Risk

The Courier

When George threw a leg over the handle bars and popped his toes into the clips, he felt like the bike became a part of him, part of his movements, the smooth motion of his legs compelling his forward momentum in a way he now found more natural than walking. A low tech cyborg. He positively flew on the longish trip north, his powerful legs carrying him faster than all the six-cylinders-in-V-formation, power-of-two-hundred-horses metal monsters lined up every block from Front Street to the 401 along Yonge Street, the trunk of the tree that grew into the longest street in the world.

Passing Bloor Street, Rosedale, the three long, slow inclines of “heartbreak hill” leading up to the Chum FM radio building, and then on past St. Clair to the long stretch of greenery in the Mount Pleasant Cemetery, finally pulling up for a red light at Davisville Avenue.

Catching his breath a bit, he stood on the pedals, balancing the bike and looking up ahead at the giant triangular neon strawberry on top of the Canadian Tire building across from his destination, and thought about ten floors of white collar desk jockeys pledging daily allegiance to that symbology--in the elevators, on every door, on their business cards and letterhead, and on their paychecks. Chuckling to himself at this foolishness, he put his legs to the task at the turning of the light, and took off bearing north again, pulling up in less than a minute outside 2161 Yonge Street. He locked up the bike and took the seat with him onto the elevator to the 7th floor. Opened the double doors and announced himself.

“Courier.”

“Oh, just a second,” said yet another receptionist. “I’ll get it.”

George stood by the reception desk. The office slaves were giving him the surreptitious once and then twice over. He cut a dashing figure in his courier get-up, and he was used to turning heads. The bicycle shorts and zip front shirt were skin tight, and left little to the imagination. You got used to having your wobbly bits on display. Besides, he was in fantastic shape from all the riding and he collected stickers and buttons from all the offices that he visited and displayed them on the strap of his satchel, which was emblazoned with the logo, Matrix Messenger Service.

“Here you go. 385 King Street East, as fast as you can go.”

“If you’ll just sign here.” On with the Ray-Bans. Had to have the shades if you didn’t want to get bugs in your eyes. “Thanks.” Out the door.

On the bike.

It wasn’t about the money, which was shit. It wasn’t entirely an aversion to the office or even factory environment, although that was part of it. It was all about this, the wind in his hair, the bike... this feeling.

For the trip south, he decided to do the Gothics tour along Church Street, since it was on the way. He pushed east along Soudan, and then south on Mount Pleasant, past the rear gates of the cemetery, along past St. Clair, and then riding the pedals all the way down the hill past the David A. Balfour Park. Got over onto Church and then continued south.

First the beautiful “Bishop’s Palace” rectory just after Dundas with its awkward third story added like an afterthought 50 years after the main building was finished. Completely compromises the original structure, and doesn’t even look like it fits, but as always, it’s efficiency over aesthetics. Definitely something we can relate to in the 20th Century.

Then the back of St. Michael’s Cathedral and its “Victorian Gothic” cruciform shape. George had to pause to admire the soaring tower, spire and the dormers, which were designed by a different firm of architects after the original structure was completed, in about 1850 as he recalled from his class tours.

Onward then, to beautiful Met United, the “Cathedral of Methodism” in the High Victorian Gothic style, 1875 approximately. This one, with its massive tower and four smaller spires, was more his taste architecturally, although he kept riding in the interest of time.

The last church on his mini tour was at his turn onto King Street: the St. James “Cathedral Church” and its single, massive, 300-foot-high tower and spire—the tallest steeple in Canada. It was built by architects Thomas Ridout and F.W. Cumberland round about 1850. He tried to imagine how it must have looked when the majestic spires of these churches dominated the skyline, when the scale of buildings was low.

Then, as if the city knew he needed a break from all the gloomy Gothics, there was the exuberant St. Lawrence Hall and all the feathers, swords, and bugles you could imagine. William Thomas, 1850’s, Renaissance style. The names of these architects like childhood heroes from bubble gum trading cards. All of it seeming so long ago now.

He stopped in front of 385 King, locked up his bike, and made the delivery.

After the last drop of the day, he retired to the favorite watering hole. It was a biker bar on Temperance Street, which is to say, bike courier bar. They all hung out there with their bikes leaning up against the patio railings, trees, and the walls of stores next. The shit was shot, tired limbs rested up on the tables, and they all partook of libations care of the fermented grape, sour mash, barley and hops. Except for George.

“Pellegrino. No ice.”

“Oh, sure. Do you want that with a twist?” said Big Eddy.

“Yeah, how about a twist of bite me.”

“Awww, tough day, honey?”

“When isn’t it? The time I waste standing around, waiting for people to put things in envelopes. Meanwhile, the radio’s buzzin’ with other pickups.”

“Boo-hoo,” agreed Eddy. There were two Eddy’s: Big and Little. Little Eddy was actually the taller of the two, but rail thin and quiet... a.k.a. Long John Sliver. Big Eddy, on the other hand, was built like a fire hydrant: short, but a physically-imposing specimen. He was all biceps, pecs, deltoids, and no neck. His thighs were like two big paint cans, both from the riding and the working out. He always wore a World Gym t-shirt, but despite the “dumb jock” appearance, he was actually quite intelligent, and was the undisputed leader of the group.

Chet broke in then to one-up him. “Oh, poor you. I had another knockdown today. Cabbie, of course. Bastard didn’t even stop.”

Nobody had more knockdowns than Chet, but whether this was the cause or result of his utter stupidity was always up for discussion. Everyone craned their necks to admire the fresh cuts and abrasions.

“Whoeee. Gonna need a skin graft?”

“That’s some scrape.”

“Why are cyclists invisible to cabbies?”

“Don’t forget to save any medical bills for your taxes.”

“Are you always this much of a weenie, Frank?”

“Save them for his lawyer, more like. Did you get the plate?”

“Hey, he’ll thank me come tax time.”

When they all had a drink, George proposed the nightly toast. “Gentlemen, let’s charge our glasses to the deity who preserves us and keeps us safe from harm, keeps body and soul together, a shield against the cabbies, the pot holes, the sewer grates, and the bloody tourists walking against the lights.

“To fleet-footed Hermes, Messenger of the Gods.

“To Hermes,” they all agreed.