Preparing for Flight

Okay, not actually flight, unless riding in Dave's extended-cab pickup counts as flying.

But, as I've been telling you with some consistency and frequency of late, I'm taking off to God's country in the morrow.

Although I must (with red face) admit that I had a couple of John Denver albums back in the 70's, I can't say as I'm much of a fan. Still, the guy had a couple of good songs, and this morning, as I rode into work on what may turn out to be the hottest May 30th on record (as high as 35C, they're saying), the song "Country Roads" kept going through my head.

It's the Blue Ridge Mountains part that makes me think of my upcoming trip. And, I suppose, the West Virginia part, because we do spend a fair portion of our drive going through the Mountain State, and it's gorgeous. In fact, the whole trip, from Pittsburgh south is lovely.

We'll stop at a log cabin near Jefferson City North Carolina Wednesday night, and Thursday by noon we'll be at Grandfather Mountain. It will be a long weekend of photographic education, socializing with old friends and meeting new ones. There'll be lots of picture-taking, hiking along trails and riding my bike through the Blue Ridge Mountains (the latter being a new feature this year). We will be pissed on (it always rains at least one day at GFM NPW), and despite today's elevated temperatures here in the Centre of the Universe, it can get very cool up on the mountains, so I must remember to bring cool-weather gear.


As an aside, another cool thing about North Carolina, at least the part we'll be at, is that they all talk just like everyone did in Mayberry, North Carolina, the fictitious town in the Andy Griffith Show. In fact, Andy Griffith himself is from Mount Airie, North Carolina, which is an hour or so from Grandfather Mountain. It's said that the county seat for Mayberry, Mount Pilot, was based on Mount Airie. Cool, huh? But I digress...

This is a short vacation that I need in the worst way; in addition to all of the foregoing wonders that I will soon be experiencing, Grandfather Mountain is away from Toronto, and away from work - for those two reasons alone it would be worth going.

"Almost heaven, West Virginia
Blue Ridge mountains, Shenandoah river
Life is old there, older than the trees
Younger than the mountains, blowing like a breeze"

See y'all next week!

Anticipation and other Miscellaneous, Disjointed Thoughts

Two more days.

Waiting for vacation (even a mini-vacation like the one I'm about to embark upon) is always tough. I feel like a kid on Christmas Eve, waiting for Christmas morning. That was always the longest night of the year.

So, there's today and tomorrow at the hell that I call work, and on Wednesday I'm off to the Blue Ridge Mountains for a long-long-weekend.

Can't wait.

This past weekend was indeed a good one.

I moved about 1/2 of my shizzle into the nee-zew hizzle on Sunday. It was fun unpacking and seeing stuff that I haven't seen in three years.

Like a coffee mug (a Christmas gift from my sister) with an old beatnik on it saying, "One more espresso and I'm off to hit the bongos" - with a matching set of mini-bongos, of course (she's the best gift-giver ever). I'd forgotten all about that one, and I laughed aloud as I unpacked it.

There were many and assorted pencil-holders made by my kids over the years at school for fathers' days and the like - I always wondered if teachers think that fathers have like several hundred pens and pencils at home, languishing in drawers and in pockets, waiting anxiously to be put in old tin cans with scraps of wallpaper pasted on them. Whatever the case, it was cute seeing all these things, along with my china and cutlery, all of which never even got unpacked at my current digs, since my housemate had her own stuff that we used.

There was great comfort in unpacking my coffee makers - I'm especially fond of my old 1940's Silex double-globe vacuum maker, which happens to make the best coffee ever, and is fun to watch, to boot.

Of course, before any cleaning and unpacking happened, the first chore of any move is to set up the stereo; wiping out cupboards, washing stacks of dishes and sweeping and mopping go much easier when Keith Jarrett's The Out of Towners is wafting throughout the apartment. And, unlike the place that I'm now moving out of (Woo-Hoo!), where the housemate was reluctant to let me set it up at all, (and when she finally relented, it ended up stuffed in a corner) I have seized the opportunity to give my sound system the priority it deserves as the centre-piece of the living room. Speakers have been placed with a mind for optimum soundstage.

Perused the new neighbourhood a bit, decided to check out the upscale grocery store that's two doors down. Wow! Talk about hoity-toity shit! The prices of ordinary everyday stuff are (as one might expect) about 10 to 15% higher than normal, but they have lots of gourmet and European stuff that's mondo-expensive (but still pretty cool), their produce looked amazing, and they appeared to have a very high-quality butchery (sorry, Inez...).

There's an ice cream parlour on our block, along with a bank that's open Saturday. Does it get any better than that?

What else of the weekend?

Well, I'm looking for a new track-bike to replace the one damaged in my accident. A former courier, Radek, told me he's looking to sell his Cyclops. Cyclops are beautiful hand-made frames made right here in Toronto; I used to own one, and it's my favourite bike ever. So I make Radek a tentative offer, and we agree that I'll come over to check out the bike on the weekend.

Saturday I call, leave a message, and he doesn't get back to me. Sunday I call again, and still no answer. An hour later he calls back and tells me he's got someone else interested in his bike. They're offering a hundred less than my tentative offer, but with a buy-back option after a year.

Well, I want the bike to own it forever, so I'm not giving no buy-back option. I'm wondering if this is a bargaining ploy by him; whether it is or not, I'm not playing this game. I tell him to make his deal, and if it falls apart to call. Then I decide that if he does call back, I'll tell him I'm no longer interested. I hate it when guys jerk me around like that.

Then, on my way home, I stop in at a friend's bike shop. No, not Malcolm and Milan's Biseagal, another similar place that deals more with the high-end race stuff, Nadir's La Carrerra Cycles. I see a pink (!) NYC Cycles track bike that looks kind of interesting, but small. I ride it around the block, and my fears are confirmed: it's much too small. None-the-less, it's the first time on a fixed-gear trackbike since the accident in the autumn; I'm hooked. Cycling at it's elemental best. I must get a trackbike.

When I tell Nadir that the NYC's too small, he tells me to come downstairs, he wants to show me something. I make my way down into the inner sanctum, and way back in the corner, behind several non-descript frames, he pulls out a partially assembled Fondriest track frame. Powdered grey finish with glossy red accents, it's beautiful.

Nadir starts telling me about the frame. It's the second track frame that Fondriest ever made. Cool. He personally got it from the factory in Italy (the name sounds French, but they're actually Italian). He's an authorized dealer, and he's been to the factory several times. The day he got this frame, the Italian track team was there, and about 1/2 dozen of them signed the bike with indelible silver marker. These are guys whose names I quite frankly never heard of; I mean they could be goat-herds from Sicily for all I know, but the names are definitely Italian, and they look pretty kewl scrawled on the frame and all.

