CHAPTER 5
Heading home on an eastbound streetcar, crossing back over the Don Valley, I saw the ornate silver inscription on the west side of the bridge glinting in the sun: “This river I step in is not the river I stand in.” White plastic shopping bags floated on the surface of the Don River. Pop cans and milk jugs bobbed alongside them. Near the west bank a rusting shopping cart lay half-submerged. What you couldn’t see-the chlorine and other spilled toxins-was even worse. A truer inscription would have been, “This river I step in will give me a wicked rash.”
I arrived home feeling wilted. I thought about having a cold beer. I thought about calling my old friend Kenny Aber, to see if he wanted to pop by with a joint, which he was always good for. I finally decided against both and got my Rollerblades from the hall closet.
Getting down to the Don River bike path on skates was easy. All downhill, as it were. As long as my weight was centred over my blades, gravity did the rest, taking me down the gentle slope of Broadview Avenue. At the south end of Riverdale Park, just past Dr. Sun’s statue, was a much steeper paved path that led down into the valley. I used my foot brake a little but mostly cut back and forth like a skier to control my speed until the path levelled out near a pedestrian footbridge that crossed the valley east to west. Halfway across the bridge was a metal staircase that led down to the bike path. I climbed down sideways, then started up the trail that followed the Don River north. It was less industrial than the southern trail and part of it was a defunct road, much wider than the bike path, that would give me a chance to sprint.
Normally after work this path was jammed with bikers, bladers, runners and dog walkers, but the heat was keeping people away. With no obstacles to dodge, I broke a good sweat by the time I reached the Chester Marsh, a wetland that had been painstakingly restored by volunteers and was now home to a bewildering variety of grasses, reeds and birds.