Toronto cyclists are a curiously vain lot, and their vanity is so powerful that it compels them to issue questionably sincere apologies and lamentations in public, as though not riding a bicycle for one day is some how treasonous:
|Behold, the Twitter equivalent of walking around a supermarket with your helmet on.|
I, on the other handle, am loving my commute via TTC: the warmth, the dryness, the relative silence, the gentle rocking sensations. It's like being nestled against a mother's bosom, even if that mother's bosom is red, lightly soiled, and tattooed with advertisements detailing how I may supplement the heft of my manhood. And also, like bosoms, the TTC is a great tool for getting to know complete strangers.
I've always been confused by those "Still Alone In Your Car" signs popular amongst Toronto cycling advocates, especially since they're intended to mount on a bicycle, the penultimate single-occupant-vehicle. (Tandems and such serve as exceptions that prove the rule: their most noteworthy feature is the accommodation of more than one rider.) I find cycling to be a very lonesome experience, and group-riding is out of the question for me. Being a misshapen clod, I throw an asymmetrical draft capable of causing a Zipp Super 9 to collapse in on itself. My voracious love of cabbage doesn't help either. Riding the TTC, however, has provided me with much valued human contact, and I'm thankful for it. Indeed, I was actually becoming overwhelmed with it, and have resorted to asking those coming too close for spare change in order to clear the immediate area around me on the subway car so that I may find some peace.
Spending my time thusly alone nestled in the arms of the TTC and rooting for that pacifying nipple known a forward-facing seat, I have been able to find both the time and the (relative) quietude to reflect on recent events of minor importance. For example, I was recently informed that the lofty and most high BikeSnobNYC (cheese be upon him) recently deigned to recognize the existence of Toronto in his blog by offering his condolences over the recent election of Rob Ford. I was pleased to receive his condolences secure in the knowledge that if BikeSnobNYC (cheese be upon him) thinks it sucks, surely it must be so. Having an otherwise obscure blogger validate your opinion somewhere on the Internet is pure ambrosia to smug, entrenched pundits like myself. However, I was a little disappointed with the effort he put into broaching such a, *ahem*, weighty subject.
BikeSnobNYC's (cheese be upon him) sole variation on the Rob Ford theme was to refer to his girth as 'corpulence' rather than by the more minimalist term, 'fat'. Certainly, New York City is the cultural vanguard of North America and there it may be de rigeur to refer to Rob Ford as a 'corpulent buffoon', but 'round these parts we just call him "fat fuck":
Moreover, like a typical American, BikeSnobNYC (cheese be upon him) revealed an utter lack of familiarity with any culture beyond US borders in his attempt to fake familiarity with Canadian society by name-dropping "Tim Horton's" with incautious optimism, ignorant of the knowledge that "Tim Hortons" on the lips on an American is to the ears of Canadians what the word "Lance" on the lips of a fat, impatient motorist is to the ears of a cyclist.
Mind you, it could've been worse. He could have regaled us with obscure references to other erstwhile Canadian culture exports, such as butter substitute, Nippleback, five pin bowling, jolly jumpers, Yachtzee, the Canadarm, Dan Akroyd, and instant potato flakes.
I sincerely hope that BikeSnobNYC (cheese be upon him) will continue to make more forays into Canadian culture, mainly because American cycling themes seem to be drying up and he's been forced to data mine the teen trends like boutique axes and minimalist lists to satiate the whipholders that constitue his readership.
I'm sure he'd do a much better job of scrutinizing Canadian cycling than I ever could. Until he does so, however, I'll keep doing my best to fill the void.