And, the frame itself is gorgeous, all aluminium and carbon fibre; with the fork aerodynamically and seemlessly integrated into the head-tube it's quite unique-looking. The bottom bracket is the beefiest I've ever seen - Curt Harnett couldn't flex it if he tried; I think I'll be okay with it.

So, I just have to make sure the frame fits, and get a front wheel built for it (I've still got the back wheel from my old Rossin). I offered to give him a couple of hundred to hold it for me until I get back from camping and finish my move, but he told me I didn't need to, that I have his word that he'll hold it for me.

I love small shops.

Most importantly, I have two more work days until The Big Trip to North Carolina. So far, today's moving along quite slowly...

The Girl with the Cat-eared Hat

Today's Friday.

I hate Fridays.

Today it's raining.

I hate rainy days.

The combination will make for a horrible day. I'm having anxiety attacks just thinking how much today will suck.

Fridays are always busier than usual. Rainy days are always busier than usual (I still don't know why, but they are). Whenever it rains, a few bikers wimp out and book off, excacerbating an already shitty situation.

I'm steeling myself for a horrendous day.

The Weather Channel was calling for light rain today. I awoke to the sound of chirping birds and lightish skies, so I put on my cycling stuff; I don't mind getting wet on the way home, but I hate sitting in wet clothes all day. I got downstairs and it was misting slightly (as Mom would say, "a Scotch Mist"...). I drink my coffee, watch the sports news and the Weather Channel, and trudge upstairs to put on my civvies to take the subway.

6:25 I leave my place to walk to the subway. It feels much milder than the 13C that the Weather Channel says it is. The precipitation has all but stopped. As I get to the end of my street, where I can look down Danforth far to the west, the clouds look very light. Should I chance it and take my bike? I really don't feel like sitting in the subway this morning. I walk back to my place, change back into my cycling clothes, and I'm off.

By now it's misting again. Two blocks from my place I put on my raincoat. Of course, since it's wet, I'm getting cold. Oh well; at least the wind's at my back...

It stayed a light mist until the CNE (about 1/2 way). The mist goes beyond the Scotch variety; now it's a light rain. No problem.

By the time I reach the Humber it's just plain old rain. Still no problem, as I'm only 10 minutes from work. I'm a bit worried that my bike is getting dirty (see yesterday's blog for details), so I'll have to wipe it down before heading in to get my new Campy derailleur on the weekend. Other than that, it's all good.

I'm at work, the day's begun, and I just want to get through it in one piece.

Tomorrow's a busy errand day, most noteably getting back a couple of prints that I'm anticipating may actually look pretty good (you'll see them right here next week if I'm right) and a van's been arranged for Sunday for part one of the Big Move.

Of course, the above photo has nothing to do with what we're talking about here - I just kind of like it. A pretty girl with a pretty smile. One can never go wrong with a pretty girl with a pretty smile.

Have a great weekend!

My Tires Needed a Bit of Air

Now here's the thing about skinny bike tires: Ya gotta keep 'em hard. I prefer mine up around 100 psi. Anything less and the road starts to feel mushy and I just don't feel as confident taking corners at speed. Plus, you tend to get pinch flats much more often.

The other thing is that air gradually seeps out of the tire, so at least once a week or more you've got to top 'em up with air. As of last night I hadn't topped for about two weeks, and things were feeling a bit soft, so I decided to take the overland route home (as opposed to the bike path) and hit a bike shop to pump up.

I was thinking Vinnie's, but that's a bit out of the way. Then I remembered that I needed brake pads. "So," I thought to myself, "I'll pop into Malcolm and Milan's to buy some pads and get some air."

My plan was to simply purchase the brake pads and install them myself on the weekend. A quick in and out procedure, and I should be home maybe five minutes later than usual.

I should have known better...

Malcolm and Milan (that's not how she actually spells it; she's Czech, and there's all sorts of funny accents and stuff, but it sounds just like the Italian city, and that's good enough for me) own a little bike shop called Biseagal. They do repairs, sell components, sell used bikes, and Malcolm makes frames. My current road bike was made by him, and it's a beauty, truly a one-of-a-kind. He put it together for me on the cheap (but the important stuff - headset, bottom bracket, rear hub with 10 speed cassette - are Campagnolo), with the idea that I can upgrade parts as I can afford to. In fact, although I've paid for the bike in full, I've come to realize that I only have custody of it, I am only it's steward. There are certain rules that come with such ownership, one of which is proper maintenance and hygene - of the bike, not me. I was reminded of those rules last night.

So, as I said, I told Malcolm I needed brake pads, and that I'd put them on. He said, "I'd really like to put them on." I didn't want to disappoint him, and I figured, "How long can it take?" So I said, "Sure."

Why is my memory so dim? Why could I not remember that one cannot go into Biseagal without spending a minimum of two hours laughing, talking about people behind their backs, discussing bikes and the upcoming racing season, and other such trivial yet important matters? Why, if one's lucky, it's sometimes possible to get a repair or purchase done!

I called the roomie and told her I'd be late, like around 8 o'clock.

Malcolm takes off the back wheel. He gets a bucket of soapy water and starts cleaning my gear cluster with a funny-looking brush. "It's kind of dirty," he says, "and I figured since I have the proper brush, I'd clean it for you."

Okay...

Then he grabs a soft rag and cleans the frame and the wheels. Apologetically, I mention that it was raining on Friday, and that I was away for the weekend, and I didn't have a chance to clean it. "That's okay," he said, "I just figured that since I had the bucket of water handy..."

Okay...

I've been there an hour, and he hasn't come close to looking at my pads yet.

Not that we hadn't had a great time chatting, about lightweight bikes and how they're not strong enough for the everyday rider, and about various races we watched, and then Sean walked in, so the four of us (Milan was there also) chatted for a bit, then Sean and Milan went for donuts, and Milan brought back lemonade for me as well (her treat), and we chatted some more about me taking my bike to the Blueridge Mountains next week (which excited Malcolm to no end, as he loves to see his work travel the world). He wants a full report.

By now, Malcolm has the paintgun and a masking blanket out; it seems that he's noticed a couple of scratches to his finish - ooops, I mean the bike's finish. "Just a quick touch-up - it won't take long."

Okay...

It's like 8:45 (I got there at 7) and there's no sign of brake pads being installed. Milan's now back with the donuts, so we all stop to snack. Malcolm tells me that Campagnolo has a lovely rear derailleur for only $150 that will match my 10 speed cassette perfectly, and will match the new Campy 10 speed bar-ends that I eventually will need. He hates my current Shimano Ultegra derailleur, and thinks that I should replace it soon.

He tells me that my shifts will be sooooooooooooooooooo much smoother with a Campy. I'm thinking, "Hey, wouldn't it be great to shift smoothly as I cycle along the Blueridge Parkway next week?" I then muse aloud that it would likely be impossible to get one in and installed by next Tuesday night, but I'm told by Milan the Ordermeister that if it's ordered tomorrow (today as I write this) it can be here as early as Friday.

