Darcy Allan Sheppard was killed on Monday night while riding his bicycle down Bloor Street in downtown Toronto. Michael Bryant, the former Ontario Attorney-General who was driving the expensive Saab that killed Sheppard, has been charged with criminal negligence causing death.
The story is now well known and has served as a bit of a lightning rob, providing further fuel for the eternal struggle between motorists and cyclists.
Yesterday, late in the afternoon, I had to go down to Yorkville to run an errand. As I was running late, I decided to cycle rather than walk, as I would normally do. You should know that I’m not a particularly confident or sturdy cyclist.
No.
Far from it.
Just over a decade ago I had one of my lungs removed, something that’s inhibited me psychologically more than physically. It was only recently, with the encouragement of Rachelle, that I’ve gotten back on the bike, and each outing, especially in the mad metropolis of Toronto, gets me kind of nervous and excited—like going on a ride at the Ex.
Anyway, since I was late, I just grabbed Rachelle’s bike, which was handy. It’s a little bit too big for me, and it’s a girl’s bike, one that has flowers painted on the frame and a big basket on the front. It’s a sweet ride, though, and strapping on her effeminate, bright purple helmet, I headed off on my wobbly journey into the city.
I suppose, if you watch me ride a bike you’re likely to think that I might be ill with Parkinson’s. I don’t seem to know where I’m going, veering uncertainly around the street, and I move slowly, but in a very jerky, almost accidental manner. Riding in this style, I waited to cross Avenue(right near where Sheppard was killed) to get into Yorkville. I was not at a light, but just stood at the edge of the street with my wheel sticking hopefully out. Almost immediately, the rush hour traffic, which is usually vicious and unforgiving, came to a halt, and I watched as driver’s, looking at me with tremendous warmth and sympathy, waved at me to cross the street, as if I was leading a line of baby ducks.
I realized that on this day, in the wake of the death of Darcy Allan Sheppard, there was a truce between drivers and cyclists.
After I had run my errand and was returning to my bike, I noticed a man leaving a fancy Yorkville hotel. Christ, he looked like a superstar. He was wearing a $5,000 suit and he was glowing with beauty and success. As he strode down the sidewalk, her brushed my bike and it fell to the ground. It was an accident, and I wasn’t angry in the least, telling him not to worry about it, but he was a world of apology. He rushed over to the bike, cradling it as if it was a baby that had fallen from the window, and castigated himself for his stupidity and carelessness, while I, in my unfashionably ripped jeans and special helmet, stood there watching. Honestly, I thought he was going to give me money.
Later, just down the street on Bloor, cyclists were assembling for a protest. I went down, and sitting on my bike, watched from the sidewalk. I was asked by a pedestrian what was going on, and I told him, only to be interrupted by a muscular, little man wearing sunglasses and an iPod. Speaking in a heavy Russian accent, he told me I didn’t know what the fuck I was talking about. He went on for several intimidating minutes, issuing several threats to anybody who would think to fuck with him. I nodded my head, wished him well, and pushed off into the street, heading home.
Through residential Yorkville, I rode slowly on the sidewalk, more of a nuisance, than a danger. I passed an elderly man standing at the end of a driveway. I rang my bell and waved at him, but he gave me a sour look, shouting, “What you’re doing is illegal you know, illegal!!”