Category: Walks with Gord

‘Walks with Gord’ comprises six anecdotal observations, starting August 20^th, 2020.

Gord, an enthusiastic walker with an adventuresome spirit, enjoys the outdoors and loves to explore the area where we live, 1 Ripley Avenue in Toronto, and he invited me to tag along.

Taking note of the wonder of it all was solely my idea.

At this time of the day, at this time of the year, walking east, the sun blinds you mercilessly.

True, it’s a sign of a nice day coming but it makes walking dangerous; you can’t see anything looking straight ahead so you walk looking down and hope that those coming in the opposite direction are looking up.

But Gord and I are out for our first walk together. Gord and I are same-condo dwellers. We don’t really know each other that well yet but this is a social building and by happenstance, through a condo sponsored activity, we got to recognize each other.

The social history of the building goes way back and when a group of women got together on a regular basis, I believe it was for yoga, the male component had to compete and so met for a strenuous cup of coffee until they could re-unite with their spouses and drive them home.

It was to this group that I was invited to join and first got to know Gord.

Gord has had more than his share of physical challenges and I couldn’t help but ask him if there’s anything I could do to help him get through his daily activities. I was thinking helping him unload his car.

“You can walk with me,” he almost demanded.

“I can not only do that but would be happy to,” I acknowledged, and so here we are today.

I flattered myself that Gord saw that I would be good company, he had laughed at some of my witticisms over coffee but no, the principal reason was to make sure he didn’t miss a step.

“Walk on my left,” Gord directed, “cause, if I have any non-political leanings, that’s where they tend to take me.”

Gord explained a history of horrific medical challenges that made me admire his positive outlook. Gord is a few years older than I am so I’m very interested in how he copes today as it could be me in a couple of years. Not that I wish his medical condition but I would want to be as upbeat as he is.

Back to the start of the day. I have ambivalent feelings about the end of August; the weather’s still wonderful but you can’t help but see September looming and September the first, for some reason, officially says, “Summer’s over!”

But greeting the day at this hour is a marvel, you’re not the only one wandering about!

Bikers, those individuals, male and female, who can both bend over their handle bars without popping a vetebrae and go fast are out and about. Walkers, too, like us taking to the paths with or without a dog as an excuse.

Now that we’ve turned away from the sun, it’s quite marvelous. The water is calm, geese and ducks abound and the temperature is just right to encourage a quick pace. Gord knows this neck of the woods. His career travels have brought him back to Toronto five times and each time he loves to explore his surroundings. We pass by a monument to George VI and Queen Elizabeth’s visit in 1939 which opened the Queen Elizabeth Way, formerly the the Middle Road. Now why would they want to change such a lovely name? The monument, proudly shown then on the left and now, below, hidden from the beaten path, upsets Gord. “Hasn’t been sand blasted in 40 years,” he sadly declaims and he’s not a royalist.

The Queen Elizabeth Way, now affectionally called the QEW was Canada’s first four lane highway and it had lights, as you can see.

For many years, signs such as this one identified the Queen Elizabeth Way with these two letters E and R that recognized, in Latin, Elizabeth Regina. Visiting tourists of the time from south of the border, however, were both surprised and pleased to see Eleanor Roosevelt’s initials welcoming them.

I know the area but didn’t know you could take a walk under the bridge that covers the Humber and surfaces to another path which I usually bike along. A pleasant surprise.

Gord and I make the dangerous decision to get back home by crossing the busy South Kingsway. Gord’s been holding back on me, he can hustle his buns when his life’s at stake.

The walk covers a little more than a leisurely two kilometres.

Gord walks to get his strength back which means he can go anywhere and take his time doing it.

I usually walk to get somewhere so to walk for the pleasure of walking is quite a change. And Gord knows all the places you can walk that aren’t the main sidewalks that shoulder the principal streets.

Today is the Willliard walk which is a meandering combination of hidden paths and out-of-the-way streets that start at Bloor Street and Williard in the north and end up at Ormskirk Court in the south.

A bit of a digression here, kirk is Scottish for church and on a visit to Scotland we went through the lovely little village of Kirkcudbright on the river Dee which empties into the Atlantic to the west. Kirkcudbright is pronounced ‘Kuh-coo-bree’ by the locals so an outsider would never be able to find it if they asked for ‘Kirk-Cud-Bright’. Good for the namers of Ormskirk Court to put the kirk after the Orms or I don’t know what you’d end up with.

Back to the walk. The walk takes you through dead end streets (or courts for the pretentious) which empty onto the Kingsway, a main drag linking Bloor Street in the north with the Queensway/Lakeshore/Gardiner Expressway in the north. It’s a main artery and I wouldn’t want to live on it as I’d be challenged to get my car in and out of the traffic.

The streets are quiet but with little morning light as the rise to Windermere Avenue to the east blocks any sun before mid morning. Don’t think I’d live here either. Would a real estate agent only show in the afternoon here?

The walk covers a little over 3 kilometres and towards its southern end there’s a small, well hidden play area for children called Ormskirk Park and/or playground.

