A day in late April has warmed up enough to overcome COVID-19 and the lockdown to draw me outdoors.
“I’m going for a walk,“ I announce to my wife hoping, not too seriously, that she’ll try to talk me out of it.
“Good, maybe you’ll meet up with someone,” came the helpful farewell. I head for the elevator lost in thought.
A ghost from the past joins my reverie, “Roger.”
I turn to see James, a casual acquaintance who has a suite a few floors below us.
“Whatcha up to?”
“Decided to go for a walk.”
“May I join you?”
And so, with a friend in mind, we head out into the great unknown. I’m younger than James so I mentally add 30 minutes to this venture and subtract a kilometre.
“Love a brisk walk,” announces James to no one in particular.
I have to smile, James’ idea of a brisk walk is more like an animated shuffle. But he keeps up the enthusiasm if not the speed. We decide to head for the Humber river which means crossing the busy South Kingsway which means being alert and remembering how to turn an animated shuffle into a brisk walk.
In my youth I’d have to be on top of things to take on this no-traffic-light crossing, the traffic never seems to abate, so with James I look both ways several times, add an extra kick to my step and then get him in gear. James has perfected the semblance of running which encompasses a flailing of arms supported by shaky limbs that hope to move without scraping a toe or dragging a heal. We make it but I’m sure that the driver who slowed down had to be cursing or was himself of a certain age and admired our adventuresome spirit.
We pause to get our oxygen levels back up and head to the Humber which attracts kayakers at this stage of the waterway. You immediately take this activity off your bucket list. You know you could never get in or out of those things. James, being of like mind, without prodding, unconsciously shakes his head.
“Can you come and get me?”
“Where are you?”
“In the middle of Lake Ontario.”
We next take a goat path which leads us under the Gardiner and Lakeshore overpasses which opens onto the mouth of the Humber where it’s crowned by the archway bridge. Here we greet Lake Ontario and a myriad of people: walkers, bikers, dog walkers, fast bikers all in assorted dress from shorts to winter attire and generally not wearing a mask or trying to stay six feet apart. James and I have our masks in hand but have taken them off to avoid the annoyance of fogging up our glasses. But we do try to stay the necessary distance away from the crowding company.
We note, for the first time in our memories, lake levels are down such that sandbars are exposed to let you walk to the breakwaters.
James is quite opinionated. Something that doesn’t quite sit well with him will get a 2 minute rant.
“You know what I can’t stand,” expounds James, not waiting for an answer, “bikers.”
I wait, James doesn’t need encouragement. “They’re racing, they pass on the right, they don’t pay for a licence, they own the road.”
James doesn’t want to admit that he can only turn his head 10 degrees either way so he couldn’t see a biker coming if he wanted to. Now this is on a combination walk/bike path; I decide not to get his heart pumping beyond the legal limit by asking him what he thought of bikers on the road.
“Another thing,” Oh, oh, I surmise, he’s on a tear, “pollution.”
“Thought we had that in hand, if not under control, no?”
“Not what you’re thinking,” corrected James, “noise,” slamming a balled up fist into an open palm to emphasize the seriousness of the matter, “noise pollution, those bikers (this time he was after the motorized version) and hot rodders pollute the ears with their rackets and it can be stopped.” I await the answer.
“You know when you have to take your car in to test the exhaust?” I nod, he doesn’t want me to say anything, “well there’s probably a gadget that could test for noise at the same time.”
I know James wants my approval but I counter. “That could take 5 years, new cars don’t get tested for 5 years. That would be 5 years of noise according to my calculations.”
James lowers his head as if to get all the brain cells to puddle to the bottom of his skull to muster a critical mass for an appropriate response but I help him out. “Of course, we could pass a law so shops couldn’t sell those things, they’re add-ons that attach to or replace the exhaust.”
James brightens, then shakes his head, “Ah they’d find a way to buy them across the border and smuggle them across, don’t think it would work but a nice thought, thanks.”
“How ‘bout noise police?” I semi-jokingly throw on the table. James gives his brain cells another workout. ”How would that work?”
“Like a breathalyser,” I hurriedly come up with, “stick it up the exhaust and see if the reading is greater than 93.”
“ Why 93?”
“I read it somewhere, that’s when the pain starts.” You can see James likes the idea. You can see that James will take up this idea, hunt down a gadget and test cars stopped at a red light. You can see James getting a swift kick for his troubles.
We are the slowest enjoying the afternoon. Even other walkers clip by us which confounds the brain. We remember when we ran everywhere as kids with nary a puff. What happened? And why do we feel we can still do it? So we get clever and stop to read about the Lake Trail. Reading a sign still counts as walking cause we’re not sitting down. The Lake Trail covers the province starting, or ending, just east of Cornwall with Sault Saint Marie the other terminus. This gets our interest but not commitment as you’d have to be super keen to take any part of this on. Still, it warms you to the wonders of Ontario.
James and I head west to a monument saluting the Palace Pier of days gone by. My sister says she danced there and just about everyone else of a certain age has a story related to this monument to fun. That palace pier, of course, is long gone but its name lives on with an attractive condo tower and its twin, Palace Place.
We sit, so we’ve come half way. This part of the path isn’t finished but what is done is very attractive; we drink in the distant skyline of towers. Toronto has a welcoming waterfront.
We decide to not take our chances and take Windermere Avenue home where traffic lights almost guarantee your safety. The walking lights at the Lakeshore are separate: one for east bound traffic and the other for westbound. But they both don’t come on at the same time so you have to move it to cross both lanes of the Lakeshore on a change of lights. We cross the eastbound lane but decide 9 seconds doesn’t give us enough time to fly the westbound lane which is just as well as it gives James a welcome breather and lots of time before the next change of lights to have an opinion on the Mirabella, a condo going up on the Lakeshore.
“An architectural monstrosity,” exclaims James, “I’m glad I didn’t buy into the condo that will soon be blocked from a view of the lake. Can you imagine?”
This revs up James’ engine so we easily make the next light change. We now are on the home stretch but I’m concerned, there’s a subtle grade to our condo and will we need another excuse to make it?
“Ah the rare kingfisher,” pronounces James stopping to wave at some distant speck.
I don’t see the kingfisher, I don’t even look but I can see that James is catching his breath. James is too self conscious to ask for a hand up the hill so we slow down the animated shuffle.
“Home again, thanks for the walk James, I think we covered 3 to 4 kilometres. What’s next on your agenda this afternoon?”
“A nap,” came the unapologetic replay.
And we part.
“Welcome home, how was your walk?” came the warm welcome. “Meet up with anyone?”
Now back to reality. “No, it was just me.”