Last Updated: October 14, 2020
It was the summer of 2000, and I’d enrolled in a Grade 12 Physics class at a nearby summer school to make up for the poor grade I’d gotten in the school year that’d just come crashing down around me. I was turning over a new leaf, but swapping my convenient downtown lifestyle for a more suburban routine — and without a set of wheels to call my own, I took to biking the 20 minutes to school to keep things simple.
I figured I could get used to this — I’d finish my last year of school in The Credit Woodlands, a school where many of my Grade 6 classmates wound up and had the program I was looking for. As I spent my summer days there under the tutelage of Mr. Burnham, I made my peace with its windowless interior and started filling my transfer form to make it all final.
That is, until I walked out from class one day and saw nary but a cut lock where my bike should’ve been.