Griping

You know, I wasn’t even phased by how utterly, consumingly fun it was to ride from Chinatown to Finch Station at 2 a.m. in the bitter cold and wind because I missed the last subway and refuse to take the Vomit Comet. Just booked it from the El Mo at 1:45 and made it to Finch Station, where my car was parked, an hour later.

It didn’t even bother me that my jeans were soaked and I could feel water sloshing around inside my sneakers as I trudged up that murderous hill at York Mills (just couldn’t mash it).

Because truthfully, I kind of enjoy the challenge of covering that route, especially lately, since I’ve been ranting to anyone who will listen about how most people are so disconnected to the reality of distance. Cars and subways and planes destroy the meaning of how long 20 kilometres really is. And that even though you can drive it, you would probably die trying to make it home on a bike like I did tonight. (Note: this is essentially the reason I ride bikes – ask me more on my fear of large numbers and distances!)

But I snapped when I eased to a stop at my car. And heard the delightful sounds of my rear inner tube hissing, leaking, dying.

FOR THE SECOND TIME IN TWO DAYS.

Fixing it wouldn’t have been so hard, because I like tinkering with my bike. But when I get home, I realized that I left my spare inner tube in my bike locker. Time to buy some Kevlar tires…

PS: Here is my route. I can’t quite remember the Critical Mass part of the ride so it might be off by 2 or 3 km, but this is my day’s total distance.

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