Author: mckillop_vfr@yahoo.ca

January 13: I was out with my running buddies on Wednesday night when I heard a sound that I recognized immediately even though it was completely incongruous. It was the sound of a large-displacement motorcycle with an after-market pipe.

Granted, it was +2C and the roads were clear and mostly dry. Although it was a bit cool, it was a great night for a run.  With a couple of layers under my jacket I had a sweat going by the time we reached Church Street and the bike turned up. I know from personal experience on a motorcycle that anything below about +5C gets pretty cold pretty fast, since you are essentially sitting motionless in a blast of cold air – they don’t call it “wind chill” for nothing. So riding around at +2C seemed to be pushing things a bit.

Then again, people often do things – like running in the snow and ice – because it’s fun and, I suspect, to prove the point that they can do it. Winter is not my favourite season, so going for a run is a way to get out, get some exercise, and prove (at least to myself) that I can overcome winter for a short while. Riding a bike at +2C is a way of proving the same point, while keeping alive the fervent hope that spring is not too far off.

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This being Friday January 13th, about 3,000 people proved the point and journeyed to Port Dover for the Friday the 13TH Ride. While not all of them rode motorcycles, many did including one guy who brought his dog in a sidecar. Maybe the guy on Church Street was just doing a shake-down run getting ready for the run to Port Dover ….

January 2: Here’s a link to an interesting piece by Marcus Gee from the Globe and Mail wherein he laments a lack of vision in city planning and the resulting cost to taxpayers. There’s little doubt that as a city, we are now paying the price for not being more aggressive about installing, rebuilding and maintaining our infrastructure, particularly roads and transit, but also public spaces and housing. Toward the end of his article, Gee asserts that this might have been avoided had the (city) planners been more visionary and actually built some of the facilities he mentions. Unfortunately, I think this repeats a common misperception: that city planners (and other city employees) have the authority to make these decisions.

Forgive me for being defensive, but the reality is that planners make recommendations to City Council which then makes decisions on behalf of their constituents. It’s a failing of our system that most members of City Council are focussed on getting elected next term and are therefore averse to making longer-term decisions that might diminish those chances, especially when those decisions may also cost taxpayers a lot of money. One need only look at the back-and-forth decision-making around the downtown relief line – something I think everyone would accept as being desperately needed – to see that process in action. Recommended literally decades ago, the DRL is still up for discussion. Perhaps we need to start holding our Councillors accountable for the mess they have made and stop trying to hang it all on City staff.

http://www.theglobeandmail.com/news/toronto/short-sighted-city-planning-continues-to-cost-toronto/article33460988/

December 25: A Christmas greeting from my lovely grand-daughters, now 13 months old. Naomi is on the left and Jaia is on the right.

Merry Christmas

December 10:  I was walking on Bayview Avenue yesterday. It was busier than normal with folks out in a pre-Christmas rush. There’s a point where the sidewalk is narrowed by a permanent display for the neighbourhood green-grocer. The changing displays of flowers, wreaths and fruit and vegetables are always pretty but it does block off half the sidewalk.

At that point I spotted a guy standing smack in the middle of the remaining sidewalk. He was taller than normal and wore an imposing overcoat which made him look a little like a linebacker. He had a standard Poodle on a leash. People were trying to get past him much like water eddies around a rock in mid-stream. This was made more difficult because the Poodle was at the end of the leash near the curb taking a pee. He was on his cell phone, checking e-mail.

The Bayview BIA has decorated the street trees with holly, cedar boughs and small solar-powered Christmas lights. Some of these are   arranged around the base of the tree where they make a pretty back-drop to the street. At first I thought the dog was peeing on those decorations – which would be bad enough. But no, it was actually peeing on some decorations the store had set out for sale.

And all the while, Mr. Overcoat was saying “Good boy, good boy…” completely oblivious as he checked is e-mail and blocked the sidewalk.

November 29: When did I become a “Sir”? It obviously happened incrementally when I wasn’t paying attention, but it is increasingly a part of my everyday life. It comes without warning and always takes me by surprise, and not in a good way.

I’m talking about the way in which younger people that I identify as contemporaries address me as “sir” in a way that sounds vaguely like “you useless old git”. Standing in line at the drug store, a woman turns around and seeing me says “oh, after you sir” in a way that implies that she thinks I may collapse at any moment. Overly solicitous salespeople persist with “may I help you find something sir?” in a way that suggests that I may have inadvertently wandered into their section.  And I can almost hear under their breath: “Maybe you’d find something more appropriate in the incontinence products section?”

