Whoops! and Goodbye.

Nada mas:

Duke's Cycle burnt right to the ground this morning, as did a few other buildings, sending a huge plume of smoke all over the downtown, including into the subways. Miss P. called from Metro Hall to report she could see it from her window on the twenty-second floor, and could smell the smoke too.

May I admit that I never much cared for Mr Duke and his cycle shop?

In fact, the general consensus seems to be that three generations of the family business contributed virtually nothing to the cycling community here in Toronto. So it's on to the insurance claims - surely the Duke Boys will come out of it a couple of million to the good.

Prior to this fiery carbon fibre furnace, I left work last night feeling a touch of foreboding. When you've ridden as much as I there is a little instinct inside you learn to listen to, when it's telling you to pay attention to possible dangers. It had been snowing, night was falling, and Mortimer Avenue was looking extra-narrow with its huge banks of snow. Sure enough, three-quarters of the way home on Bloor Street I was doored by a teenager being dropped off by Mommy in a gleaming silver 4x4.

One good smash on the left hand and forearm later, my temper was thoroughly riled, and I didn't hesitate: I doored him right back as SonnyBoy sat blank-faced with the door still partly opened. Mommy uttered a shocked sigh, having been the one with the brilliant idea of letting her precious out on a major arterial in the darkness of wintertime rush hour, naturally paying no attention to her side mirror (my headlight was definitely flashing white light I assure you). A little road rage in the proper direction can really help sometimes. It definitely took the edge off my sore left side last evening. The road can be a nasty place sometimes, let's face it.