Author: mckillop_vfr@yahoo.ca

June 21: When I was growing up, Father’s Day was always a bit difficult. My Dad was an Accountant and a passionate golfer – that much was obvious. But he kept his passions, if there were any, pretty much to himself. Trying to find “the right thing” for him on Father’s Day proved problematic. I remember a bunch of awkward cards and repetitive gifts. There are only so many times you can buy golf balls. And I’m sure my daughter Marisa would say the same about me.

But this year was different. In addition to it being Father’s Day, and the longest day of the year, Marisa and Joel chose today to get married.

Several times during the day I found myself staring and admiring her; a beautiful woman, so fully comfortable in the moment and just being herself. And it struck me, forcefully, that she is no longer my child. She will always be my daughter, but she is now setting out on a new life with Joel, and she will soon have children of her own. We have turned a page and our relationship will never be quite the same again. And that will be hard to top on Father’s Day next year.

June 11: I have taken steps to admit that I am powerless over my addiction to machines.  I spend a good deal of time and money and effort on them. I find them emotionally involving and fascinating . That said, over the last 3 weeks I’ve sold both the Moto Guzzi and my beautiful BMW convertible. The Guzzi was bought by a motorcycle mechanic from Port Carling. He has 7 other bikes, so she is going to a good home and will be run regularly – something I could never seem to manage. And I did a deal with  a car shop to sell the BMW, get a 2011 Mazda2, and put cash in the bank for the trip. Although I dearly loved both of them in many ways, the dour Scotsman inside me realized that they were both fundamentally impractical and unsuited to the way I have been using them. So I am taking steps to wean myself from this sort of indulgence.

With that in mind, I have to say that I find it absolutely absurd that City Council voted yesterday to retain and rebuild the eastern portion of the Gardiner Expressway. Even I (the hopeless car addict) don’t understand the rationale. Why do we continue to believe that “the car is king” and preserve what will soon be a failing empire?

So a few people are inconvenienced. In my experience, if the inconvenience is dire enough, they will find another route, or change modes and take transit. And there’s the part I truly don’t understand at all: It will cost us almost a Billion dollars to reconstruct the Gardiner, and about half that to remove it and build a new boulevard. Leaving aside all of the financial benefits to the City in liberating land for development, the removal option is fully $500 Million cheaper. Put differently, if we really do want to spend a Billion dollars, we could spend $500 Million to remove the Gardiner, and have $500 Million for transit improvements, something many of us believe to be badly overdue.

How I wish our politicians would take steps to wean themselves off their addiction to cars….

May 29: For reasons I never understood, I was streamed into the music program in Grade 9. Apparently I qualified because I was able to sing notes back to the teacher who played them on a piano.  To say the year was an unmitigated disaster would be understatement. Although I bear a lot of the blame, the teacher seemed to take great pleasure in pointing out errors and highlighting my failures to come to terms with the instrument. In the end, I was asked not to play during the year-end musical performance for friends and parents. Fortunately for me, the teacher was a man of few principles and he gave me a passing grade of 50% to finish the year.

I enjoy listening to music, especially when played live, and in spite of my bad experience, I have always wondered what it would be like to actually perform with an instrument. So last October I signed up with the New Horizons Band. They promise to teach you to play any instrument, provided that you make an honest effort.

The cynic in me saw this as nothing more than a way for Long and McQuaid to make rental income. But I signed up and chose the electric bass; with only four strings, how difficult could it be to learn? Initially, things went well. Whole notes on open strings are simple enough. Later, there was a period when I fell a bit behind, and it wasn’t until I listened to some of the others that I found we were all a bit frustrated by our personal progress. In time I figured out that the perfectionist in me was not going to learn to play bass in 3 months – especially not without practicing for more than 20 minutes every couple of days. A musical genius I am not.

Last night we played the year-end concert for about 250 people and it went well. In the few months I have been in the program I have figured out the basics of playing bass. I’ve also realized that learning to play it really well will take a commitment and focus that feels like more than I want to do right now. There are other creative things that appeal to me more that also demand time and energy. So the jury is out on whether I will re-sign with the program in the autumn. For now, the guitar and amp are going back to Long and McQuaid.

http://www.newhorizonsbloor.ca/

May 28:  I figured that dropping off a misplaced umbrella to my friend Chris would be a good excuse for a ride on the VFR. He lives in Pickering, so it’s an opportunity to visit the east end of the city. That accomplished, I figured I might as well go for a ride further east, since it had been some time since I’ve been out that way. Go for a ride and get some calluses on my ass in preparation for the month in Europe. Newcastle, Port Hope, Cobourg and back. No issues.