Chalk up one sale...

Finally, at about 9-ish, my new brake pads are on. I'm charged for the parts only ($10 a pair, but they're like real racing brake pads - whatever the hell that means). I get a free wash, free touch up, free installation, free conversation, a free lemonade, and a great time.

I go to pay, but I don't have $20, so I offer my debit card. Milan tells me that if I pay debit she has to charge tax, but since I'll be in next week for my new derailleur, why don't I pay cash for the pads then? Hmmmm... Screw RevCan? I'm not sure about that...

Okay, sounds like a plan.

I leave, thinking that I got all sorts of free services from Malcolm, and was entertained for two hours to boot. Then I realize that the upshot of all that is that I'm on the hook for new bike parts I don't really need. Or don't I?

I love small shops, and I'll patronize them as long as they continue to exist. Whether it be Biseagal, or the Jet Fuel Cafe, or Robert at B&W Labs (my photo developer), I love places that are more than just "in and out" stores. These places are social clubs, places where I'm known to both the proprietors and many other customers (there's nothing I love more than going in to see Robert, showing him negatives and saying, "the usual" - he knows what I like and how I like it, and never disappoints). This is real customer service - not some senior citizen who I've never seen in my life and may kick the bucket before my next visit being paid by Walmart to smile pathetically and say "hi" to me when I pass their threshold.

The day those places are forced out of business by the Starbucks and Henry's and Cyclepaths of the world is likely the day that I stop riding my bike, taking photographs and going to coffeehouses. Okay, okay, I'm just using hyperbole to make my point, but when that day comes, my life will be much emptier than it is now. And the world will not be a better place.

BTW, before I go, I should let you know, that's Milan in the photo, above, holding a dog that's not hers. She's actually a rabbit person who also owns a cat. Go figure...

The Notice

I always wondered what was on the notice that this young lady's looking at.

Does this piece of paper apply to her? Has she come looking for the tenant, and is now noticing the paper afixed to his or her door? Is she merely a passerby, curious as to what the notice might say?

I suppose there are other possible scenarios, but in any event, I present, for your consideration, The Notice.

This time next Wednesday, I'll be winging my way to North Carolina in Dave's pickup truck (assuming that one can wing in a pickup truck).

Woo Hoo.

Well, It Was a Weekend

This photo has nothing to do with what I'm about to say. I don't even remember if I've shown it here before - I just like it. It's my friend Noelle's library. See? There she is, at the bottom of the window frame.

So, the weekend. Ah yes, the weekend.

It started off wet, and pretty much stayed that way.

Friday night I went to the Dip to have drinks with my soon-to-be roomie. His girlfriend Sue was there; first time I've met her and she seems nice. Pretty, too. Lovely eyes.

Another messenger, Rafel, was there. He told me that when he first met me several years ago, he thought I was "kind of hot". He then said that he's been known to enjoy men once in a while.

Really?

Within the context of the conversation ("why knarf has such bad luck with the ladies") his comment was actually kind of droll, and in a way, something of a compliment. I just wish I could find a half-way attractive, unattached female to say such things to me.

Oh well.

It was an early night - we left about nine. By then it was pissing rain. I felt like a waterlogged muskrat by the time I got home. My roomate was drunk. I went to bed early, as I was to arise early Saturday to head to Kingston to spend the long weekend with my kids.

12:45am a ringing phone awakes me from a deep, restful sleep. It's a drunk courier:

"Did I wake you?"

"It makes no difference, I'm awake now, what the hell do you want?"

There's no need to recount the rest of the convo, but as you can imagine, I was annoyed. Fucking annoyed, to be more precise. To compound matters, I didn't return to sleep for at least an hour, and was generally sleepless/restless for the rest of the night. That's the way I like to start my weekends: tired.

Oh well, Saturday's supposed to be sunny, anyway. I awake and the sun is indeed out. It soon clouds over - but the Weather Channel says it'll be sunny and cloudy all day, with a high of 13, so I'm thinking I might bring my bike to Kingston and ride from the bus station to the kids' place. Luckily I realize that I have to carry a package back from Kingston with me, which will be unweildy on the bike, so I decide against the bike.

Good thing.

It's pissing rain by the time I get to Kingston. It pretty much doesn't stop until Monday morning.

Sunday's colder and rainier. We decide to go to the movies (RV with Robin Williams, which despite less-than-glowing reviews, is actually quite funny - stupid funny, but funny none-the-less). On the way to the movies, it's actually hailing. Nice...

Sunday night I rent Shop Girl by Steve Martin. Although I found it ultimately depressing, it's a quietly charming little movie. Thanks to Cat in Rabat for the recommendation, and I too, heartily recommend it to all.

Monday was mostly cloudy (at least it didn't rain), but it was (again) quite cool. Like damned cold - for late May, anyway. Went for a drive. Saw lots of lilacs - I mean lots and lots. Kingston must be the lilac capital of the world. About 15 miles north of town we saw the largest gathering of lilac bushes I've ever laid my eyes on (about a mile south of Inverary, for any Kingstonians who may be looking in). Quite spectacular. Got out of the car to take some unsatisfactory photos (the light sucked, and I had a lens which didn't suit the occasion) and the scent wafting through the atmosphere was something to behold.

That was the highlight of the weekend, really (other than the Steve Martin flick, and other than a bisexual guy telling me I'm kinda hot - which really is a compliment, or at least it will become a compliment if I keep telling myself it is often enough).

Got home last night to a grumpy roomate. Only found one wine bottle in the recycling bin, but all of Friday night's empties were gone and there were fresh beers in the fridge, so she must have hit the beer and/or liquor store on the weekend (likely both).

Got up this morning to a cool, crisp, clear morning. Only 6 C, but with the sun it looked nice. Got on the bike and by the time I hit the path at the bottom of Coxwell, I realized that I was heading into a 40km headwind the whole way. Good for the quads, I guess. And, there should be a tailwind to get me home.

And now a new week starts. The temps are supposed to rise as the week progresses, up to the mid-20's by the weekend. A week tomorrow I'll be off to the Blueridge Mountains. Something to look forward to, anyway.

Ghost City

See the bar in the above photo?

That's what the bars in Toronto will look like all weekend.

"Why?", you ask?

Well, if you're Canadian, you know that we're heading into the Victoria Day Weekend; traditionally the first weekend of summer. Never mind that they're calling for a cool, wet weekend (highs about 7 C below normal - where's global warming when you need it?), summer starts tonight at 6pm. This is the weekend when everyone gets out of town. You'll be able to fire a cannon down Yonge Street and not hit a soul. Everyone'll be at the cottage.

Okay, not quite everyone, but everyone who does own a cottage will be there: another Canadian tradition is that this is the weekend that cottage-owners "open for the season". That means sweeping cobwebs, mouse turds, bird's nests, turning on water, readying septic systems and other such fun things.

