it right now, and he said I could also do it online, and I said, I’ll definitely do that!
Then I went to visit a friend.
On my way home I was slowing down at the end of my friend’s side street about to turn left, and down a very steep hill, but Dusty’s only working brake snapped inside the handle, and I was entirely brakeless, but coasting to a halt towards the edge of the main road.
I took a moment to consider the fate I’d just escaped. Then I made a decision that today was the first and last time Dusty and I would take the bus, and that tomorrow would be bike shopping day.
Taking the bus was fun. A couple of guys showed up at the bus stop, too. Really interesting characters carrying clear garbage bags full of old stuffed animals. One of them knew how to work the rack on the front of the bus and racked my bike for me. I knew in theory, had watched a video on YouTube, but had never done it. Getting the bike off was easy, but I forgot to flip the rack back up, and the bus driver had to come out, and reprimand me.
The next day I got a ride from a friend to the bike shop, tried out 3 bikes, and fell in love with the most expensive one. The mechanic gave it a little tune up, made sure everything was symmetrical, and tight, and buffed up the warm matte white body with a soft cloth. I said don’t make it too shiny or someone will steal it right from under me – just push me off: I want that! and ride away on my new bike.
At the cash register, the sales guy asked me if I had a good lock, then he told me my receipt had my serial number on it, and the website where I should register my bike with the Toronto police.
I hugged my “driver”, sent him home, and my new friend and I took our first, somewhat shaky, trip together. Everything works! What a treat.
I spent a lot of money, and I’m not quite done spending, but when I think about the money I’ve saved on bus fare in the last 5 years, it’s sort of like I’ve got a free bike!
Friday, September 19, 2014
so you wanna be treated like a grown-up
The other day, probably the last fine beach day this year, I was
riding on a curbside bike path with my blanket in my back basket,
thinking about catching the 9:30 am ferry to cityside paradise and
lounging and chatting. I noticed a car creep up beside me and follow my
speed. A police car, actually. The driver started talking to me. The
officer, actually, started talking to me, and it took a moment to occur
to me that I should probably stop.
He’d been telling me how he saw me cross the intersection back there on a red light, and how I shouldn’t do that, because then he has to give me a three hundred and fifty-five dollar ticket.
Did he say $355?, I thought!
No, I hadn’t! I crossed the first part of a two part pedestrian crossing on the pedestrian green, then hovered there waiting for the second part – and car traffic – to turn green. Of course, I didn’t say that, because I wanted to catch the ferry, and because that would have opened up a whole other discussion about why I thought it was ok not to dismount on a pedestrian crossing. $85 fine.
Oh, I said, with my most earnest and patient ferry-catching face. Sorry. OK. And since he didn’t seem inclined to write me said ticket, I quietly said, Thank you.
He reiterated once more that I can’t just do that, and I said thank you once more. And OK. And he moved on.
Whew. $355! Did you know that? I had no idea. Last I checked the Ministry of Transportation the average fine was 85 dollars!
Today I did a little more research. Not my strong suit, but here is some information I found on the website of a group of “paralegals and former police officers” – not sure when this is dated; the fine seems to have gone up:
A red light ticket has four different penalties:
He’d been telling me how he saw me cross the intersection back there on a red light, and how I shouldn’t do that, because then he has to give me a three hundred and fifty-five dollar ticket.
Did he say $355?, I thought!
No, I hadn’t! I crossed the first part of a two part pedestrian crossing on the pedestrian green, then hovered there waiting for the second part – and car traffic – to turn green. Of course, I didn’t say that, because I wanted to catch the ferry, and because that would have opened up a whole other discussion about why I thought it was ok not to dismount on a pedestrian crossing. $85 fine.
Oh, I said, with my most earnest and patient ferry-catching face. Sorry. OK. And since he didn’t seem inclined to write me said ticket, I quietly said, Thank you.
He reiterated once more that I can’t just do that, and I said thank you once more. And OK. And he moved on.
Whew. $355! Did you know that? I had no idea. Last I checked the Ministry of Transportation the average fine was 85 dollars!