Until, turning south on the Parkway just south of the 401, the motor started to stagger and felt loaded up. I held the revs up a bit but the second I backed out of them, the motor died. I tried a quick re-start to no avail. All of the electrics went to zero – which I have seen on this bike before with expensive results.

As luck would have it, I coasted into the turn-around between the north and south bound sections of the Parkway. At least I was safe. But the bike would not start, and I had no access to tools or anything else that might be useful. So I called CAA, happy in the knowledge that I had coughed up for extra coverage that gives me motorcycle transport. “We will be an hour; you will get a call before we arrive.” Not like I was going anywhere.

About 45 minutes later, here comes a CAA flat truck. Early. Not so fast. He goes right by with a laconic wave, apparently going to another call. When I did hear from CAA, they said they would be another 45 minutes, and then later, another 30 to 55 minutes longer. In total I hung out there for about 2 hours and 40 minutes.

And it’s a nice place to be. Like the surface of the sun. No shade, no water – nothing.

The interesting thing is that I wasn’t really all that angry or frustrated. Clearly the truck was going to arrive when it got there and there was very little I could do the change that fact. So I spent most of the time quietly watching the parade of cars headed home on a hot Thursday night.

Now I have the bike in the garage and the battery on a charger. It is still not charged up, which seems strange after running it all day at highway speed. So I suspect it is shot. Or the charging system itself it a problem. We shall see. Whatever the cause, I blame Chris for a long afternoon spent on the median of the Don Valley Parkway.

Postscript: June 11 Today I got the call from Pro 6 where the bike has been for more than a week. After repeatedly starting and testing the charging system, they have been unable to find anything that might have caused it to shut down. I can pick it up tomorrow.

May 10: The very first time I met Marisa, I picked her up and put her on my motorcycle and started it up. It scared her so badly that she ran screaming into the house. I thought she would never speak to me again.

When Melinda and I got married, Marisa became my daughter – an instant family.  Although it was a time of uncertainty for all of us, we soon settled into a daily routine. Walking her to school one rainy morning, we went to the corner where I saw her safely across the street and then watched as she headed up the street. She was wearing a yellow rain coat and hat, and rubber boots that looked about 3 sizes too big. They seemed to almost reach her knees. She was dawdling, as kids do, not wanting to get to school but really having no other option. She seemed so small, so vulnerable, and I realized the enormous responsibility I had assumed to keep her safe and secure while she grew up….

Thirty-some years later, she has grown into a beautiful, wonderful woman. Smart, determined and caring she is building a life with her partner Joel.  Today she told us that she is expecting twins. Appropriately, it’s Mother’s Day.

This is something she has wanted for some time, and I am absolutely thrilled – and a more than a little scared – for her and Joel. Gaining an instant daughter through marriage is one thing; twins quite another. Marisa has been a huge blessing for me in my life.  I love her to bits. Her children will be a challenge and a blessing for her too. And maybe in time, I can scare the shit out of them with a motorcycle too….

May 6: After a wonderful dinner Chez Norton, I found myself parked at the corner of Inglewood Drive and Heath Street East on the night of the full moon. At first, in the silvery light, it seemed that little had changed. The outline of things seemed to be pretty much as I remembered them. True, the canopy of maples tunneling down to St Clair was much thinner – those replacement Aspens just don’t do it. But the houses looked mostly the same.

After a while though, the changes were pretty obvious. A third floor has been added to our old house. This happened right after we sold it, so there was no surprise there. The house next door had been demolished and a more modern home rebuilt in its place. The place across the street was bigger too. The duplex on the corner was now a garish LED-lit renovation.

I grew up on that corner. It felt permanent; unchanging. My roots were there and some things were not supposed to change. It was our place to meet and hang out. We played touch football and street hockey when the weather was warm enough. We graduated from bicycles and skateboards to motorcycles, and then to cars. I met my first girlfriend there and fell in love for the first time. Others did too.

Looking at the moon and thinking back to those days I was struck by how innocent it all seems. We were hanging out and having fun. Life would be what it would be. We were at that age before reality intervenes and we learn hard lessons. Somehow, our lives felt anchored in that time and place and we would go forward in a predictable way. Time was infinite.

But of course, life doesn’t happen like that. Friends died. Others moved away. I dumped my first girlfriend for the most mundane of reasons: another girl. We finished school, got jobs, started families and did all those things that adults do. Most of “the gang” are retired now. At no time in that 50 year process did I ever foresee that I would be standing there looking at the full moon and wondering where the time went. What once seemed so limitless now seems alarmingly finite.

 

When we speak of the future, the Gods laugh.

