never trust a man who can’t contract July 13, 2010
Posted by Bri-anne Swan in Uncategorized.trackback
Do ya ever get that feeling where your legs are so tired they feel more like semi-congealed gelatin than actual muscle and bone? That’s me right now. I’m currently reclined in my zero gravity chair, consoling my weary back after a long day of – visiting!
Yes, visiting.
Actually, it wasn’t the visiting that felt long. The visiting was quite lovely. It was getting to the visiting that was the issue. My dear friend Andrea lives way across town and I decided, in an overly ambitious, Olivia Newton John inspired fit of psychosis, that riding my bike to The Beaches and back, via The Rosedale Ravine, was a great idea.
[**You can find a report about another recent lapse in judgment regarding my physical ability here**]
Going down the ravine was a piece of cake, but that nagging how-the-hell-am-I-going-to-get-up-this-sucker? feeling kinda killed the fun.
After arriving (safely – a feat!) at the bottom of the ravine, I realized I was a bit lost. Actually, that’s not true. I wasn’t lost. I just didn’t know I wasn’t lost. Had I kept going the way I thought I should be going, I’d have been fine. Instead, I wandered around looking lost for almost 10 minutes. So, the problem wasn’t being lost. It was looking lost. Understand?
This is where the entire trip fell apart.
“Hey babe! You look lost!” I turned around and saw I was being addressed by an untidy man sitting on the corner of a 4 lane thoroughfare, holding a battered cardboard sign which read:
CHANGE? YOUR THE BEST! *smiley face*
“Um. I might be lost.”
“Where do ya wanna to get to?”
“Gerrard Street.”
“Well” he spat – no, hoarked – onto the pavement, “Gerrard Street is right there. But ya can’t go down that way. Nope. This street is waaay too busy. Whatcha wanna do is go up through the park, over through the hobby farm, and then down that hill again.”
I was a bit skeptical. I was pretty sure I could handle being on a busy road for two blocks, but I also didn’t want to become a pancake en route to afternoon tea. I’m pretty sure mud and blood are not part of the usual social etiquette. Besides, just because the guy couldn’t handle his contractions didn’t mean he wasn’t good with directions. Thinking that would have just been rude.
So, I thanked the nice man, backtracked and made my way up (ugh!) through the park where I was promptly presented with the SIX (ack!) flights of stairs I would need to get me and my not-so-feather-light-bicycle up and over before carrying on with my journey.
I got up the stairs with my bike, but not before doing something awful to my back, screaming something akin to the Hindenburg disaster and bashing myself so hard that a bruise the shape (and size) of the former Soviet Union has started appearing on my right leg.
Maybe it’s like Harry Potter’s lighting scar?
“The Boy Who Lived”
“The Girl Who Didn’t Didn’t Pass Out”
Maybe? No? *sigh*
At any rate, I made it the entire 24km there and back. Next time, though, I think I’d rather Apparate. Or take a Port Key. Heck, I’d even take a Broom.
Quite the story my sweet friend. However next time you dont need a port key you need to ask your friend who cycles the city. The nicest ride from your house to the beaches would be south to the lakeshore and take the trail to the beaches. All pretty flat by the water and safe.
However if you had contacted me first you would not have had this wonderful story to write. And sister you can tell a mean tail.
I cannot wait to read your life story when you get around to putting it in a book.
You’re right. I should have. It was a whim that went wrong. You just need to come back to Toronto so you can keep me safe