The shouts and instructions of the players echo behind me, the language familiar but impenetrable. So many voices, so many people out on this day. A middle-aged man in a suit sits blowing soap bubbles. They drift away from him, rising above the pedestrians on the sidewalk beneath. Given breath, they hover there for a moment, an impossible glistening, before popping and vanishing into sky. It’s a beautiful spring day and people, optimistic after the long winter, are out in the sun. It’s a kind of parade, really, and every one of theses people is the star of their own movie, an unknowable plot churning within that’s just waiting to be realized.

Dear Michael:

I think you know just how much Caleb and I love you. We think you’re one of the most unique, misunderstood people that we have ever met, which is why this is so terribly awkward and difficult for us, but we are sorry to say that we can no longer host you at our wedding on April 13th. We thought carefully about it, and after you wrote in, “ A St**k sure would be nice!” when asked if you would rather have ‘Tofu Banh Mi Sliders’ or ‘Vegan Cauliflower Tacos with Chipolte Cream’ for your meal at our fully vegan wedding, Caleb and I realized we simply could not host murderers on our sacred day. There is nothing funny about killing, and we cannot start our official life together by compromising our ethics. We simply will not do it.

The girl in front of me in the line-up was squarely built and dressed like a farmer. She had the red hair of an outsider and looked quiet, like she was still trying to decide who she was to become. On her right wrist there was a tattoo, a vividly green box with the word LIFE beneath it– a rebellion of optimism. You could see how the liberty of a new city and the excitement of an unwritten life, just now, finally developing, was animating her eyes, her eyes, which were so alert and watching everything,  just waiting for what was to happen next.

Not only were the bikes like riding something from the 19^th century, but the program struggled financially and has been being rebranded to “Bike Share Toronto,” and is currently looking for a new corporate sponsor.

I have submitted a list of new names for “Bike Share Toronto” hoping that they might prove appealing to the public and sponsorship!

1. Le Dificyle

This name will honour Canada’s bilingual nature, the city of Toronto’s multicultural character and be completely up front about how hard it is to ride the massive bike.

2. World Class Bicycles

This name would highlight Toronto’s status as a World Class City.

3. The Bumbaclot

Inspired by Rob Ford, the world’s greatest Mayor, this name harkens back to his drug fuelled rant in Jamaican patois that was filmed at the Steak Queen. Bumbaclot, as everyone now knows, is Jamaican slang for a cloth or rag used for menstrual blood before tampons were widely available, an accurate reflection of contempt considering how most people feel about the rental bikes after using one.

4. The Film Festival Flash (Triple F)

Tying in with Toronto’s World Class International Film Festival, this name will publicize the great event and all the stars, posers and wannabes who populate the streets during it’s run, and the bikes will also be promoted as a safe and alcohol-friendly conveyance by which to get from party to party!

5. The Velociraptor

Piggybacking on the success of the Toronto Raptors basketball team, and cleverly using the French word for bicycle as a nod to Toronto’s great multicultural personality, the Velociraptor would make for a stellar moniker for the bike rentals! (Suggestion: dinosaur arms holding a basket protruding from handlebars of bike)

6.   The Catapult

Given that the streetcar tracks all over the city streets spell doom for cyclists, especially those (tourists) not familiar with the roads, and typically catapult cyclists into cars and streetlights, the Catapult is a perfect name for the bikes.

7. LAGFPPS’s (Little Above Ground Foot-Powered Private Subways)

In keeping with Rob Ford’s promise to bring more subways to Toronto, this name will revolutionize the public’s perception of just what a subway is and will, as usual, save the taxpayer billions of dollars.

8. The Ton O’ Fun

This playful name will combine the weight of the bike with the joy of cycling, making an adventure on the city streets as much fun as a carnival ride!

9. The Ontarian

A classic homage to this great province in which we live!

10.  The Pussy Wagon

This name, once again inspired by Toronto’s Mayor, references his statement that he “has more than enough pussy to eat at home.”  Gritty, urban and controversial, it gives Toronto the World Class, Tarantinoesque edge it has always sought.

