Tour de Greenbelt: tour de fun!

When you're in love with someone, you try to spend as much time with them as possible. When the object of your love is a bike, you look for opportunities to go biking.

The Tour de Greenbelt events combine two things that I enjoy: biking in a new setting and eating fresh, local food. We signed up for tours of the Niagara and Durham Region, and each proved to be fabulous in their own way.

Niagara Region
I suspect that this was the most popular of the tours, because the Niagara Region has a good reputation for scenery. The fact that the tour started and ended at Henry of Pelham did not hurt either. There were a few steep hills, but the terrain was relatively flat though a constant head wind prevented a leisurely ride. The popularity of the region meant that we were forced to bike single file to avoid cars. However, the serving of wine and setting of white table cloths for lunch amongst the vineyards gave the whole event a certain cachet.

Durham Region
The event did not start with promise as the weather was chilly, and dark clouds could be seen on the horizon. Riders were met with a massive hill at the beginning of the course then came to realize that it was a symptomatic of a region made of up rolling hills. Yet, we were all in agreement with fellow riders that hills are preferable to head wind, of which there was none. The roads were better maintained than those in Niagara and emptier, allowing us to ride side-by-side, and the leaves had started to change colour, providing pleasant distraction from the hill-climbing. Rest stops featured delicious baked goods (Annina's Bakeshop and Café) and a corn maze (Cooper's CSA Farm and Maze), which was more interactive than the Niagara rest stops.

We are looking forward to next year's event, along with the Tour de Dufflet, whose motto, "Eat more cake, ride more bike" are words to live by.

My cat, Rusty (Epilogue)

Rusty's recent ailing health convinced me and the family that it was time to let him go. We contacted Millwood Mobile Veterinary Services, for a home euthanasia, and Dr. Behzad Farokhzad was dependable and courteous.

We spent the early afternoon outside in the backyard with Rusty, allowing him the luxury of enjoying the outdoors and the sun. Even then, Rusty was obviously in a lot of discomfort and pain. The outdoors was ultimately where we chose to have the procedure done.

I wrote a premature obituary for Rusty late last year, so I won't repeat myself here. He was not a nice cat, but he was very easy to love.

To basket or not to basket

I recently acquired the Trek Soho S (seen above) in spite of the fact that I already own a Trek hybrid. My nine year old Trek 7200's 15" frame and seat post shocks allow me to sit ramrod straight and float over most pot holes, thus creating an experience comparable to riding an easy chair. With the addition of a pannier and bottle basket, the easy chair has become a minivan.

In spite of its comfortable and practical ride, I was frequently frustrated by my 7200's unreliable gears and groaned under its weight when I had to lift it. Last month, my wandering eye caught sight of the Soho S - a single gear, aluminum frame little temptress. When the Soho S went on sale at Sweet Pete's, I bought the cheapened little vixen.

Since purchasing the Soho S, I have been riding it almost exclusively. I enjoy how sleek and responsive it is. If the 7200 rides like an easy chair then riding the Trek Soho S is like being carried by a ninja.

Unfortunately, ninjas have no use for a heavy bike lock nor ladies purses. When the purse is too small to accommodate the massive bike lock, the lock ends up rattling on the handlebars. And if a pleasant surprise pops up in the form of a gift or a retail purchase, the Trek Soho S carries it awkwardly, much like a ninja would.

So, now, I look longingly at baskets, specifically, a woven rattan one. I picture putting my bike lock in it or my purse or even a new retail purchase, and my mind is put at ease.

But wait! What of aesthetics? Will such a sleek bike suffer a basket modeled after ones used in the 1800s? I am torn.

My grandmother

I got the news while checking my voice mail in one of those lifestyle stores. The message from my mother left no room for misinterpretation: "Your grandmother has died." My grandmother popped up in my mind then disappeared. My consciousness expanded to the clothing racks around me, the warehouse conversion, the neighbourhood then rewrote my entire world, a new world without my grandmother's presence.

I am embarrassed to admit that the tears I cry are for myself and not for my grandmother. In the last few years, she has suffered the loss of her once robust health. Hooked up to a dialysis machine twice a day, depending on a cane or walker, experiencing pain in her hands and feet, and repeat emergency visits to the hospital had robbed her of the independence that she valued.

Yet, she was a credit to her generation, the one that survived bombings from the Japanese with young children in tow. She never complained when her world became confined to the four walls of her apartment, the fourth wall made up of boxes of dialysis supplies. Her mind remained curious and her tongue sharp. She laughed at her troubles with exasperation.

So, you see, I cry because I will miss her. The woman who used to ram me into the wall in order to win a foot race to her apartment is long gone, but other losses are more keenly felt. The sight of her curly white head in the back passenger seat of my parents' car, which preceded the playfully sarcastic greeting, "How kind of you to have lunch with me!" to which I would always respond, "That's the kind of person I am." Our shared fascination with how fat my cousin, her granddaughter, had become. "Your cousin, she doesn't like to move but she likes to eat," was her blunt assessment. Her ability to speak to anyone in the limited English that she had learned in her 60s, though she chose to mock my husband in her fluent Cantonese, "You have no idea what I'm saying, do you? I could insult you and you wouldn't even know" to which my husband would nod agreeably. She gave the impression that old age was something to look forward to because you could get away with so much.

