So Long Summer. It's Been Good.
Labor Day, I decided to take a nice, peaceful, relaxing bike ride along the lakeshore to soak up the last bit of summer. Unfortunately, approximately three quarters of the population of Toronto had the same idea.
It was utter madness down there. There were kids and bikes and strollers and rollerblades everywhere. Battle of the wheels. And you damn sure know I wasn’t gonna lose. Forget having a bell on my bike. I’m thinking of adding an air horn. If I told these motherbitches to get out of my way once, I told them a thousand times.
Amid this clusterfuck of Labor Day insanity, I made a couple of observations:
Men in rollerblades
Clearly, some fellas didn’t get this memo yet, so I’ll spell it out loud and clear: rollerblading for men is about the gayest thing you can do. I lost count of the number of shirtless, sweat drenched, iPod headphoned, cargo short wearing rollerbladers I saw. If studies were done on this, I think they would show that men who rollerblade are one Cher record and a couple of drinks away from anal penetration. And why are they always speed skating? Because they’re in a hurry to get home and watch that Margaret Cho DVD? Yeah, I thought so.
Chest hair
Listen, I know it’s all part of being a man. A few tufts of hair sprouting from the chest plate is passable, but if your chest looks like a shag pile carpet from the ’70s threw up on you, you need to put that shit away. Who told you it was OK for you to take your shirt off in a public setting? If we women have to wax our bikini regions, you can get rid of that unsightly mess. I’m going to start carrying wax strips with me and if I see a guy with a chest rug, I will hold him down and forcibly remove it. And no, I’m not joking.
I hate anyone not on a bike
Motorists, pedestrians, babies in strollers; I can’t stand any of them. Cars want to kill me, pedestrians are determined to get in my way and babies, well I guess we just have to blame the parents. But even more than babies in strollers, I hate four year olds in strollers, with their feet scraping along the ground and that smug look on their face. Get those lazy bastards up and make them walk! What the hell is wrong with you? Those are the kids who will still be living at home at 25, with no job prospects, smoking weed and you’ll have no one to blame but yourself. And don’t even get me started on when they get that motorized scooter in their late thirties.
Despite all the obstacles, human and otherwise, I went for the longest bike ride of my life. I just kept pedaling. Through the heat and the steady transformation of my hair from flat ironed loveliness, to the Irish girl afro, I just kept pedaling. Through the screaming kids and rows of hotdog stands, I just kept pedaling. Past the guy with the body of an adonis who was jumping rope and dripping sweat, I stopped pedaling and damn near hit a tree, but that’s not the point. I wanted to take in every last bit of this summer, because it has been a great one. I pedaled so much, I think I ended up in upstate New York.
For most, Labor day symbolizes the end of summer, but you know what it means to me? Time to start shopping for my fall wardrobe. Happy days!
