The Sunday Southbound: Potholes and Polished Shells

A journey—not just across the city, but through a real cross-section of the human condition 

Leaving the house on my bike at my age is a tactical maneuver. I started slow, mindful of a back that—mercifully—hurt less than it did last time. There is always that initial awkwardness, but once the wheels are turning, the weight of the day begins to lift. As I pedaled out of my neighborhood, things felt lighter, even if the Toronto roads were still trying to thwart me. It’s April, yet the post-winter potholes remain appalling, lying in wait like traps. I kept a cautious pace, ears tuned to the hum of engines behind me and eyes locked on the lethal line of parked car doors.

I took this with  the intent of adding something with Gemini---Ella Fitz,
Louis Armstrong and arranger Nelson Riddle.

As I moved south, the scenery did more than change; it shifted its weight. My own neighborhood is  somewhat middle-class, or perhaps just moving quickly through the gears of gentrification. Passing through Moore Park, where I grew up, everything was mostly familiar, but hitting Rosedale is always a departure. You really notice the scale of things there; the parks are noticeably larger than the ones I knew as a kid in Moore Park, a literal expansion of space and privilege.

The aesthetic in Rosedale is perfect—every hair in place, every outfit curated—but there is a palpable heaviness to it. Even the local church seems to have money pouring into it, standing as a glittering monument to wealth. To a cyclist passing through, the people look as if they are wrapped in thick, polished shells—waxed packages that hide the soul. I found myself comparing them to the checkout workers at No Frills, a discount supermarket in my neighbourhood; they have a transparency, a raw human presence that these cloaked souls seem to have traded away for status and power. It’s a generalization, of course, and there are exceptions on either side of the divide, but the feeling was undeniable.

Frank Sinatra and Nat King Cole added with Gemini

Then, the grit. Just below the manicured lawns of Rosedale, the layers stripped away entirely, replaced by raw, exposed nerves. I saw a man standing dead-center in the street, not begging, just existing in the path of traffic. A woman twirled like a sorceress casting silent spells, muttering to the air. There was the calm despair in the eyes of men sitting on the curb, and the haunting, rhythmic plea of another woman: Help me, help me. Can you help me?

Passing a downtown Dollar Store, I skirted past a group of men seated around a boombox, ringing out the latest tunes. They had a grounded, weary edge to them. My instinct told me to keep my eyes forward and not stare. I had intended to stop at St. Michael’s Cathedral, but the street was too alive, too disorderly, and too interesting to pause. I cut over to Yonge Street for the return trip. There’s a strange irony in feeling safe on the busiest street in the city; in the heavy parts the traffic is so congested and slow that the risk feels manageable, even if the bike lane had disappeared.

I took a breather at David Balfour Park, sitting on a bench near a young woman caring for a disabled youth. He would yell out intermittently, a sharp sound against the park’s tranquility. I tried to strike up a conversation with them, but she only laughed politely and he seemed too deep in his unique world to bridge the gap---or perhaps they simply didn't feel like talking.

Even as a kid I felt this park had a futuristic feel to it. The UFO/ET is AI.

Getting back in the saddle, I took a few more photos. With this last one I purposely took the field in wide angle so I could get Gemini to add something later. 

Finally, I pulled back into my own neighborhood. I’d come full circle, from the polished personas of the wealthy to the desperate transparency of the downtown core. You won't find a script like that in a movie theatre—you have to ride the street to see and experience it.