Recently, as I was cycling down the street on my way there, I passed a young woman walking down the sidewalk. There was a unique tenderness written into her face that had an almost holy aspect, and she seemed preoccupied, as if all of her emotions were living right there on the surface, and I immediately wanted to know what she was thinking. But as quickly as I glimpsed her, she was gone, receding into the city as I coasted by.

After stopping to do a little banking, I walked into Wellspring about 15 minutes later and saw this woman inside the building waiting for the elevator. I was startled by this coincidence and started up a conversation, one that saw me telling her that my allergies were driving me crazy. Waves of benevolence seemed to pour from her when I said this, and with a humbling compassion and sincerity, she reached out and touched my arm in sympathy. I immediately felt horrible, like some fraud whom she believed was bravely battling through cancer and all the small, secondary miseries that are so often attendant, when the truth was that I was probably the luckiest person in the building. I felt ashamed and grew mumbly, bidding her a goodbye as she stepped out of the elevator and walked into a room where a grief support group was meeting, and I realized then that what I had seen in her face earlier, was the remembering, the cherishing of love, something that still encircled her like light.

These are the text messages I sent to my wife Rachelle:

Me: Just stopped in at One for a drink, should be home by 6.

Me: Yes.

Me: I do think we’re made of money.

Me: Look, my fantasy sports teams have been doing very well the last couple of years.

Me: And I won a Deal Or No Deal scratch n’ win ticket the other day.

Me: I’m fucking rolling in cash.

Me: Paying off the car doesn’t make you a saint, you know.

Me: Right. Just the person who does all the heavy financial lifting.

Me: The hostess sat me very far away from the site lines.

Me: You’d need a shovel to find me.

Me: Yes.

Me: I am wearing my bike helmet.

Me: I don’t know if she thinks I’m an elderly bike courier.

Me: She probably just thinks I prefer solitude.

Me: I look pretty intellectual.

Me: Thoughtful, soulful.

Me: A man who looks like Roger Sterling just refused to sit in my section.

Me: “No, no, no, honey, no way I’m sitting there,” he said to the hostess.

Me: His hand around her waist.

Me: He’s now sitting in the rich men with big cigars section.

Me: Yes, I guess it’s like I’m sitting in the scratch n’ win section.

Me: It’s like instead of arriving via a fuck-me-I’m-rich car, I showed up on a mobility scooter.

Me: One with a little dog in the basket and a Hamilton Tiger Cats flag at the back.

Me: The waitress serving me is kind of chunky, too.

Me: Probably why she’s working this section.

Me: I bet she got the job because she sleeps with the mayor or something.

Me: Look, I have too had a job.

Me: Well, things are tough in the media right now, you know that.

Me: I guess I could be something other than a writer.

Me: No.

Me: No.

Me: I don’t want to work in the box factory that Allan manages.

Me: Because.

Me: I have lots of potential.

Me: You can still have potential in your 40s.

Me: Oh, I’m sorry, I just got distracted by a woman with long, superstar hair.

Me: It was like a flash of light when she tossed it and everything smelled like the beach!

Me: She looks a bit like Jennifer Lawrence.

Me: By the way, what shampoo do you use?

Me: Oh.

Me: Shopper’s, eh?

Me: Yeah, it’s good to get the Optimum points, I guess.

Me: If you don’t care what your hair looks like.

Me: Wow!

Me: Group of men who look like pro athletes and their supermodel girlfriends just asked me if I’d like to have a drink with them!

Me: People really are just drawn to me.

Me: Love you, probably be back late! xo

Me: Don’t forget to take the dog for a walk!!

Behind her barricade was a display of discounted Triscuits. Very carefully, I stepped out of the line-up and moved one of the shopping carts out of the way and stepped toward the Triscuits.

The woman with the mop yelled at me, “Sir, sir, this section is CLOSED!”

“I just wanted to get some Triscuits, some of the cracked pepper and olive oil, they’re very hard to find.”

