Speed Trials

Post from Late September…

Angelo and I were driving in the Jeep the other night, our asparagus plant resting in a shovel-full of dirt in the backseat – a transplant mission from our recently sold backyard garden to our much neglected community garden. I was staring out the passenger side window, totally tired, disconnected, enjoying the passing scenery, wishing my thoughts and worries weren’t racing through my head the way the blocks were racing past my gaze. Angelo was driving -

I love how Angelo drives. He sort of slouches a little, creating a curve in his back, and he rests his wrist on the top of the steering wheel, wrapping his oversize fingers around it.

But lately I hadn’t been paying much attention to Angelo, driving or otherwise, and I was again lost in a haze of malaise, unsure about a lot of things. Our long pauses in conversation had recently turned into deep chasms of silence. Canyons of quiet. He broke the silence first.

“So… I – I don’t really know how to say this…”

I turned slightly and stared out the windshield, looking straight ahead. We were stopped at a red light at the corner of Bronson and Somerset. I burned the memory in my mind, a significant landmark: this is the intersection where Angelo broke up with me. That’s it, he’s finally had enough of my manic episodes, of my reclusive behaviour, of my wild mood swings and dying libido. And you know what? I don’t blame him. It’s too late. I knew I was doing irreparable damage to the relationship, but I thought I had more time to rectify it. I always thought there was just a little more time. But apparently it had finally run out, and that was that. He may not know how to say it, but he’d thought it over, obviously, and his decision would be a final one. I couldn’t believe it, but at the same time I knew it was coming. My face turned hot and I felt this clarity that I hadn’t felt in months. A sharp refocusing. He still hadn’t said anything, and I just thought: “Well then, just fucking SAY it.”

“I’ve been thinking. And I want you to have the Louis Garneau.”

I didn’t really know what to say. It was certainly better than hearing that he was leaving me. I laughed and told him that was NOT what I thought he was going to say. But I didn’t know what to do with my newly acquired bicycle. I didn’t really want it, because he had treated it so preciously for so long. I didn’t want to be responsible for his bike. Because I may be the one riding it, but we all really know who it belongs to…

He went on to explain that it’s because he was thinking about paring down, about treading lightly. I wanted to get a second bike, and god knows we don’t need to rape the earth for any more steel than is necessary, especially when there’s a fine specimen parked on our rollers, on display, more like a piece of furniture. It just made better sense to hand it over to me. And then I got it – it just made better sense. In this relationship, it’s always been ‘what is mine is mine, and my life continues with or without you’ no matter how little practical sense it made. And it took a while to ease our grip on our independence. But now… well, it just seems silly to hang onto ideas of bachelorhood or of the strong single woman. Our lives and our relationship are a goulash of this and that, power struggles, emotions, assets and liabilities. He’s invested in my shit, and I’m invested in his. And it’s messy. And it spills over sometimes onto his side, sometimes onto mine.

But this is not a milestone. It’s not a monument to anything. It’s just a bike. My new bike. It’s going to be nice to ride. But it’s not the symbol of our unified existence or anything like that. I won’t look down at the Louis Garneau as I ride it through the city feeling the constant swell of my boyfriend’s love and devotion. Much better to feel that as I ride Angelo himself. It just makes better sense.