Chinese Proverb

May 5: I once worked with a guy who said that Spring was never assured until the Saucer Magnolias were in bloom. He would wait expectantly for weeks for them to appear before declaring that the season had begun. They are so beautiful, yet so fragile that they only last a couple of days, and then they are gone for another year.

I am not alone in wanting to believe that Winter is finally behind us. It has been a long and cold slog this year, and I know that my outlook has suffered. I’m not big on Winter sports, and even a walk has sounded less than exciting in the face of -35 degree wind chill.

But in the last few weeks there have been hopeful signs: the crocuses are poking their heads out and daffodils are emerging from the warmer corners. The maple trees are all in bud and soon the roads will be covered with those lime green florets they shed. Apple trees are in blossom in Niagara, and, yes, the Saucer Magnolias are out too.

Spring is here.

April 29: This is a picture of the Pont Bessieres in Lausanne, Switzerland. We are looking due east toward Montreux. Lac Leman (or Lake Geneva as it is often incorrectly called) is to the right of the picture; the mountains are the French Alps. At the far end of the bridge, to the right, is the Hotel Cite. When I was a student in Lausanne many decades ago, it was Le Cardinal, a pub that I would frequent on weekends for a beer. Or maybe two. I think a half-liter was about fifty cents. I became quite adept at nursing that beer for a very long time whenever cash was in short supply.

I loved going to Le Cardinal for the view. All of the windows looked out across the bridge toward the Cathedral. When we first arrived in Lausanne, we would hang out on the balcony enjoying a cold beer in the late September sun admiring that glorious view across the valley toward the Cathedral. The school used this very shot on the front of its advertising brochure. Built in 1275, the Cathedral is early Gothic. It’s no Notre Dame or Chartres, but to me it was spectacular.

I recall being downtown in early April on a grey and misty Saturday afternoon. I was in a contemplative mood and wandering around the old town at loose ends. As it got later I headed toward home and found myself at the doors of Le Cardinal. Usually, there was someone from the school hanging out, but that afternoon, there was nobody around. I had just enough cash for an espresso.

Truthfully, I had not wanted to come to the school. It meant moving away from my friends, selling my motorcycle, abandoning my girlfriend, and entering a period of complete uncertainty.

Before I came to Lausanne I didn’t drink coffee. Now I was enjoying an espresso looking out at a 700 year old cathedral. That afternoon I realized that being here felt “normal”- I felt like I was at home.  I had friends here. I could do pretty much what I wanted, and be the person I wanted to be. I had grown enormously as a person. We had travelled a lot that year, and I knew that I wanted to do more of that too.

As I finished up my espresso and headed home across the bridge admiring the snow capped mountains, I understood that my year in Lausanne was truly a great gift – one I treasure to this day.

March 25: I have a disease. It’s recurring, relapsing and sometimes fatal, although not usually. I’m a gearhead. Since public school, I have daydreamed, doodled, and schemed about things mechanical: cars mostly, motorcycles often and even planes from time to time.

I see the similarly-afflicted everywhere: the recent-vintage Camaro parked in the driveway next to a tarp-covered 1965 T-bird; the bright red Golf in front of the garage that opens to reveal a mint Porsche 911; the spotlessly clean Audi moving through the worst snow storm of the winter.

My first experience with this addiction was a Yamaha 100 cc motorcycle I bought when I was 16. Since then, there has been a parade of cars: a Mini Cooper S, a pair of Alfa Romeo GTVs, a couple of Mercedes, an Alfa Spyder and, of course, the current fixation – a 2001 BMW convertible. They were all mostly impractical, and bought precisely because there was an emotional connection.

This 1997 Plymouth was a different beast. Bought for $2400 as the Winter Beater while my BMW was stored away, I just wanted something reliable with 4 wheels and a good heater. Basic transportation. The ultimate practical car. She did it mostly without complaint, and few problems, for a car with more than 205,000 kms on her. In a way, it was a relief to be driving a car that didn’t provoke a strong emotion because I cared less about whether she got banged up or rusted out some more. But last month problems started to accumulate. In total, she needed almost $4000 to fix brakes, tie rods, ball joints and power steering. It was the automotive equivalent of breaking your hip when you’re 85 years old. So she had to go.

She was sold for scrap in return for a charitable tax deduction. Taken away by strangers, it left me feeling a bit like having an old friend put down. It certainly felt wasteful – disposing of something that I no longer needed rather than putting it to good use. In the end, it surprised me to feel a loss as she was taken away – a testament perhaps to the strength of the addiction that even this most lowly and practical of cars finds a place in my heart. So I will have a kind thought for her whenever I see a Plymouth / Dodge of a certain vintage. The Black Beauty lives on, in memory at least…..