Funny thing about cottages. When I was a kid growing up in the 60's lots of friends had cottages up in the Laurentians (that's cottage country for Montreal - that and the Eastern Townships, but the latter tended to be a bit more upscale). We're talking middle-class and lower-middle-class families. Plots of land could be had for only a couple of hundred dollars, and many cottages were basically built by the owners, or local contractors could do it for dirt-cheap. Those cottages, many of which were built in the 40's or 50's have been handed down over several generations, and are now worth a mint. I wish Mom and Dad would have had the foresight...

If you don't already have a cottage in the family, forget about buying one now unless you're Hollywood royalty or a rich doctor or something of the sort. We're talking 1/2 a million and up for lakeside properties in the Muskokas (Toronto's cottage country).

Still, enough people have access to old family cottages, or to friends that have cottages, that Toronto will revert to Toronto the Good this weekend. The irony is, of course, that Toronto got the foregoing moniker as a result of it's Victorian past - which lasted until about 1965. Until about then, Toronto was about as staid and dour a city as ever there was; it was positively Dickensian.

Victoria Day is actually May 24th, although it's celebrated on the Monday of the nearest weekend. The weekend is therefore called the May Two Four Weekend, or simply "The Two Four", as in "Whaddya doin' for the Two Four?". Get it? As in the 24th of May. As in a case (two dozen) of beer. It's a play on words, a double entendre. Droll, no? Those of you from around the world must be chuckling at our outrageous sense of humour, eh? "You wacky Canadians!", you must be thinking...

Anyway, wherever you are, join us as we celebrate (what's likely) our most anachronistic national holiday, our hommage to our imperial past, when we were part of the Empire upon which the sun never set, the empire of Queen Victoria. And, wherever you are, have a great weekend! I know I will.

A Dog and His Girl in the Candy Store

Since I've been on to dogs lately, here's another one, just to prove that I really do have lots of dogs and their people piccies. I've always liked this one.

Further to my comments yesterday, if you click on the photo to look at the full-sized one, you'll see that the little doggie (I'm told it's a Jack Russell Terrior, or JRT) is wearing a sweater from Queen's University in Kingston, Ontario (where the photo was taken). I guess it's kind of cute, but again, no cat owner would dream of making their cat suffer the indignity of wearing clothes of another, less advanced species (referring to homo sapiens, BTW).

Dogs and Dog People

Yesterday I briefly touched on dogs and their people, a theme that has emerged from among my photos in recent years.

I have to say that when I take my camera on the streets, I don't normally plan where I'm going to go or what I'm going to shoot. I try to be spontaneous, and planning really doesn't jive with spontaneity, does it?

I still haven't decided if there are really "themes" that emerge from the photos, or if such groupings are merely the human obsession to categorize everything and to group things into patterns where such patterns are internal to us, not part of the outside world.

Anyway, among groups of photos that have emerged are dogs and their people.

I'm not a dog person myself, I'm a cat person. My whole life I've lived in houses with cats. I've owned more cats than I care to remember. Everybody else in our family are cat people. We are a cat family. Which is weird, because given all of the foregoing, I've taken surprisingly few photos of my cats over the years.

Dog people are interesting; they are such a contrast to most cat people that I know. For instance, one rarely sees cats dressed up in shearling-lined coats with Santa Claus hats. It may well be argued that's because cats don't normally tolerate those sorts of things, but I think it says more about the owners than the animals.

Dog people fawn over their pets like few other pet owners that I know. They anthropomorphize their pets more than other owners. Maybe that's because dogs are more of a commitment and a lifestyle change than (for instance) cats, fish or iguanas. I've yet to see a python or a tarantula dressed in a plaid jacket, shod with $100 neoprene booties (I don't think they make those for any of those animals anyway, especially snakes) and a hat, being walked at 6am in a blizzard; now that's commitment. Dog owners will tell you that they are rewarded with loyalty and love, but several cats I've owned, including my 15 or 16 year old Patches are as loyal and affectionate as any pets out there.

Now, I don't want to paint with too broad a brush; I'm not saying all dog owners are obsessed with their pets, but a noticeable number of them are, and they aren't ashamed to parade about in public showing off their "commitment" (or whatever it is). The flip side of the coin can be seen at (for instance) cat shows, where the poor beasts are primped and preened like little tarts - however, those cats aren't paraded like so in public as many dogs in costume are.

Not that the weird cat people wouldn't express their obsession in public if they could - but show cats never see the out-of-doors. And, I know there are those semi-mythical old ladies that have like 35 cats living in their 1 bedroom apartment with them; I'm sure they're out there and they do exist, but really, they're a fairly inconsequential anomoly.

Don't think I'm a dog-hater; I'm not. I've met some dogs that I really like a lot. I've also met some cats that I really hate a lot. Okay, I've met one cat that I really hate a lot (side-bar to C in R - remember Comet?) But on the whole, cats, with their low-maintenance sometimes-aloof personality seem to suit me better than dogs.

And, for whatever reason the dog/owner relationship a fascinating one to photograph, and when presented with that opportunity, I'll snap a photo every time.

A Dog and her Girl on a Bike

Not much to say of substance today (as if anything I say is ever substantial), so I think I'll just post one of my favourite photos.

This is one of those cross-categorical photos. I don't think I've posted too many on this blog, but I've got a number of "people and their dog" photos. As you've likely noticed if you've been looking in on a semi-regular basis, bikes are a favourite subject of mine. So this one falls squarely in both (or either) camps.

Whatever.

Enjoy the photo and the day...

At Least it Wasn't Brittany Spears

Saturday morning started off kind of grey and blustery and wet. I peered out the window, and into my mind came the lyrics:

"Another industrial ugly morning"

That song's been in my mind ever since.

"The factory belches filth into the sky"

I hate lists (except of course David Letterman's Top Ten List), but is there a better pop/rock album out there than Synchronicity? Hard to believe - what's it been, like 20 years? That's one album (and I say "album", because I have it on vinyl - blue vinyl, IIRC) that doesn't sound at all dated after all these years. It was so different in its day, so unlike anything else out there, so sui generis that it has aged incredibly well; indeed it seems to have not aged at all.

"He walks unhindered through the picket lines today"

One of the things I love about it is that it has this veneer of simplicity (both lyrically and musically) that belies the complex textures and nuances that continue to make this work worth delving into with each new listen. Take "Wrapped Around Your Finger": at first blush it seems a simple love song, but take a closer look at the lyrics. It's really about obsession, possession and stalking.

"He doesn't think to wonder why"

Spooky.

"The secretaries pout and preen like cheap tarts on a red light street"

Every single song on that album is a masterpiece in its own way - not a clinker in the bunch. It was a more than fitting swan song for the Police. Talk about going out with a bang!