I was taught to use the word out of respect for my elders. It was a sign of respect usually directed at someone much older than I and therefore decrepit, unwell, unhinged or in some other way in need of preferential treatment. Almost universally they were stooped, poorly dressed and smelled faintly of mothballs, body odour and gin.

In that day, the old were, well, older. My Grandparents all died younger than I am today, with the exception of my Grandmother (Dad’s side) who lived into her eighties. Of course, she was Scottish and drank whisky, so longevity was to be expected. Daily exercise was unheard-of and food was loaded with fat, sugar and additives. My Grandfather (Mum’s side) had bacon and eggs, coffee and a cigarette for breakfast most days. There’s a reason they call that “heart attack on a plate” and he had his first at 46 years of age; his Son died of one at age 53.

That was a little more than three decades ago. In the interim our diet has improved and our awareness of the need for exercise has grown exponentially. My peer-group is in far better shape than previous generations. I feel like I’m in better condition than I’ve been since High School. I’m more comfortable with who I am than at any other time in my life. I have an active life-style doing things I enjoy and interests to keep my little brain occupied. I have lots of friends who say the same thing.

I guess what I’m struggling with is the way in which a single word reminds me of the mismatch between how I feel about myself, and how the world at large perceives me. From the outside, I may be slightly stooped, more wrinkled, less agile and on occasion, carry the faint odour of gin. But on the inside I remain an alert, fit and dashing 45-years old, ready to take on the world. I’m not ready to accept that I am a “sir”, slowly shuffling into an irrelevant dotage.

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Madonna Buder began training at age 48 and completed her first triathlon at age 52 and first Ironman event at age 55. It’s reported that she has completed over 325 triathlons and 45 Ironman competitions. Not surprisingly she holds many records for her age group – 86 years old and still competing in both events.

November 18: Frequent readers – I took a chance and made that plural – will know that I put my motorcycle into storage two weeks ago and since that day, the weather has been stellar.

You’re welcome.

The Weather Network is forecasting 18C as the high for today, so warm that I might even think of a gin and tonic in the courtyard – for medicinal purposes only. You can never be too careful with malaria. Unfortunately, there has been a gang of potheads doing tuck pointing work back there for the last week. That consists of grinding the mortar out with a power grinder and then repacking the mortar by hand, all while listening to thrash metal music on a portable boom box. There is a tiny amount of dust, inconsequential really, but the “back yard” is off limits.

Happily, I have a balcony looking into the street. It’s not spacious but there’s enough room to be comfortable and put my feet up. However, at 9:30 this morning a concrete pumping truck turned up at the construction site across the street, and there’s now a small conga line of concrete trucks waiting to unload. For added excitement, the landscape crew has been working with leaf blowers to round up the last of the leaves. Unless I wish to resort to earplugs, the balcony doesn’t seem to be much of an option either.

So I will have to resort to a third choice: I will force myself to walk over to Bayview Avenue, find a nice café on the sunny side of the street, and enjoy a coffee and a wee treat while watching the Friday afternoon traffic make its way home. It’s a hardship, but that’s life in the big city.

November 11: On Monday night, I found myself looking around a northbound subway car  realizing how very few poppies were on display just 3 days before Remembrance Day. To be fair, most of the other riders were 20- or 30-year-old Asians, South Asians or Blacks. Their heritage may not have even the limited familiarity with Canadian military history as my admittedly sketchy understanding. And it’s doubtful that an old man with a box of poppies around his neck registers as something worth investigating.

Still, past and present generations of Canadians fought and died for a country that now welcomes people from around the world, provides them an opportunity at a better life, and the stability to pursue it. There is perhaps no better example than the current Minister of Defense Harjit Sajjan, a Sikh born in India. As citizens we all need to bear in mind the sacrifices that have been made on our behalf. Our privileged and peaceful life came at a cost and a poppy is but a small, once a year reminder of the sacrifice that was made, and a token of remembrance that should extend throughout the year.

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Perhaps I feel particularly emotional about this issue because of my extended family’s involvement with the Canadian Air Force. My Grandfather flew a Bristol fighter over the Somme in 1917. My Mother and two of her Sisters served as WAF in support of the Air Force. My Uncle was a mosquito pilot, and my Father was a Navigator on a Halifax bomber. Despite bomber command being a particularly deadly position during the war, both survived unscathed, although Dad’s plane took flak one night and they were forced to crash land in England. They passed between two trees that took the wings off just before the plane hit the ground and so avoided an explosion. The pilot was wounded but the rest of the crew escaped unharmed. Yet it might easily have turned out differently.

