Glenn Kubish

There is a quiet urge to sociability built into the open architecture of the bicycle. A bicycle is a pre-social media social medium. The bodily encounters invited by the bicycle are the short waves, hellos, peace signs, thumbs ups, quips, good mornings, traded remarks about the weather, nods, salutes, smiles, knowing glances, short conversations and other gestures and utterances that riders share and use to recognize each other as we go by. The openness of the bicycle—no windshield, no doors, no roof—suggests this way of dealing with each other. This sociability suggestion is enhanced by, call them what you will, protected bike lanes, cycletrack, separated bike routes. I call them "humanfrastructure." This is what I mean. I am not alone. I posted the video, which was shot on the downtown Edmonton bike lanes and on the Oliverbahn, a stretch of protected bike lane that animates the central Oliver neighbourhood. People replied. @bpincott from

Ask any baba who has done time on a perogy-making assembly line, and she will tell you the trick is in the seal. No perogy worth its salt and flour allows its potatoes and cheese to spill out before being delivered via the fork and opened via the teeth of its grateful recipient. Sealed perogies are on my mind today after I came across a sheet of paper while riding my bike downtown yesterday. Like a postmaster in the 19th century, I sometimes stop to pick up these lost documents and read them. This one was unexpected. Jan 2. 2020 7:25 AM. My Love,  Well, here I am, sitting here, wondering how your Copper score is going? I told you I would go with you to Court, and honestly I am so sorry for the way Ive been treating you these past few days. I am going to do my best to treat you Right. You deserve to be treated with love, respect and of course loyalty. The only way I can tell you what Im thinking when your not around is to write, don't mind the messy hand-writing, Im al

My winter bicycle is a lot of things. It's my primary mode of transportation. It's how I get exercise for cheap. It's how I have learned not to drive an automobile everywhere. My winter bike is way to save money and stress. It's a conversation starter. It's nostalgia. A way to notice things. A reliable way to feel alive. My bike is also the needle on a turntable. The way the bicycle moves along groves of ice or lanes of snow, and the way it makes a crackly sound when the tires cut into the snow and ice. That precious, scratchy sound sounds like a needle moving across a vinyl record turning around and around. My bike is a radio dial, too. I’m thinking now of the nights as a boy in the basement of the dark house when I would go from station to station and watch the glowing dial move across the grid on the face of the set. This is what I remember as my bike glides across the shadows of the elm trees on 102 Ave. When I sing a bit.