"But all he ever thinks to do is watch"

As I recall the lyrics of Synchronicity II, it brings me back to a time in my life when my marriage was crumbling and I was incredibly unhappy with what was then my career. "Daddy only stares into the distance, there's only so much more that he can take" had great resonance with me at the time, and continues to make me shudder when I think of what was then my life.

"And every meeting with his so-called superior"

Well, this morning the song was still in my head, and even though it wasn't an ugly morning by any means, as I crossed the Don River - site of Toronto's industrial past - I thought of how many "industrial ugly mornings" that part of town must have seen over the past century or more.

"Is a humiliating kick in the crotch"

And then I thought of how today, like every other day in the dispatch chair, will be humiliating.

"Many miles away"

But it was a nice (if cool) sunny ride with a 40 km tailwind, so it certainly could have been worse.

"Something crawls from the slime"

And I've only got two weeks to go before I'm in what must be some of the most beautiful country in the world (the Blue Ridge Mountains of North Carolina). Whattya say, Gromit, you gonna throw your new roadbike into the back of Dave's pickup? I will if you will!!

"At the bottom of a dark

Scottish

Lake"

Thank you, Sting. If I'm going to have a song relentlessly running through my brain, at least it was one of yours...

All the Difference!

Yesterday I got to work in a crappy mood - could you tell from yesterday's blog?

Yes, Attilla the Hun next to me was bumming me out. Yes, it was raining and pissy and we were short riders (by which I mean that several bikers didn't show up for work - many of them are actually quite tall...), and everyone was grumpy.

However, as I rode into work this morning, I realized that I missed what might have been the most significant factor: I didn't ride my bike to work.

It's amazing what an early morning bike ride does for the spirits. All week long they've been predicting scattered showers for today. I awoke and it wasn't raining, although the streets were still soaked from heavy rains overnight. Despite the fact that the Weather Network said that it was still raining (they're such idiots) as the sun rose, I could see blue skies. I looked to the west (where our weather usually comes from) and skies looked blue as far as I could see, so despite knowing that I'd get wet from roadspray, I decided to ride my bike into work.

Good decision.

It was a glorious ride!

By the time I got down to the lake, the sun was shimmering off the water. There were fewer joggers and cyclists than usual, but it was still cool to see some of the "regulars" along the way. One of the (many) things I love about my commute is that I see at least 10 or 12 of the same people every day, usually within the same 500 metre zone; I guess they leave their house at the same time every day (as I do) so the crossing of our paths is amazingly consistent. We've come to the point now that we wave, nod or otherwise acknowledge each other on a quotidian basis - funny how one can form a bond (however small) with people that one doesn't otherwise know in any way whatsoever - and likely never will...

The best part of this morning's ride occurred as I passed the Western Beaches. I looked out over Lake Ontario, and I could see four white birds that had obviously just taken off and were flying away from me. At first I thought they were seagulls, but they were freaking huge - far too big to be gulls. They wheeled right, and I could see that they were swans. I recalled having seen a smallish flock of swans in the water of the Western Beaches before, but I've not seen them airborne until this morning. Seeing a wedge of swans in flight, skimming across the water, is quite a majestic sight! It made my day.

So, it's Friday, I'm now at work, Wally the Hun is in, and while he's not raving and raging like yesterday, he's still a blustery presence. But I don't care. I rode into work, I got my daily dose of endorphins (I now realize that I'm literally addicted; I'm sure that contributes to my grumpiness on days I don't ride) and it couldn't have been a better ride.

Now I just have to get through to six o'clock... Hava great weekend!!

PS: I should apologize for posting a photo that's been shown before, but so stoked am I about my ride that I wanted to show one of me on the bike, even though it's a repeat. Also, this is one of the few photos that I'll ever post that I didn't take (being as I'm on the lead bike, that would have been difficult). I'm out of focus anyway - that's my buddy Tofu sucking my wheel and in focus...

A Gentle Still Life

The asshole car dispatcher was off yesterday, and he just walked in the door after his day off, literally yelling and screaming and swearing at his drivers, and hasn't stopped for the past 20 minutes. Can you say "hostile work environment"? If I walked out the door right now, could I claim constructive dismissal for failure to provide me a professional workspace?

It was so nice having his backup in yesterday - so quiet and relaxing. As soon as I saw Wally sauntering in this morning my blood pressure went up several points, and it's been steadily rising ever since.

It's starting to rain. They're predicting up to two inches today, with heavy winds. The bikes will be slow and cranky (having done 10 years on the road before my current dispatching job, I can commiserate with them - rain sucks). It's going to be busy today. It's not going to be a good day - even without Attilla the Hun sitting next to me.

So, as we ponder how bad knarf's day is going to get, enjoy this gentle still life. Relax. Breathe deeply. Feel the calmness flow through your body.

And take a valium...

A Library

I'm not well-read. Not compared to many people that I know, anyway.

There are some fairly well-known authors whose books I've never cracked open. Margaret Atwood, for one. I feel real bad about that one. I guess I should buy and read something by her, eh? I mean she lives right here in Toronto; she's like a fixture in this town. Despite her literary celebrity, I've never read a thing by her, and that's bad.

What's worse, I feel like an idiot when someone refers to a work of hers, as if I should be familiar with it - as if everyone should be familiar with it. I hang my head in shame.

Notwithstanding all of the above, I do own a few books (thanks to Penguin paperbacks, and to Book City's remainder table). With my now-impending move into new digs, I recently reminded myself that it will be nice to have a proper bookshelf again. Not that it will be particularly large or well-stocked, but it will be there, in the living room, where it belongs.

No more digging through boxes of books to look up that obscure point, no more pulling books from the bottom of a pile on my bedroom floor to get that quote. They'll all be there, nicely alphabetized by author (each author's works sorted chronologically), lined up like little soldiers, eager to be pressed into service at a moment's notice.

Of course, once so ensconced on shelves in the living room, I'll likely never touch them, but they'll still be sitting there, looking all pretty, a comforting site to behold.

Sounds like a trip to Ikea is in the cards. Whilst there shopping for a nice bookshelf, I'll need to buy a Poang Pixbo chair and footstool, the most comfortable armchair I've ever sat in; perfect for sitting (perfectly equidistant from my speakers which will get priority placement in the new living room) with a book and reading. I owned one in my last apartment, but got rid of it when I moved into my current situation, a decision I've since regretted.

Moving's a huge PIA, but the anticipation of starting fresh is to be looked forward to. So is getting as far as possible away from Kamp Karen (sig heil, sig heil! Rousse, rousse, rousse! Achtung, Achtung!)

We're In!

That's me on the left being joyous, because I just got the word that the apartment is ours!!

My friend Dave, in the centre of the frame, is a bit more subdued than me; you know how inscrutible those Chinese are... LOL!

Rosedale will never be the same.

Woo.

Hoo.

