Darcy and me
"... the road is therefore, representative of many things on a symbolic, psychological, and practical level. It exists in a symbiotic relationship to the automobile for example, which is in turn related to the oil industry, which has a relationship to the military industrial complex and so on. The more roads there are, the more cars there are. The more cars there are, the more need for oil there is. The more need there is for oil, the more weapons are needed. The more weapons there are... This chain could equally be read in reverse, each link the catalyst for another chain reaction, and it is hard to say, at least for someone like myself who is not well versed in history, which came first: the chicken or the egg? The car or the cruise missile? This is inevitably a simplistic assessment of the situation but the point is, the road and its particular language (i.e. street markings) is for me, loaded with significance and therefore, ripe for re-interpretation. And because the road seems to take itself so seriously it is also a tempting target for satire. Road markings are for me, a metaphor for a certain state of mind and relationship to the outside world that is endemic of our time, and is engendered by driving."
Roadsworth - NY Arts Magazine Winter 2010
Chapter One
In this town the cars don't stop. They just keep going. It's God's will. Don't look back.
"Honey, I think you hit something."
John checked his rear view mirror annoyed. He sees something.
A figure by the side of the road, mangled. No longer able to get up.
He keeps driving, looks one more time. Very distant now. He's not sure. Or so he tells himself. She tries to look back but cannot see
anything. Another predator is in the way.
"It's nothing." he tells her.
"Don't worry about it."
No.
It was, someone.
Later over dinner the TV news has the usual fare of road carnage to lead off the show. If it bleeds it leads. Right. The tired looking Police officer is going through the daily hit and run appeals. Elderly woman, suburbs, killed. They are appealing for witnesses to come forward. John hears it while sitting in the kitchen. She is busy over the stove. His head turns toward the screen. The accident scene is grizzly. The woman was transported to a nearby hospital where she succumbed to her injuries. John chews on his piece of bread. The News anchor moves onto the next traffic fatality story.
"Dinner's ready." she announces beaming.
"I made your favourite."
He smiles at her. All is forgotten. All is forgiven.
Chapter Two
When you get on your bike in the morning you don't remember a bad ride home the day before. The macho revving off the engine behind you or the near miss door prize. All is forgotten. Washed away overnight or sufficiently wrestled with in dreams. You look forward to just hop on your bike and go where you need to go. B. unlocked the garage door and grabbed her bike pushing down the on seat making sure the back tire had enough air in it for the ride. Good to go. Lock door, swing chrome courier bag over her shoulder. Mini lock tucked away in her back pocket. Her friends tell her she looks like a bike messenger to which she laughs and usually tells them she is just ready to do battle.
Let's ride.
The sun kissed her pink face and a rush of joy began to circulate through her veins in anticipation. Better take the rail path south she tells herself. Bloor is murder during rush hour.
Roadkill roulette.
Traffic was light on the side streets since the soccer moms had all finished dropping her precious ones off at school and day-care. Only the Portuguese and Italian moms stilled walked their kids to school but even that was starting to change. B. sailed down Perth and hung a right onto Wallace passed the new condo developments and left onto the peaceful rail path which was bathed in a spectacular warm and golden glow. She took a deep breath and sped on the ever so slight downhill toward Bloor. Bliss. Freed of the constant worry and traffic noise she was able to think. B. weaved carefully around early morning shoppers (heading toward Value Village or No Frills) and dog walkers and crossed the brightly painted orange bridge at Bloor throwing a dismissive glance at the gridlocked traffic below the wooden boards rumbling beneath her her tires. The rail path was now empty before her and she took off her feet off her pedals letting her bike roll. She felt like yelling out a childish 'Whee' but instead she just smiled from ear to ear and let out a little laugh. She inhaled the chocolate-scented air ever so deeply and rode on toward the Dundas bridge eager to test herself on the short curving incline at the end of the rail path.
B. sped up again just before and stood in her pedals as she climbed up the ramp. As the climb got steeper she reminded herself to pull on her handle bar for extra leverage. Good. She felt like she was flying and as she slowed on the loose but compacted surface made up of clay and gravel she was very satisfied with herself.
Coming to a full stop at corner of Dundas and Sterling she realized that fun was over. The Dundas overpass was choked with predators dust being whipped up from the bone dry streets like mist in early morning sunlight. B. frowned and got off her bike and stood at the corner staring into the ear-splitting traffic. More predators were idling at the top of Sterling. So she walked her bike across over to east side of the street. She briefly considered using the crosswalk to get to the bike lane on the other side of the street but chose against it. Even more street car tracks to cross that way and a very intimidating left turn onto College. Having learned long ago that the safer move is not always the legal one B. hopped back on her bike and rode on the deserted sidewalk. The road will teach you if you are willing to learn and the mean streets of Toronto were no exception. And as long you don't endanger anyone she was certainly okay with it. Though in her heart she wished things were different. That someone, maybe some planner had had the foresight to design things with the safety of cyclists and pedestrians in mind. Makes no sense putting in a prefectly good rail path and not connect not properly to nearby bike lanes and bike routes. B. crossed the street car tracks safely and turned onto the shortest bike lane in town. The south side of College bike lane extends from Dundas to Lansdowne and if you blink you miss it.
B. picked up speed on the downhill and veered slightly to the right onto College. She was just about to start pedaling again when she noticed in horror that a predator was inching closer and closer on her left.
A right hook! She barely managed to grasp the potential danger when the side view mirror of the predator touched her elbow and quickly pushing her into the curb. The predator was obviously turning into the parking lot of the small strip mall. B's survival instincts kicked in. She placed her hand on the side of the predator as it slowed to make the turn and tried to match its speed. She smirked at the driver who was surprised to see a cyclists stuck to the side of his vehicle. She tried to hit the brakes but it was too late. B. crashed hard into the curb, her right pedal scraping and her bike falling on its side with her on top of it sliding onto the sidewalk. She cried out as she fell. "FUUUCCCKKK!!" The predator stopped straddling the entire sidewalk.
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