I will cry a bit more, especially during the funeral, then I will carry on because it will honour my grandmother's lifelong resilience. My grandmother was rather unsentimental about death, announcing the passing of a friend or relative with her singular use of the English word 'ended'. In that vein, I end my public display of grief here.

Yeuk Lan Chiang

1919-2010

Friday Night Play List: "Burn Notice"

So far, this summer, when I am not occupied with food or writing fiction, I have been catching up to the current season of "Burn Notice", an excellent show on the USA network.

It is hard to understand why a smart series like "Burn Notice" has failed to gain the attention that dumber shows like "The Mentalist" are thriving on. The only explanation that I can think of is that it is a cable-based program without the budget for flashy production or promotion.

The title refers to the firing of Michael Westen (Jeffrey Donovan), an American spy. Left in limbo in Miami without funds or resources, Michael survives on odd jobs helping ordinary people in over their heads, while attempting to return to Government duty (Note that I am in the middle of Season 2 so Michael may already have discovered the reasons behind his firing in the current fourth season).

Michael's practical approach to mayhem is one of the appeals of the show. Like MacGyver, Michael needs only a screw driver and a paper clip to take on armed thugs. Throughout the show, his calm voice-over schools viewers in the efficient art of covert ops. In spite of his wits and physical prowess, Michael is handicapped by personal baggage that makes him more of a weirdo than a slick operative. When confronted by overt emotions, Michael becomes hilariously robotic.

Michael's oddness is only amplified by the company he keeps. Helping Michael out are Sam Axe (Bruce Campbell!), a former Navy Seal, now a gigolo surviving on the kindness of women, and Fiona Glenanne (Gabrielle Anwar), an ex-girlfriend and former member of the Irish Republican Army who functions like she is still in a war zone.

A note to nerds: if the presence of Bruce Campbell on the cast does not win you over, know that the show has featured guest appearances by two cylons: Lucy Lawless and Tricia Helfer.

In Canada, "Burn Notice" is playing on the Super Channel (whatever that is) or on a torrent near you.

Hopefully, a new low

I went for my annual check up recently and the doctor confirmed what I already knew.

Me: So, I think I gained some weight since last year, because I was injured and...
Doctor: Ha! The excuses are already pouring out! (reads scale then my file) Well, you did gain a little weight. That's okay.

My doctor's sudden return to sensitivity signaled that I had become a subject of pity because a weight gain of almost 10% is not "little".

Fortunately, I'm not the only one getting tubby, and since victory over others is a great personal motivator, I challenged fellow fatties to a weight loss competition. Our progress, or lack thereof, will be documented in a blog: http://thinspirationxxl.blogspot.com/.

So as not to appear callous, we have tacked on a charitable element to the endeavor. Spectators are asked to bet on a competitor, pledging to donate an amount of British pounds, equivalent to the amount that the competitor loses, to his/her associated charity.

A foreseeable end to the competition was suggested by Royal Pinguo so, sometime in September, the biggest loser will be revealed...then beaten with pork hocks. Stay tuned!

Hard at work

Contrary to what my meager blogging may indicate, I have been busy writing.

After mastering the art of generating strong opinions within a lunch hour for the last five years, I decided to make myself more respectable by attempting to write fiction. My last foray into fiction writing was back in high school, when I was heavily influenced by J.D. Salinger. This was not a good thing. So, I signed up for an introductory writing course with the University of Toronto's School of Continuing Studies. It worked for Vincent Lam, so why not an underachiever like me?

My class is made up of people who work in finances, mothers doing it for themselves, and a party clown (not a derogatory statement but a fact). The writing is equally eclectic: the Muslim women use lush prose to describe the clash of East and West, the party clown wants to be the next J.K. Rowling, and a segment of the finances division has failed to meet the project deadline. Of the two remaining financial workers who did hand in their final project, one offered a story worthy of Harlequin, and the other modified a personal travel blog entry.

The latter student's year in Australia has been a well of inspiration with rapidly diminishing returns. Her stories run the gamut of traveling through Australia to encountering ticketing problems while attempting to leave Australia. In one story, the gender of her main character was changed but he still pranced to yoga class and traded bitchy looks with a travel agent.

The in-class workshop, during which the class offers compliments and constructive criticism for a single student's work, is one of the best aspects of the course. Still, it has made a strong case for the idea that procrastination does not make for good writing. In the first few weeks, the compliments flowed freely, but as we approach the end of the workshop schedule, a tension has descended on the party. The class struggles to find the bright side of what they have read ("You have a very original narrative voice.") and temper their criticism ("I don't understand what is happening here...here...and here.").

After my workshop, I edited furiously in order to meet the submission deadline for the Random House Creative Writing Award. Whatever the outcome, I am hooked on this new respectability, and the promise of fame and cash prizes will drive me to write long after my lunch hour is done.