Today I did a little more research. Not my strong suit, but here is some information I found on the website of a group of “paralegals and former police officers” – not sure when this is dated; the fine seems to have gone up:
A red light ticket has four different penalties:
- Three demerit points
- A three hundred and twenty five ($325.00) dollar fine
- A conviction registered on your driving record for three years
- Possible insurance increases
- Determination of fault in accident cases
Thursday, September 18, 2014
maybe today
I’m not big on bike gear. I’m not big on gear in general. Winter
gear, coats, gloves, face cover. Or photography gear, tripods, lenses,
flashes. All that is so cumbersome! That’s why I like the beach. Just
me, barefoot and stuff, and the water.
So on a day to day basis I can’t stand carrying too much shit around, especially a change of clothes. I don’t wear bike shorts and running shoes, and I don’t wear a helmet which has come up in debates many times.
So, I’m wearing my winter boots today. It’s a bit early but they’re new and cute and I wanted to give them a head start, see how they feel. They feel big. Makes me extra cautious, and a little paranoid.
Makes me think maybe today is the day for a mishap. My foot will slip off the pedal when I stand up to push up a hill, or I’ll lose my balance going too slow on the sidewalk and fall onto a pedestrian, or get doored, or clipped from behind by a driver passing too close, forget to shoulder check before going around a pothole, choke on a song from my iPod, get into a fistfight with an arrogant driver, pedestrian, fellow cyclist, get my sleeve caught on the handle bar while reaching up to scratch my nose and accidentally veer into the path of a Mack Truck, get my miniskirt caught under my seat and fall over on the dismount. Or maybe today my front tire will suddenly come loose while I’m speeding down a hill.
These days are not about the shoes of course, or maybe the change in footware triggers a general anxiety, and that does make it harder to set out, to be honest. I get hyper aware of how vulnerable I am in the midst of people protected by metal frames, and that can be just as dangerous as not paying attention at all. I see things that aren’t there, red lights that aren’t mine, too many situations that could occur. I spend precious moments thanking the universe I wasn’t killed just now, moments that could be spent trying not to get killed.
And then it happened. I stopped on the Bloor viaduct on the way to a friend’s house for dinner and chats, to take some notes in the evening autumn sunshine. Getting back on my bike and about to merge into busy 6 pm bike lane traffic, my foot settled on the pedal at a weird angle and my right heel hit the chain guard on the way up and bent it into the way of the crank. I coasted back to the curb, got off and kicked the rusty chain guard back into place with my new winter boot.
Honestly, on an ordinary day, I think I ride slowly and comfortably enough to get along with regular clothing, but I contemplated again the proper shoes, and the skin tight jerseys. Yup, they serve a purpose.
So on a day to day basis I can’t stand carrying too much shit around, especially a change of clothes. I don’t wear bike shorts and running shoes, and I don’t wear a helmet which has come up in debates many times.
So, I’m wearing my winter boots today. It’s a bit early but they’re new and cute and I wanted to give them a head start, see how they feel. They feel big. Makes me extra cautious, and a little paranoid.
Makes me think maybe today is the day for a mishap. My foot will slip off the pedal when I stand up to push up a hill, or I’ll lose my balance going too slow on the sidewalk and fall onto a pedestrian, or get doored, or clipped from behind by a driver passing too close, forget to shoulder check before going around a pothole, choke on a song from my iPod, get into a fistfight with an arrogant driver, pedestrian, fellow cyclist, get my sleeve caught on the handle bar while reaching up to scratch my nose and accidentally veer into the path of a Mack Truck, get my miniskirt caught under my seat and fall over on the dismount. Or maybe today my front tire will suddenly come loose while I’m speeding down a hill.
These days are not about the shoes of course, or maybe the change in footware triggers a general anxiety, and that does make it harder to set out, to be honest. I get hyper aware of how vulnerable I am in the midst of people protected by metal frames, and that can be just as dangerous as not paying attention at all. I see things that aren’t there, red lights that aren’t mine, too many situations that could occur. I spend precious moments thanking the universe I wasn’t killed just now, moments that could be spent trying not to get killed.
And then it happened. I stopped on the Bloor viaduct on the way to a friend’s house for dinner and chats, to take some notes in the evening autumn sunshine. Getting back on my bike and about to merge into busy 6 pm bike lane traffic, my foot settled on the pedal at a weird angle and my right heel hit the chain guard on the way up and bent it into the way of the crank. I coasted back to the curb, got off and kicked the rusty chain guard back into place with my new winter boot.
Honestly, on an ordinary day, I think I ride slowly and comfortably enough to get along with regular clothing, but I contemplated again the proper shoes, and the skin tight jerseys. Yup, they serve a purpose.
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