I haven't made it to the water yet.
I could go down, I have time but I don't have time because the northbound hills of Toronto's hell-built physical geography take the concept of Time and strangle it into a much denser function: minutes become hours become future calendars on these steep, trauma-inducing hills whose treachery, you'd think, would at least grant Gatorade to fountain up from their roadwork, they suck, they suck, they just suck and they murder day, each second bleeds on those hills, the northbound hills of downtown Toronto fuuuuck.
I wonder, today, complaining to my computer about the hills that I've avoided for two days straight, I wonder, if they aren't that bad.
We'll see tomorrow.
For now, I can report to have ventured, for mental health, 50 (ish) kilometers in two days.
I cycled, at unimpressive speeds, to the soundtrack of Beethoven's symphonies, playing over my phone's pathetic, diminutizing speaker, through the alarmingly destitute neighbourhoods of North York and Forest Hill.
I saw nothing.
I think I might have become nothing.
I biked with no destination.
I biked with no one to meet.
And it's hot.
I began as a woman. I ended as a bike. With a hat on.
Note: The photo evidence and, note too, the poetry only an existentialist biker could accumulate, hours after her ride, to a theatre blog, for the sake of charitable giving:
The city burps
She flies, intelligently.
Grey fumes of broken trees
Dust clouds the masked men's faces
As she breathes for them,
Quick, tortured stalled breathing
From the inside of
A woman on a bike.
What difference does the bike make
If streets are still grey
And cars are still shining
Plastic microscopic melted minutes
By her tire
When she whispered goodbye
To the little boy
Who used his hands
Flowers yield orgies of hoorays
But still today
It's just a garden
And she's just