Still Waiting

For those of you following knarf's apartment saga, I'm still waiting.

We've applied for this amazing apartment in the middle of Rosedale (fucking Rosedale!), and more or less our application has been accepted. There's this little kink that I shouldn't really get into just now; suffice to say that the issue is whose name or names will go on the lease.

It's really not a big deal, but it has to go through the owners, who were away for the weekend (which ended up being a long weekend for them). I really hope we hear something today. Both the superintendant and the rental agent have been really nice, and both seem to want us in there, so I guess we have that going for us.

The place is pretty cool. An old 40's three story two bedroom walkup, it has a garage with electric door and bikerack, so on those wet, snowy days, Gary (my new roomate) and I can simply ride our bikes directly into the garage and let them thaw/dry out down there. No more dragging wet, soggy bikes up stairs to dry in hallways or apartments. Plus, we have a convenient, warm and dry place to effect bike repairs. The building itself is built like a bunker. There are traintracks in behind us, and when a train goes by, it can hardly be heard in the building. The super was saying that most tenants can't use their cell phones inside, as the signal can't penetrate the walls.

This place should be quiet.

The building itself is in great shape, and has been upgraded over the years. There's also a coin operated laundry in the basement, so no trips to the laundromat!

Best of all is the location. It's not just that it's in Rosedale, but that it's on that part of Summerhill Avenue that looks like a little village main street (between Maclennan and Glen Road for those of you familiar with Toronto). A little market, a bank, a few professional offices are right next door to us. Other than that, we're smack dab in the middle of Canada's richest neighbourhood. Quite literally, there are mansions on our street. In fact they're all around us. Except behind us, where there's a gorgeous green treed cliff (behind the aforementioned railroad tracks).

I still don't know why the rent is so low in that building. There's another building next door (which isn't as well maintained, but still nice) that has slightly lower rent (but without electricity). Without divulging sensitive information, I can tell you that what we'll be paying (assuming we get it) seems the usual rate for two bedrooms across the city - maybe even a bit lower, when you consider that this one includes all utilities (even electricity!).

Go figure.

Keep yer fingers crossed for us. I'll let you know what happens in due course.

If I Didn't Ride a Bike

If I didnt' ride a bike, I think I'd ride one of these. Now that spring's here we're seeing the return of the scooter to the streets of Toronto, and I have to say, I love hearing their putt-putt-putt as they approach me from the rear and slowly accelerate past me on my bike.

But I'd only ride a real Italian one, like a Vespa or a Lambretta. Not a Japanese knock-off, like a Vino (tricky the way they chose an Italian sounding name, eh?). Even though the Japanese ones are likely more powereful and reliable and might be cheaper, they have no "soul".

I know that sounds silly, and I'm not knocking the Japanese for it. They're very good at taking something that we in the West love despite large and numerous flaws, taking those flaws out, improving on the product, and producing them in large enough quantities that they end up being cheaper than the original.

In the world of motor vehicles, two other examples come to mind. A couple of years ago, Japan discovered the twin-V cruiser motorcycle. Of course, Harley-Davidson had the market on these cornered, mostly because it was an archaic, inefficient design that was noisy and shook and quivered like an entranced Christian speaking in tongues. They continued to be loved by their owners, however; moreover they were seen as quintessentially "American" outside of North America. So, the big Japanese motorcycle manufactureres made 'em. Problem is, they didn't shake. They were smooth and quiet. Believe it or not, they had to engineer in the twin-V shake, to make them more Harley-like - not that any self-respecting Harley owner would ever change brands, especially to a "paddy-burner" (their term, not mine).

It worked (if only on cruiser wannabees). They sell a boatload of 'em. My guess is that they may sell more than Harley does, but I could be wrong.

The other example I can think of is the Mazda Miata. With styling loosely based on the Lotus Elan (shall we rather say "inspired by"?), they completely modernized the front-engine rear-wheel-drive two seat roadster. They not only modernized it, they revived what many thought was a dead end of the automotive family tree: the true sports car. By the late 70's or early 80's, the few two seat roadsters that were left were either outrageously expensive Italian exotica, or mid-engine or rotary engine Japanese. The "true sports car" (at least the affordable ones) such as your Triumphs, MGs and Austin Healeys had gone the way of the dodo.

You'll note that those latter three companies were English. Lovely cars in their day, they were never able to overcome pollution controls and frontal crash tests of the early 1970's. The double-whammy of increasing their weight and lowering their already marginal power was their death knell. All those English idiosyncracies such as convertible ragtops that needed a degree in engineering and 5 hands to raise or lower then leaked like seives once they were up suddenly became harder to bear. The fact that they couldn't be driven in North American winters didn't help. Neither did the fact that their electrics had this nasty habit of completely failing without notice (in England, the largest maker of automotive electrical systems, Lucas, was fondly referred to as the Prince of Darkness).

So, some ten or fifteen years after the classic British sports car died, Mazda freshened it, perfected it, and the Miata is now the best selling two-seat roadster ever.

Does it have "soul"? Does it have that "something" that raises it from mere machinery to an integral part of someone's life? Maybe. Unlike those motorcycles mentioned above, the Miata wasn't cashing in on an existing phenomenon, but revived an extinct breed. It paid hommage, it didn't copy. It went against all marketing surveys - it made the market, it didn't follow it.

Oh well, I've gone and contradicted myself, haven't I?

I didn't expect to talk about cars when I started this. I just posted the above photo because I've always liked it, and I've always liked Vespas. And then I got to thinking. Look where it brought me.

Oh well, seeing Vespas on the road is always a sure sign of spring for me, and it's sunny and going up to 20 today, so spring is certainly here. Hope you have a good one.

Still the Biggest

Hard to believe, but for some 32 years, the ugly building on the left has been the world's tallest freestanding structure. That's a long time. Hard to believe that no one's topped it since then, but then again, such tall structures are really pretty useless; there's no particular need for any structure to be so tall. Office buildings have more or less reached their theoretical zenith these days, at least until they figure out how to ferry passengers up and down more efficiently by elevator. Adding more elevators isn't the answer, as they would take up more and more internal space, and you can't rent out elevator shafts, can you?

The CN Tower was purportedly a "communications tower". Yeah, right. The particular requirements of Toronto's airwaves demanded the world's tallest tower back in the early 1970's. And pigs can fly (but not as high as the CN Tower, I bet).

Okay, so you're building the loftiest structure in the world. It's basically nothing more than the tallest antenna mast ever built. What else can you do with it? You could stick
a blob in the middle of the tower and stick stuff in it. Not that that's in any way original - far from it. It's what's done ad nauseum. Hey, what about an observation deck? Better yet, how about a bunch of them? An indoor one with a glass floor might be interesting. And, how about an outdoor one that would be the highest al fresco deck in the world? How cool would that be? What's that? The indoor one isn't the tallest? Well then, let's add a second one that would set the record - that way we could charge extra!