And for so many it did. Remembrance Day reminds me not only of how fortunate my family was, but also of the excruciating loss of so many others. My visit to the Somme last year was a shocking reminder of the tragedy of war. Thousands of men were killed in their prime by following the orders of arrogant and misguided leaders. How so many climbed out of their trenches to face what was almost certain death remains a mystery to me.

Men and women are still serving so that we can enjoy our comfortable lives. Sadly, some will not come home, and others will come home with mental or physical injuries they bear for the rest of their lives. I stand in awe of Romeo Dallair who campaigns tirelessly for those afflicted, as he is, with PTSD. We owe them the resources and support they need for a full recovery. Anything less is unjust.

November 4: Some months ago I wrote about a guy living across the street who seemed to be obsessed with using power tools – a leaf blower in particular – for hours on end. The noise was grating and annoying. I was somewhat relieved when the house was sold in the spring for $1.5 million, but today there’s a new noise from across the street: the house is being demolished by a power shovel.

I‘ve also written about the loss of these old homes and the monstrosities that seem to frequently take their place. Just as I was beginning to feel like a lonely old codger standing on the front porch railing against progress, I came across a lengthy article by Historian Michael Bliss. Speaking about Leaside, he says in part:

Many of its old houses are being euthanized. They are razed rather than cremated; but the phoenixes rising on their sites are often utterly unLeaside-like, silly stone faux chateaux reflecting the architectural dementia that’s epidemic in Toronto.

What a wonderful phrase, and so apt to the residential real estate market in this city. Things are so nutty that a home in Bennington Heights came up for sale and was bought by the neighbour, demolished, and the lot left vacant because they were concerned that there would be a monster home built there. Granted, they have created a small assembly that is worth a fortune in a great neighbourhood that will only increase in value, but this seems a pretty extreme way to protect yourself. Architectural dementia indeed.

November 1: A couple of months back, I wrote about considering an end to motorcycling. It seemed to me that I had accomplished pretty much everything I wanted to do on a bike while avoiding major injury. Perhaps the time had come to quietly hang up my helmet while I could still say that. I left the door open and, in my usual obsessive perfectionist mode, began analyzing those feelings.

After much thought – OK, not that much thought – I decided that I really want to return to Europe next year. Further obsessive thinking and consideration of where to go reminded me of two things: Firstly, major parts of the 2015 trip were intended as “research” into parts of Europe that should be explored further on a motorcycle. The Dolomites and Pyrenees fell into this basket. Secondly, when I dug into some of the routes I might follow next year, I found many that had to be ridden on a bike. There is no question that motorcycling is a passion for me and doing some of these roads in a car would be to deny that passion and “settle” for second-best. So a bike it is…

But which bike ? If money were no object, I would buy a BMW 800 GT. My brother-in-law Joe has one and it is about perfect for this kind of touring. The 800F that I rode in 2015 is similar and also an excellent choice, but neither is cheap and, absent a lottery win, I don’t really have the money for a newer bike. Instead, I’ve decided to fettle my 2000 Honda VFR with 105,800 km on the clock. That might sound a bit optimistic, however, the bike is very well maintained, the motor has been re-built, the electrics sorted, and the other bits are in very good shape. Besides, I think I can spend a ton of money on her and still be well below the price of a newer bike, or a rental in Europe.

With that decision made, I dropped by Pro 6 Cycle this afternoon. As we were discussing what work to do, there was a commotion as Police, then Fire and an ambulance converged on the intersection of Jutland and Kipling in front of the shop. There had obviously been an accident; I could see a car with the front end smashed in sitting in the middle of the road. What I could not immediately see was the BMW 1200 touring bike that had been hit.

One of the mechanics was out on lunch and saw the accident. The car, westbound and turning left across traffic, “didn’t see” the bike travelling north and broadsided him, sending the bike and rider cart-wheeling into on-coming traffic. Afterwards, the rider was apparently alert and responsive although suffering an obviously broken right leg.

So I end this motorcycling season with mixed feelings. I’m content – happy even – to commit to at least one more season of riding. Europe awaits, and that will be a wonderful adventure on a motorcycle that feels like an old friend. Yet seeing this accident first-hand is a sobering reminder that, in spite of what I believe, it can happen to me. Passion and enthusiasm need to be balanced with care and attention. And perhaps a certain amount of luck.