Again, thank God the kirk is buried in the name or we’d be looking for ‘Kuh-Ooms-Par-Kay. Or something like that.

We skipped a day because Gord wasn’t feeling well. He takes a pill for his osteoporosis that can set him back for a day, but it’s better than a pain killer.

We’re taking the same walk we did on the 20^th and I’m curious about the difference in sunrise times, only 5 minutes, but in late August you feel you can sense a change. The sun is still a bright orb but orangier (sic) than the other day and not quite as blinding.

The weather’s still warm though and what hasn’t changed is the high activity at this hour. Those biker boys (bicycles, not motorbikes) do run at a fair clip. We’re at the junction of high park and the Queensway and those speedsters come down from High Park, a steep descent and, if they time the lights correctly, easily take the turn heading west on the Queensway at a guessed at 50+ kph which is a few dollars over the posted limit of 20 kph.

For those who like particulars, that stretch from High Park is Colborne Lodge Road. You can drive up it, heading north to the lodge and go no further but you can drive on it all the way down from Bloor. This is a popular run for cyclists; there’s a natural loop they take on the flat part of High Park.

We watch our step. By the way, if you don’t push that little button to change the lights, the lights for the traffic change but not for the pedestrians. After a while, when you’re getting nowhere, you figure it out.

Gord asks me, “What’s new?” and I mention that the umbrella we ordered for our patio table arrived on the same day we experienced gale force winds on our terrace.

“That’s too bad,” he consoled. “Since we couldn’t use it,” I enlightened, “I sent it back … wasn’t working.”

Gord humours me and presses the change-the-light-button more repeatedly.

We walk along the board walk heading towards the Humber. Time for a rant. The board walk doesn’t use boards, thankfully, but artificial wood which handles the weather better but when the boards give in to the seasons over time, the powers that be, who fix the worn bits, replace them with wood. Go figure.

We get to talk sailing and each of us had had experiences with a Laser.  That’s an internationally recognized Canadian designed single sail dinghy which became an Olympic class in 1996.

We take a rest and Gord updates me on the physical challenges that he’s faced over the years ending with gout. I picture that as a Victorian condition and the movies always seem to portray the patient sitting with his foot, which is either twice the size it should be or wrapped in miles of material, resting on an ottoman.

I suggest to Gord that if there are plans to have his tombstone list his life’s challenges there would have to be a ‘see over’ to continue reading round the back.

But his good spirits dominate and we challenge the traffic on the South Kingsway to get home successfully.

Chalk up another 3 kilometres or so to our walking, not running, total.

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.

Note: the role of Gord will be played by Sheila on this walk; Gord isn’t looking well.

Alert: note the date – summer has officially 3 weeks to go but we know better.

Walking with Sheila will cry out for comparisons with Gord’s ambulations which could have me walking the plank. I’ll try to watch my step.

My plan is to introduce Sheila to the wonders of the Williard Walk which she’s heard so much about and only men know so much about. This starts with a walk north on Ripley Avenue, Gord and I usually head directly to the South Kingsway.

Ripley Avenue is going through a minor transformation with all parking spots getting a clean bill of health thanks to repaving and bright yellow park-between-the-lines. This route must have more cars per parking spot than any other street in Toronto. And, of course, the Cheese Boutique attracts a clientele that hasn’t walked to a store since Henry Ford appeared on the scene.

Back to the South Kingsway now a street that houses the small and the mighty but doesn’t discriminate when it comes to parking. Melding into the morning traffic and leaving the evening rush hour to your once-was-a-lawn driveway can’t be the highlight of anyone’s day.

Speaking of the small, this picture shows an-about-to-be-torn-down up against a neighbourly transformation. (The building to the right will soon lose not only the light-facing windows when the replacement McMansion surfaces and, I’m guessing, but also around $250,000 off any future listing.)

I can clearly envision the conversation between the supposedly little old lady owner of the teardown and the shaking with high commission fever real estate agent.

“Well, it’s time to move; Arthur, that’s my late husband, and I bought this place just after the war.”

“I understand, hard to pull yourself away. Any questions?”

“Well, we want to get our money back, we scrimped and saved to find the down payment and then pay off the mortgage.”

“… do you recall … hmm … what you paid … roughly?”

“No roughly about it, $6,500!”

“A mighty sum at that time, I’m sure. Let’s see, accounting for inflation (agent counts through all her fingers and toes and back again) I can assure you that you’ll get your money,( sotto voce) less an egregious commission, back.”

“What about staging, I hear that a lot.”

“No need, just take what you want and leave the rest.”

“That’s going to be a lot of work, clearing out things. Who will move them?”

“The bulldozer.”

The walk up to Bloor is a gentle incline but you’re glad when you see the Esso station on the corner. And then Sheila points out the pet stores; there are three establishments in the area catering to the pet-o-philes (say that clearly). It’s obviously a dog-eats-a-lot-of-dog-food world.

