Geared Up

Ride along Queen, head west across Parliament. Too crowded. Hang a left, south on Ontario, one block. Then west on Richmond. One-way with synchronized traffic lights. Perfect. Dinner with Deanna at six. Ten minutes to go. Lots of time. Hug the curb. Guy behind me. Parked car. Get around it. Hey, he brushed me! Don’t panic. Grip down on the handlebars. Steady, steady. Running me into the curb. Brake . . . not too hard. Don’t throw yourself off. Brace for the shock. Watch your crotch. Watch the Toronto Star box . . . uh, where am I? How long have I been lying here? My hands. Can’t close them, they’re throbbing. Look up...

“I saw the whole thing,” says the skateboard guy. “He ran you over.”

My head. Can’t think. Good thing Jim and Warren goaded me into wearing a helmet: “Bill, for Chrissake, you’ve got a three-year-old kid!” they said. Bucket’s cracked like an eggshell. Could’ve been my skull. Three-quarters of the riders who die in accidents don’t wear helmets.

“The guy sideswiped you. Do you need help? ”

“I-can, get-up, on-my, own.”

In fact, I’ve been knocked a few rungs down the evolutionary scale, and, for the moment at least, I can’t do anything.

“I’ve got a cell. Want me to call the cops?”

I’m shaking. “Guess so.”

I look around, wild eyed. An off-duty Toronto Transit Commission bus driver cordons off the accident site. “I’ll radio it in. Where’s the driver?”

“Took off,” says the skateboarder.

A motorcycle cop rolls up.

“You all right?”

“Don’t know. It was a white van.”


the utilitarian

My friend Jeff used to wonder why I keep riding, why I couldn’t outgrow biking as I settled into marriage, a career, house, family, and five kinds of insurance. The bike is for recreation. You want to go to a grocery store, take the car, he’d say.