We could put in a revolving restaurant - it, too, would be the most altitudinous (I doubt that's really a word, but it sounds good, don't you think? Shakespeare used to make up words all the time - not that I'm a Shakespeare...) such eating establishment ever. It would be a real fancy one - proper attire only, please; we want to be able to charge top prices for this place. Everyone'll be so thrilled with the ever-changing panorama that they wouldn't notice that the food is ordinary, at best.

Of course they put in a gift shop. People love to spend money in those things, just like they do in really bad cafeterias (one of which is conveniently located at the base of the tower).

Over the years they've added interactive games and virtual rides, all of which you have to pay extra for. Speaking of which, what used to be a relatively cheap outting has gone stratospheric. Last time I went with my two youngest, with taxes it cost us over $60 for the basic package - that's just the regular (lowest) observation decks. As they're quick to point out, however, that price does include the elevator ride up and down. I guess they're not making as much money from being a giant TV transmitter as they thought. Maybe they didn't anticipate the rise of cable?

I guess all of that price gouging is irrelevent to what the tower represents to Toronto. Some would say that it's an architectural achievement, that it shows Toronto to be a modern, forward looking city, the city of the future, a place to do business, all clean and shiny and sharp.

Personally, I think it does speak of what Toronto is. Superficial. Bland. Concerned with image over substance. Concerned not with the "grand slam" but with "barely getting the record".

Think about it. The Eiffel Tower was by far the tallest building in the world when it was built. It's iron frame construction was new technology. Nothing's looked like it, before or since. The Empire State Building was over 200 feet (20%) taller than the previous record-holder The Chrysler Building. It held the record for office towers for over 40 years, until surpassed by the World Trade Centre.

In comparison, the CN Tower is bland and banal. Made of ugly concrete that has numerous unsightly patches (you can see them in the photo, above), other than its size, its completely indistinct from other such Tourist Towers.

I suppose it's not ugly (despite what I said in the first sentence - that was just hyperbole for emphasis), but neither is it aesthetically pleasing. I won't say it's a blot on our skyline, and I suppose it looks kind of cool as one views it from the lake, adjacent to the big Skydome (oops, now it's the Rogers Centre), just west of our office towers. If I am disenchanted or (to be more accurate) blase with it's design, I do applaud it's location; just away from the busines edifices, it does stand out nicely.

The other thing I'll say for it, is that it's held it's record longer than I expected it to. I guess the economics of building tall buildings speak against such large towers. Tourist towers like the CN Tower can only be built in places that are economically booming, and office towers have technological problems that are becoming increasingly difficult to overcome. There's talk of an office building in the Far East (I forget where, there have been so many contenders/pretenders that have been designed but never built), but who knows if that'll ever get off the ground.

One of the problems I see with Tourist Towers like this one, are that they'll only be notorious or noteworthy as long as they're the tallest. Once they lose their crown, they'll be just another tall spire among many, unlike, say, the Empire State Building, which may well be the most recognized building in the world, or the Eiffel Tower, which is certainly the most distinct tower.

Oh well. For better or worse, it's our tower, and for all my whining, I suppose it's pretty kewl having the largest something in the world. It beats having the world's largest nickel, or the world's largest smokestack (apologies to Sudbury), I suppose. And maybe it's not really a communications or tourist tower. Maybe it's a telluric valve - but that's another story for another day.

Random Thoughts

One doesn't often see toothbrushes among the detritus on the streets or in the gutters.

**********

I have to book off my vacation days for next month's North Carolina camping/photography extravaganza.

**********

I hope the US doesn't go to war against Iran. I mean, it's not that I like Iran or anything, but you know, that whole "Let's go to war with Iraq and use Weapons of Mass Destruction as an excuse for an illegal pre-emptive strike even though we know it's a lie" thing really hasn't worked out so well, has it? So now, since Iran is supposed to have nuclear capability, reports that the US may start a "limited nuclear war" there absolutely scares the shit outta me. Sure, the White House denies the nuclear war plans, but they told us that - for sure, for sure - Iraq had WMD. Yeah, I believe Bush and his cronies...

**********

Now that Montreal's out of the playoffs, I really don't care who wins the Stanley Cup (that's hockey - sorry, "ice hockey" - for those of you scattered across the globe who may not be familiar).

**********

Still waiting on the final word for the apartment in Rosedale. We're providing them with further documents today, so we should hear this afternoon.

**********

Dylan, a Toronto bike courier, broke his collarbone and his shoulderblade in a bike accident. A cat ran in front of him on Tuesday night. It seems that the poor fellow ran right under his pedals/cranks and (eeewwww!) got caught up in the crank/chain mechanism, judging by the amount of cat fur on his crank. We don't think the cat survived. Dylan is out of commission for at least 8 weeks, likely more. He won't need surgery. He was in great discomfort last night. A bunch of us went over to his place to sit on his deck, drink beer and commiserate. Some brought him herbal painkiller, which he seemed to appreciate.

**********

I still hate my job, but I realized that it's not really the job itself, but the asshole car dispatcher who sits next to me. Anne (her husband, Roger, was the bike dispatcher when I started messing here back in November, 2004) and I have started the "We Hate Wally Club". So far we're the only members, but it's fun messengering back and forth and laughing at him behind his back every time he goes ballistic.

**********

I'm so looking forward to (a) my little vacation in the Blue Ridge Mountains, and (b) moving.

What's the News?

I'll tell you what the news is.

Nothing big, except that I found an apartment. To be more accurate, we found an apartment. Gary and I. We found an apartment.

Okay, so that is big. Fucking big, at least for me...

In Rosedale. Fucking Rosedale.

And it's just as cheap as anything we saw anywhere else in town, but a hell of a lot nicer. And, what a neighbourhood! I should say (as an aside to certain family members who might be reading this) that it's no Creighton Street, so no grandparents will be rolling over in any graves.

We still have to sign the lease, but basically it's all done but the formalities (hopefully I'm not jinxing things by making this announcement before all the I's are dotted and T's crossed).

We're in, baby!! Well, pretty much in...

The bad gnus, of course, is that my Habs lost last night, in overtime, to lose the series against Carolina two games to four. Too bad. They lost three of the four games by one goal (or were they all by one goal?). They played the last three and a half games without their captain, lost to an eye injury. They played well, but once Carolina smelled blood (Saku Koivu's blood! His eye blood!!!), they moved in for the kill.

The third game went into overtime. Carolina scored to win the game and close the gap to two games to one. As the goal went in, I said, "That's the series. Carolina will win the series now. It's over." My housemate, one of those obnoxious toadies who knows fuck all about sports but still likes to pretend that she knows enough to carry on an intelligent conversation (but can't) said, "Oh, come on, it's just one game. Montreal's still up two to one." I said, "Nope, series over - it just ended."