Sheila also shows me the restaurant Ma Maison on the north side of Bloor. They had (maybe still do) a restaurant opposite Bruno’s plaza (not sure of the mall’s correct name) on Dundas street just east of Royal York. At the time, it was one of the few establishments that had a legitimate French touch so it will be a welcome addition to the area.

Bienvenue!

By now you’re starting to appreciate the difference between an all-talk-and-no-looking walk with Gord and a pause-and-see-everything stretch with Sheila.

As an aside, everyone’s seen that cartoon that highlights the difference between men and women shopping for a sweater? The half dozen red dots on the floorplan indicate the man’s path to and from the parking lot to the store where he buys a sweater versus the several thousand dots that trace the woman’s journey to every store in the mall and the return to the car without the sweater but with lots of other things. Well, this is the walk equivalent. Sheila goes, or at least notes, where no man has gone before.

We start our descent down the Williard Walk and something new catches our eye, (Gord and I have a lot of important things to talk about that takes all our attention: ‘How are you feeling? How’s the dog? Pretty warm for this time of day, eh?”  so it’s to be expected that we would miss the plaque honouring Raymond Holmes Souster, a recognized poet from the area and a supporter of the arts.

Towards the end of the walk, Sheila announces, “This is great, but,” checking details that escaped Gord’s and my eyes like the car painted on the garage door, “I’ve been here before.”

I can’t hide my disappointment, I was the one showing her the walk. “But how?” I unbelievably mutter.

“Well, I remember walking on the South Kingsway and saw people seemingly disappear so I followed them.”

And with that Sheila not only points out the hidden Ormskirk Park that Gord didn’t know about but also the steps leading up to Windermere and parts to be known. “I’ll take you there sometime.”

No Gord (not feeling well) and no Sheila (shopping) this time, just me but I feel it’s worth a telling.

I had to go to the Runnymede library today (It’s back open now that COVID-19 has settled down.) to drop off a book and pick up one I’d reserved lo these many months. I’m impressed, the library kept track of it and let me know when I could venture into their sanctum to retrieve it. As an aside, the library is almost empty. A COVID-19 forced change from my recent memory when it was awash with, among others, the great unwashed who looked to it to satisfy their free newspaper reading needs and welcome warmth or comforting cooling depending on the season.

I was struggling with the choice of walking to the library or taking my bike. The bike, an e-bike, is the obvious choice but you can’t carry anything on it. It’s a male gender version which forbids baskets woven, wicker or otherwise. It would be a balancing act at best that seniors don’t take to well or too well. So Sheila solved my dilemma, “I’ll drop you off on my way to wherever.”

I confess to changing my male determining decision making. The thought of being driven up the hill and then walking down to home was pure pleasure. I highly recommend it. You cover off your guilt of ‘not getting out and doing some physical activity’ and make it home in one piece with breathing to spare.

The library is at the top, the north west corner, of High Park. High Park, for those not in the know, is close to being Toronto’s version of New York’s Central Park. If it were, it would be separating the Toronto towers with greenery but it’s further west than downtown. Its purpose, though, is the same as Central Park’s – to provide humanity with an oasis of nature almost completely shielded from the look and noise of civilization.

While cars can use it, only going one way to the south, the 20 kilometer speed limit keeps them to a safe crawl which leaves the roads and pathways open to cyclists, walkers, walkers with dogs and wanderers like me on this marvelous morning. And what a morning for mid September – a forecast high of 23, sunny and dry.

When you have time on your side you get to see what you’d miss from a moving car or speeding bike. For example, you get to read all those signs that tell you what you didn’t study in school. My first lecture tells me that not so long ago, Grenadier Pond, the body of water that keeps High Park attracting water fowl and ice skaters was once an open body of water connected to Lake Ontario. Now it’s land locked but has a man made connection with the Humber River to the west to handle any runoff.

The signs continue to educate you along the way on the fish and fowl that abound. I didn’t know that there were two types of Canada Geese (Branta canadensis – aren’t you glad your parents forced you to take Latin?) and the type Canada loves is the one that migrates so that we can share the treasures the bird leaves when it leaves for places as far away as Europe.

Speaking of fishes (yes, this plural refers to species; fish would mean the same darn fish, singular and plural.) and one of the species is the northern pike, a sporting angler’s favourite.

I take a moment to test a bench that hopefully hadn’t lost a ‘fresh paint’ sign and page through the book I picked up at the library. This is indeed a pleasurable moment; only the bench’s hard design forces me to move prematurely.

The rest of the walk home takes me around the southern perimeter of Grenadier Pond and west along the Queensway to South Kingsway and off at the first right to Ripley Avenue.

When you walk these routes that border runways for racing cars you not only feel the traffic rushing by you but also the comfort of probably not getting run over, an obvious bonus over biking which makes you wonder if cycling, even with its own lanes, even with all this effort made nowadays to win over the cyclist, is the way to go.

So I’ve added three kilometers to our walks. When Gord gets to read this I’m sure he’ll say with mock indignation, “Well, you really haven’t walked High Park,” which is what I hope he’ll say. Then we can get together again and he’ll show me the way.