They say that everyone has their strengths and weaknesses and alas, it appears as though mine is linked to my ability to ride a bike. This is the story of my three month relationship with a malfunctioning bike, which ends in tragedy.
How We Hooked Up
“So where do you want to pick it up?” said the voice on the other line. “How about at Dufferin Park?”
“Sure,” I said, full of excitement, since this would be my first time.
I arrived at Dufferin Park with the requisite $60. It was a dirt cheap price, and I was quick to snatch it up.
The nameless bike seller arrived with his own bike, and unlocked my future bike from it’s shackles. He offered the two wheeled device to me, indicating that I should test it out. One part of the bike frame was painted blue, the other green. I was later informed that this meant the bike was actually a combination of 2 models. This was my first time on a bike since I was 8. I tried to remember how easily I had discarded my training wheels back then, as I mounted the shaky bike.
The bike seller peadled off into the main playground, but turned around to take a look at me when he realized I hadn’t followed him. I had put both feet on either pedal, but revolving, my foot no longer touched the pedal at the lowest part of the rotation. I couldn’t move forward and was embarrassingly left behind! The seller biked back and adjusted my seat. The second time was better, although all the while I had the sensation of leaning very forward on the bike. Never mine, I thought. It was a steal at $60.
The Great Toronto Bicycling Guide
I had no illusions about this frugal find. Fully aware of my recklessness while on the bike, I rode around with a bicycle helmet on. It was the end of fall, and all the windy rides made my ears cold, so I wore a wool toque underneath the helmet. Many times I caught pedestrians pointing and laughing at this.
Falling on a Car
It was also on this bike that I fell on a car. Now I realize this is not completely believable on it’s own, so let me explain; anyone who bikes in Toronto knows there is an underlying and ever present tension between cyclists and motorists. In my attempt to stay out of this, I gave cars all the room they could ever desire. At one intersection of Harbord Street, I did my civic duty and stopped at the red light, right beside a beige Nissan, one foot on my pedal, one on the curb. Remember that problem earlier where my legs had been too short? Well I actually tipped over on my bicycle, and only at the last second did I catch myself with the palm of my hand on the hood of the Nissan, preventing deep scratch marks on it. I took a glance back at the driver, who was gripping the wheel and looked like he had just shat himself. A quick shrug, wave and I was on my way.
… We Had to Go Separate Paths
As I mentioned above, this relationship ended in tragedy. What happened? I forgot rule number one: never cross directly over streetcar tracks. One minute I was happily smiling, toque and helmet on, and buzzing down College Street. The next minute I had flipped over my bike. I landed on my shins and ripped my pants. Cars screeched to a halt. People ran out of stores to see if I was alive. Aside from some bleeding, I was ok. But my bike, my poor bike, was still stuck in the tracks, one wheel horribly bent and spinning. It was the end.
Why am I writing all this? In a few short days I will be attending a indoor cycling class at Spynga studio in Toronto, and would like to put my past bicycling experience in context. I’m excited, scared and curious to see how this class turns out.
By the way, do you like Macarons? I know they’re not healthy, but I still wanted to show off my Cinnamon Buttercream Macarons.
| 
| 
| 
| 
| 
| 