“I said the section was closed!”

“Well, I said I wanted some Triscuits.”

The woman sighed and repositioned her mop, as if preparing to use it as a defense against my impending attack.

It was a standoff.

“Will you get them for me then?” I asked.

“I’m busy mopping the floor,” she countered, “you’ll just have to wait until I clean up this mess,” and then she shot the cashier a look.

Shemina, the cashier, shook her head, “I’m sorry Tammy, but the manager told ME to keep on the cash, okay?”

I proceeded as if dealing with somebody holding a gun and delicately stepped into the forbidden zone with my hands up in the air.

“I’m sorry to be entering into the restricted area, but as you can see I still have my cycling helmet on so if I slip and fall, I’ll be very well protected and promise not to sue.”

I then reached out and picked a box of Triscuits off the shelf and still facing the woman with the mop, stepped back into the line. I felt like I had rescued a baby from a hostage situation and trying to be funny, held the box of Triscuits over my head as if it was a trophy.

The woman with the mop looked angry and humiliated, the cashier snickered.

A frosh that was wearing a blue, U of T jumpsuit and face paint who was standing behind me in the line said, “I guess the old man really wants his Triscuits.”

Everybody snickered, even Shemina the cashier.

“They’re just hard to find,” I said quietly.

And then he began to spaz around, imitating my raspy voice, “I want my Triscuits, I want my Triscuits! If I don’t get my Triscuits I’ll have a seizure, that’s why I have to wear my helmet! When I was a boy I played hockey!”

The woman with the mop laughed and wiped some hair out of her face, suddenly looking completely alive.

“Thanks, I really needed a laugh,” she said to the student, “ my daughter got in a fight on her first day at her new school and my kitchen ceiling’s leaking, so thanks for brightening my day.”

And everybody in the lineup was smiling like a beautiful scene in a movie had just taken place, as if  love had blossomed.

Lonely and sad, I went home, had a three hour shower and then started smoking again.

 This is what has happened to me.

For a good chunk of my life— well over a decade— I lived without ever getting on a bike. I guess I thought I was done with them, and then suddenly my wife gave me one for my birthday. It’s a beautiful piece of art, this bike, elegant yet sturdy, conjuring the romance of a distant era of picnics by the lake. (You know, tweed, repression and big skirts, that sort of thing.) No matter, we immediately dubbed the bike, Linus The Sinus— in honor of my seasonal allergies— and then my wife and I headed down to the shop to buy all the necessary accoutrements, including a helmet.

Rachelle looked at me, ” Really, is that the helmet you’re going to buy?”

“Yes, it’s fun.”

The helmet in question was purple and decorated with decals of yellow caution tape.

“It makes you look like you’re not all there, if you know what I mean.”

“No, I don’t know what you mean.”

“Special.”

“I am special.”

“Yes, yes you are.”

“I’m special like a gold medal cycling champion made out of sharks.”

“Ring your bell, honey, see if it works.”

I rang my bell and it worked.

“Do you see what I mean?” Rachelle asked.

Toronto, like most big cities, is a dangerous place to ride a bike. There’s a climate of unremitting guerilla warfare between cyclists and vehicles, the streets are a congested, unpredictable frenzy of insane people driving cars, insane people riding bikes (often kicking cabs or attacking them with bicycle locks. I actually have a friend who grew so furious at a cab that she got off her bike and threw it at the still moving vehicle.), insane people on skateboard or on foot, buses, streetcars and a variety of other danger zones, like freshly dead (skiddy!) pigeons and streetcar tracks which often feel like they were designed to capture bicycle tires and then catapult the rider into oncoming traffic. It’s a treacherous landscape, and it requires some attention, and so, after a dozen years being off a bike, I’ve been tentative in my approach, often taking to the sidewalk in particularly hairy zones.

