Hops, Malt and a Bicycle

For some ten years, I lived on Ward’s Island, which is situated just south of downtown Toronto—one of the ‘Toronto Islands’. A really neat spot in that it’s a ten minute ferry ride to downtown, yet when you’re over there, you feel completely detached—in another world.

The X is where I lived

From the north shore you can vaguely hear the rumblings of the city but not loud enough to be intrusive. Only service vehicles are allowed there so for the most part, the loudest vehicular noise might be the rattling of a poorly lubricated bicycle chain.

Waterways criss-cross the place and in these, with the help of a small boat you can escape completely—in some places you’d swear you were a thousand miles from nowhere.

About a ten minute walk from my residence is the Queen City Yacht Club, of which I was a member. Many a pleasant summer afternoon was spent out on its balcony quaffing a few cold pints with fellow members—and sometimes we even went sailing.

On the last weekend of July, the Ward’s Island Picnic is held. There’s music, games, good food and a huge beer tent. I was with a bunch of cronies in the tent one time when who should show up but Pat Coyle, an ex-Islander who’d moved to Paris. I hadn’t seen the bastard for years.

After a few glasses of suds had been consumed while swapping catch-up stories, ‘The Coyle’ and I decided to check out some of the other activities. We were walking across the bridge to neighboring Algonquin Island when we spied something that looked rather interesting to our vaguely befuddled minds.

One of the residents on Algonquin had set up his own event and, as we discovered later, had somehow inveigled Air Canada to provide a first prize of a return ticket to Vancouver. I’ve forgotten the guy’s name, but he had a house fronting one of the canals. On the end of his dock, he’d rigged up a plywood ramp.

What Coyle and I saw from the bridge was the spectacle of a cyclist hurtling at great speed down the embankment, onto the dock then up the ramp. Bicycle and rider shot into the air then landed in the canal. The bicycle had a piece of Styrofoam tied to it so it could be swum back to shore.

This was definitely something of interest. Without a second thought, Coyle and I dove off the bridge and swam over to the dock where we signed ourselves in as contestants. The judges—who were perched on chairs off to the side with clip-boards—were looking for three things: Height, distance and style.

Coyle and I were simply looking for some fun.

Most of the contestants were about twenty years younger than either of us and looked like downtown courier types—bulging calf muscles, determined jaws and long-distance eyes. None of them appeared to have touched a drop of grog. Steroids perhaps.

Each rider had three shots and was judged on his best effort. Coyle and I were the last two riders.

Me. Height and distance good. Style? Hmmm.

To get sufficient speed, you had to begin at the north side of the island and accelerate all the way across it. There were people along the way to make sure pedestrians, dogs and small children were not flattened by deranged cyclists.

I must say, the first run was a trifle daunting. Charging down the street you couldn’t see the dock—just two upright sticks that marked the entrance to the rather narrow ramp that lead to it. The ramp went down at quite an angle so you lifted off briefly—and when you hit the dock you squished down.

But you had to keep thrashing away at the pedals throughout—speed was crucial.

The end result: Coyle first, me second. I suspect that the hops gave us our height and distance, and the malt…well, who knows.

 Edited by Davina