Bike 21

It seems the Sherbrook Bridge not just Mason-Dixon line dividing the chichi River Heights and Tuxedo neighbourhoods from granola Wolseley and ghetto West Broadway, but also climatic line of demarcation. In winter, as I cross it to return downtown, it marks the place where my frozen fingers instanteously thaw.

This morning, it marked the place where scattered sparse snow pellets -- that could be denied out of existence -- suddenly turned to steady soft sizeable snowflakes pelting my unsuspecting eyes. (I'd thought Sunday's re-emergence of goggles would be the last time they'd be called for -- for pity's sake it's nearly May -- but I could have used them this morning. The sun came out and dried it all away in the afternoon, then on my way home, phantom pellets plagued my progress for a while.)