The day starts out overcast so it’s darker than it should be at this time of year but still warm. Gord walks at this hour year round so it means starting and ending in the dark for half the year which doesn’t sit well with me.
“No problem at that hour, I wear a reflective vest so you’ll be the one that gets hit,” comes the reassurance.
“How much for the vest?” I ponder and try to figure out how I can get Gord to always walk nearer the traffic.
We do the Williard Walk this morning; up to Bloor and then down the back alleys and quiet streets home. Sorry, pretentious courts.
As cyclists blow down the South Kingsway on their morning race to the fitness finish line, Gord says he’s been hit twice by cyclists. We, I include myself, aren’t supposed to ride on sidewalks where Gord’s mishaps occurred but there are times when riding on the street would tempt fate.
I’m sensitive to the drivers’ needs; they give up a lane when there’s a biker and no bike demarcation line so I understand their frustration and, in these situations, cyclists aren’t that smart. It wouldn’t take much for a cyclist to catch a stone and slip into the path of a passing car. The press seems to take the cyclists side in these situations hence converting major routes like Bloor into bike lanes. I see this as a mistake.
Were I a politician, I’d argue that bikes are not a form of transportation in North American cities. Few would take them to work and then only during clement times of the year which should garner a round of applause sprinkled with a few raspberries.
Enough of the rant, back to the walk. We talk this and that, repeating some topics which is probably typical of our vintage. Construction stops us here and there with high priced homes smothering small lots. We both wonder why they have to be so big? We guess size says ‘money’ and that’s still important so I make a mental note to buys shares in mortgage companies and, just to be safe, in foreclosure operations. I should break even which is still OK when you read about today’s negative interest rates.
Gord’s a dog owner and lover so when we meet a leashed canine we stop to chat and pet. Dog owners seem to know the names of the dogs better than the names of the owners. “Do you know such and such in our building?” Gord enquires. Long pause of no recollection then Gord clarifies, “The dog’s name is Bailey.” Lights come on and the conversation kicks into high gear.
This meeting interests me even though I’m a man without a best friend. The dog owner is actually looking after the dog for a while. The dog is to be trained as a seeing-eye dog which means the dog sitter has to give it up at some time but the dog has allergies so it will be disqualified much to the owner’s pleasure.
And on that high note we turn onto Ripley Avenue taking over the street before business drives in and we enter another couple of kilometers into our log.