June 11, 2004

Shades of Pain

I don’t function well with a head full of mucus — when I awoke Wednesday morning, my cold made it impossible to think straight and the sky was full of thunder. The thunderclouds eventually cleared, but my head didn’t. That’s why at 9:30 am I stupidly loaded my bike with 40lbs of gear and started biking towards Toronto.

With all that weight, the bike crawled on the hot asphalt and I ran out of water two hours into my journey. By 11:30 I reached Guelph Lake, and I spent the next two hours biking up and down the insane hills around it trying to avoid Guelph. Naturally, after a lot of effort I eventually reached Guelph.

And from there I made my way through Rockwood, Acton, Georgetown, small towns painfully dull in their own individual way. With my massive momentum, my bike flew down hills away from all those small places until I reached the outskirts of Mississauga at 5 in the afternoon. An hour and a half later I finally stopped by the lake and washed away rivers of sweat and sighed.

I called Zorianna, who wasn’t home, and then decided to bike across Toronto to a campsite somewhere in Scarborough. Six hours later, in darkness and rain, I was still moving towards the campground. That’s when I collapsed in a Scarborough motel, sweaty and broken — 14 hour bike rides are far more painful than I expected.

Morning After

I tried explaining that pain to Zorianna over breakfast when I finally found her the next morning. We met at Union Station after I biked back downtown, and we threw ourselves at each other with mad longing.

“For hours, the only thing I could think of was boys’ cream,” I told her, explaining the endless loop my mind kicked into after the fourth hour on the road. “It’s as though the mind refuses to process any meaningful thoughts — only pain and silliness.”

We had breakfast at Fran’s in a room full of mirrors. “It encourages honesty,” I said, mumbling something about psychological experiments. And we laughed, wondrously, until I quite forgot about the pain in my legs. We talked of trolls and suicides, and headed out into the streets with our bellies full and our eyes alive.

At University of Toronto we climbed up steeples and saw women painted on chapel walls with perfect breasts and alien eyes. In Chinatown I acquired a military shirt (for the revolution) and we goggled lamps shaped like vibrators. We laughed at everything, even at the children playing soccer in the park. “Adults fuck everything up,” I said. “They should just throw the ball in and let the children kick each other.” I wanted no more rules. The revolution should begin on a park bench.

Once the children’s games ended, we wandered again through the streets, until we arrived at her home with a cube made out of mirrors we found in a junk heap.

Night Drive

We grew restless after dinner and stole her father’s car for a ride through the city. She drove fiercely, throwing the car into tight turns and gesticulating at the slow drivers in front. We rode into Toronto with Pink Floyd in our ears — “Us and Them” — and the smell of shit from the water treatment plant on the outskirts of the city in our nostrils.

“Us and Them” is an oddly appropriate song for Toronto, a city with well-defined pockets of privilege. The gaps between the ostentatiously wealthy and the painfully poor neighbourhoods are readily visible. The day before I passed a warning sign posted outside an exclusive club on the edge of the lake that read, “Members only — dogs on premises!”

Toronto is a good place for a revolution.

Morning with Martha

On Friday Zorianna and I breakfasted with Martha, who goes to U of T and is perfectly delightful. She’s also Trevor’s sister. We talked about Jesus and stealing, and then went to city hall and left messages for the mayor on his desk.

“We like what you’ve done with this nipple-shaped place,” Martha wrote before attaching her signature and phone number. Some of the other council members also received personal messages, like “yeah!”

We crawled with Martha into the deepest crevices of city hall, until security came up to see us. They only caught up with us later, while we were trespassing on a balcony closed to the public “for safety reasons.”

“Oh, we understand safety,” Martha said, and because the city hall guard forgave our trespasses, we went next door to the Hilton to trespass some more and ride in the orgasmic scenic elevator.

An Island

Martha did not want to come with us to the Central Island, so Zorianna and I jumped alone on a ferry and debarked on the island arm in arm. We were happy, relaxed, and walked shoeless through the warm grass. On the island, you can hear waves and children, and everyone smiles stupidly as they pass you on the road.

I smiled too when we reached the clothing optional beach as I stripped out of my clothes and jumped into the freezing waters. The Great Lakes are still cold in June, and the water bites into flesh like frozen razorblade. After a giant plunge in the water, I jumped out again, breathless with agony, and collapsed panting at Zorianna’s feet.

Being naked on the nearly empty beach next to her, with the hot, red sand pressed against my belly, made me feel like a goddamn kid again, so I jumped into the lake once more, and came out dripping cold water over her warm skin. And I ran, up and down the beach like a mad, naked creature, and tried to make rocks dance on the water. And she watched all this while skilfully arranging rocks into piles on the shore.

“It’s time to go,” she eventually said, dressed for leaving. I didn’t want my clothes again, and I didn’t want to head back towards the city where I would have to take a bus back home. But we went after phoning Trevor from the island. We constantly thought and talked of Trevor, but never managed to contact him. That’s why we left lies on his answering machine.

“We got naked with your sister on an island!” I screamed at his answering machine. “Where were you?!”

On the ferry ride back to mainland, Zorianna’s hand was warm in mine, and once we reached the shore she fed me and danced in the streets.

And she danced some more at the metro station as I pirouetted around her showing her the route I’ll take this summer on the giant map painted on the floor of the Union Station. And we danced again on our way towards the Gray Hound terminal, when I grabbed her hand and flew up flights of stairs. And the dance ended in a long embrace on the bus platform, where we clung to each other like mad children, laughing and sobbing.

And riding away from Toronto with the sunset in my eyes and a hard-on in my pants was the hardest thing I’ve in days.