I’m aware that this is wrong, and I’m very conscious of moving slowly and apologetically when I do this. It doesn’t much matter. If you have a disposition to be pissed-off, you will be pissed-off when you see me, and if you don’t, well, you’re likely to be satisfied by my apology, weak grin and enfeebled, breathless pace

The other day while pausing on the sidewalk waiting for Rachelle— who was in a store shopping— another cyclist came up behind me. He was pulling a little cart behind him and his eyes were large, as if in the midst of a roller coaster panic.

“Space!” he shouted at me.

I did not know exactly what that meant, but figured it must be a common expression used by cyclists. I moved my bike onto the street and tried to make myself as small as possible.

“Space, space!!” he shouted again.

And then he stopped his bike exactly where mine had been, took off his helmet and said, “Sir, where can I weld? Do you know the welding place? It is here, no?”

We were maybe ten yards apart and so I had to yell back to him, but my voice, thin and raspy at the best of times, was lost to the industry of the city. So I got closer to him, but still found myself yelling and for whatever reason, over enunciating each word, as if I had to really concentrate in getting my words right.

“I know nothing of welding!” I yelled back, “I am waiting for my wife!”

“I like to rest in the sun, too! Do you like to weld?”

It was apparent that the man I was speaking with had a mental disability, and it was while I was in the midst of this exchange that my wife came out of the store with our groceries. As I was putting on my new cycling gloves, Rachelle looked over at me, “You know how this looks, don’t you?” I told her that I did and we cycled home in silence, her on the street and me, occasionally ringing my bell to alert pedestrians, on the sidewalk. Ever since, I have been a lone, cycling wolf.

The other day while riding down a sidewalk in an expensive residential area of the city know at The Annex, a man who was passing by stopped and turned to me.

“You shouldn’t be doing that, you know.”

Irritated, feeling as if it was impossible for me to catch a break, I turned and looked at him. It was Ryan Gosling.

Ryan. Fucking. Gosling.

It’s not enough that he breaks up street fights in Manhattan, but now he has to be the cycling police in Toronto, too?

I have no idea why I said this, but before I knew it I had sneered, ” Give me a break, Gosling!”

At this point I was hoping that the faint momentum I had going for me on the bike would keep me gliding by him and that nothing further would come of our encounter. It would become a grand story, a part of my mythology. I would recount again and again for rapt audiences the story of me telling off Ryan Gosling, mister superhero movie star.

But no, he jogged toward me.

“No, I won’t give you a break. Either walk your bike or ride on the street like you’re supposed to.”

I stopped my bike and gave him a sour look, trying to think of something to say.

“Look, I just have one lung, okay?” is what I came up with.

Gosling looked at me, kind of like the way his character in Drive did, “Did you hear me or not?”

I was going to give him the dismissive “Sheesh” sound and ride away, but he’d put his hand on my bike.

“No, no, you’re not going to ride away from this. Now just get off the sidewalk, okay? You’re a grown man, do the right thing.”

I got off my bike and sighed.

“George Clooney wouldn’t be do difficult, ” I said.

Gosling looked at me and raised his eyebrow, “Oh, yes he would. Have you ever worked with him?” His eyes twinkled and I felt a little bit like I might be falling in love.

“I’ve written him a few times,” I responded dreamily.

“Well, you should just take my word for it and move along.”

Slowly, I began to slink my bike away. It was humiliating, this. I turned around and looked back, hopeful that something devastating and witty would come to me, but all I saw was superstar standing there, still watching me, his hands on his hips.

What a dick.
What a fucking dick.
I would throw my bike at him.
It would be a sudden Ninja move.
It would hit him first in the throat and then he would respect me.
And then we would be best friends and my love for him would be filial and not creepy.

Life would be good.

However, throwing my bike at him proved difficult as my allergies were bad and I was hyperventilating a bit (RYAN FUCKING GOSLING!), and so I just kept walking my bike away. I didn’t want it to end this way though, and so I stopped and turned around, fully planning on yelling, ” “The Notebook was a fucking Jokebook!” but Gosling was gone. Even though the star was nowhere to be seen, I felt his presence and continued to walk my bike down the street, now the slowest, saddest man in the world.