My Own Private Wednesday

The pong of Wednesday morning. The noxious, malodorous, stench of compost bins strewn half emptied across sidewalks, blown by gusts of wind into bike lanes, across driveways, randomly dancing into traffic. Blue and yellow garbage trucks piggy back one on top of the other a block apart refreshing the ripe atmosphere every few metres. Should have picked a different route. Something about wanting to stay alive, keep to the the bike route, south to Dundas, west to River, south to King. Wednesday mornings are quickly losing their appeal to her increasingly nauseated self. They must have changed the schedule or moved the parameters of the neighbourhood pick up. It used to be that the early mid week morning ride to work was her own private universe. No one on the roads, lanes clear, lights green the whole way through. Quiet, still, slumbrous. No buses or carpools, no screaming, anxious, angry children reluctantly offloading in front of the school. It's all in the timing. Fifteen minutes on both sides of the sweet spot and she was either dodging early dogwalkers and rabid runners or frantic commuters multitasking, texting, slurping travel mugs of mediocre coffee while ignoring the indicators in the hyperbaric chambers of their cars. Wednesdays are sacred. The one morning of the week to ride her own race, up and at 'em at the crack of dawn, all her hard work out of the way before the rest of the city was out of the shower, let alone on their way to work. Suddenly her favourite time of day has been shattered by the chaos of real life. This city forces her into communion. Be here, now. No opportunity to drift, the risk to life and limb is too real. Stay up, keep the cadence high, out of the saddle, dropping shoulders into corners, eyes focused as wide as the four lanes will carry them. Pushing through, aggressively defensive. Mouthbreathing, tasting the fetid air as it slides down her throat with every inhalation. Wednesday, Wednesday. No longer her favourite day of the week.