I don't want to gloat (especially in the wake of Montreal's loss), but...

So, kind of a sad day, but this was a re-building year, and next year, with a new coaching staff, quality goaltending, and a captain with the use of both eyes (he's getting his vision back slowly, so hopefully he'll be okay for next September), they could do well. They just have to sign their goalie, Huet, who's a free agent this summer.

Other than that, for some reason my alarm wasn't set this morning, and I was 1/2 hour late getting up. No biggie, except that I didn't have my usual lounging time, and I didn't have time for a coffee before I left the house (that was my housemate's fault, but I won't get into it). There's an extra-large Tim's black on my desk now, so we're becoming cafeinated as we speak.

Have a good 'un!

Trackies' Heaven

I need a new track bike. My baby's gone; dead and gone.

The accident secured its demise, but for an aluminium frame, being messengered on for about 5 years (three by me and two by its previous owner, Kevin X) brings it close to its safe limits. Aluminium doesn't fatigue and fail like steel does. I've had several steel frames that failed while I was riding them, and they creak and get real whippy for days before they break.

Aluminium just cracks without warning, and, being brittle as it is, other tubes tend to break simultaneously as the initial one goes, so when aluminium frames go, it can be catastrophic.

The bottom line is, mine is gone, and I need a new one. I've heard a rumour that the bike shop from which my Rossin Pista originated has several more squirrelled away in their basement, awaiting someone like me to come and love them. Apparently they're letting them go for a fairly reasonable price - we shall be investigating this in due course.

I'm also thinking Fuji Track Pro; I know, the name has no cachet, but these things look totally pimped out, and they're a great deal. I could also go custom for a pretty reasonable price if I get Malcolm (who built my road frame that I'm currently riding) to build one for me.

I wish that Toronto had a shop like the one that the two tatoo-emblazoned messengers above are sitting in front of. New York's Trackstars has to be the coolest bike shop that I've ever seen. It's not that big, but (as you may have guessed), they sell only track bikes and accoutrements.

For the uninitiated, track bikes are single speed, fixed gear (meaning no freewheel, so the pedals are always turning if the bike is moving, just like your tricycle when you were a kid) bicycles. They have no brake.

Now there's some controversy on that last point, as some people will put a front brake on a track bike, however, to my mind that converts their bike into something that's not a track bike. Brakes are illegal on velodromes, so bikes with brakes can't be ridden on tracks and therefore aren't track bikes. Simple.

It's not that I don't support individual choice, and if one prefers to ride with a front brake that's certainly valid. All bikes are good, and however one chooses to ride is also good - you just can't call a bike with a brake a track bike.

But I digress...

You may wonder what's so different about track bikes that they need their own shop, like New York's Trackstars. Just about every "real" track part is different from road bikes. The handlebars are a deeper drop, and don't have grooves in them to accomodate brake cables. The rims don't need flat braking surfaces on their walls, the hubs tend to be high-flange (for greater strength and for shorter spokes), the fork has no hole for front brakes, the frames have no braze-ons, holes or other devices to accomodate brake and gear cables or water bottles. The frames have rear facing drop outs so that if the bolts (yes, bolts, there's no need for wimply quick releases in trackworld) come loose, your wheel doesn't fly off. In my mind, a track bike is cycling at it's purest and most elemental.

Being that the track bike is the favoured weapon of so many messengers, the shop has something of a dichotomy of ambiences. It caters to trackies (that is, those who race bikes on velodromes) and to messengers (who ride their track bikes on the streets, even though they aren't intended to be so ridden). Actually, it's not such a big stretch from one group to the other. Track racers tend to be pretty intense, focused, aggressive individuals; you've got to be to get on the track with a 225 pound monster with thighs the size of tree trunks, sprinting to the finish line at over 80 kph, bumping shoulders along the way. I wonder if it's that different from couriers bumping with trucks and cabs in the rain with killer streetcar tracks 4 inches from your skinny wheels - except maybe we're not going quite as fast.

It's a great shop, with amazing atmosphere - I've never been in a place quite like it before or since. If I lived in or near NYC, that's where I'd be buying my new track bike from. Of course, I've got to get that insurance money first...

And a Pleasant Monday Morning to You.

I didn't want to come to work this morning.

Okay, that's nothing new; I mean I really didn't want to come to work this morning. Really, really didn't want to come in.

I got up and thought to myself, "I've been doing this since August, and other than the day I broke my collarbone (I was into work the next day) and a couple of half-days for follow-up medical appointments, I haven't missed a day." The appointments, of course, I booked off ahead of time, so the day of the accident remains the only day that I actually had to "call in sick" the day of.

So I'm thinking of all that this morning, also thinking of how I didn't get a chance to do laundry on the weekend since I was out househunting, and what a pain in the ass it's going to be to get to the laundromat tonight, since my idiot housemate still hasn't fixed or replaced her washing machine or dryer which have been on the fritz for about three months now. I was thinking how nice it would be if I could take the day off and do my laundry instead of rushing home tonight and then rushing right back out the door to get it done.

Then I was thinking that when I went to get my beard trimmed yesterday, Sam the Italian Barber was busy, with at least an hour wait (and if your barber says an hour wait, double it). So the facial hair is getting a bit scraggly. Again, it would have been nice to deal with that as part of a nice leisurely day off work today.

But most of all, I just wanted a day off, for no other reason than that I haven't taken one off in a long time.

I don't know why, but for some reason I resent that sick people get to take days off and don't get shit for it, but because I don't get sick (very often), I don't get the same benefit. Is it my fault I'm healthy? Why should I get punished for it?

I'm thinking, "I don't want to go to work, but just take a shower, and you can call in sick once you get out of the shower." Then it's, "I'll just get dressed, go make the coffee and have some toast, then I'll call in sick." Then it's, "Well, I'm dressed, I've had breakfast, I'd might as well go to work."

That's the game I play every day I feel that I don't want to go into work. I know I'm "fooling myself", but somehow and for some reason it's a mechanism that works, and I almost always end up going out the door. It's certainly worked since I started dispatching back in August.

Even though I'm out the door, on my bike, and riding to work, I'm still pretty snarly. Then I realize that the headwind that I've been riding into each morning last week is gone. I've actually got a tailwind! The sun's shining. The buds on the trees are actually pretty close to leaves. It's going up to 21C today, so the ride home will be fucking amazing.

I recall that my soon-to-be roomie Gary and I found the place that we want - a two-bedroom in a Rosedale walk-up - and we're going to be filling out the application today. I'm happy that the process is moving along in the right direction.

All of this is going through my head, and of course, I'm on my bike which is a happy-making thing in and of itself.

The world's all good.

Of course, now I'm at work, and the abusive asshole who sits next to me is here, and is blustering about, and my blood-pressure's rising as we speak. At least at the end of the day I get to ride my bike home; I have something to look forward to...