I am far away from Toronto.That blatantly obvious geographic fact was hammered home to me when I first flew into the freezing rain and late-season snow of eastern New Brunswick in March. But as for the philosophical realization, that particular penny took a bit longer to drop. Until this past Saturday, in fact.
Tell me, o friends and former neighbours from Oshawa to Burlington ... do you know what a Tire Frier is?
No? Well, I'll tell you:
A tire fryer happens when a few dozen people get together with their cars, drive them one by one onto a small platform and spin their back wheels to burn up as huge a cloud of acrid, asthma-inducing smoke as they can. They do this for as long as possible before one of the nearby firefighters signals them to stop by pulling on a black rope attached to the sunburned arm each of the drivers has hanging out the window. 'Cos by the time they really get going, that cloud is too thick to see any visual signals.
If you look closely, you can even see fragments of rubber flying off behind the vehicle like little smokey comets, ricocheting harmlessly against the thick carpet draped over a roadblock behind the vehicle.
And, lord, does this go on for awhile. I'm not kidding when I say "cloud" of acrid smoke, because it definitely ain't a few wisps. That's what it starts off as, but it's not long before the car is completely enveloped, along with the huge crowd gathered along the fire barrier ringing the parking lot.
And what a crowd. Of all of the events of this weekend's festival, this must have been the best attended. Kids of all ages crowded the barriers, while older fans couched themselves in folding canvass chairs, their bare skin pink from the day's sun.
Their dogs meandered among their legs, and I saw one pair of puppies barely old enough to have their eyes open curled up beside their mistress' sandals while above them the crowd cheered and applauded as tire after tire lost their treads.
And, since everybody along this river knows everybody, there were a few nods of recognition as some of the frier veterans stepped up. Apparently, this sort of thing makes for minor fame.
Even when a newbie turned up in a bike, which was bucking dangerously for a moment before the friction kicked in and the smoke started billowing out, the two gentlemen I was standing behind turned to each other and said something along the lines of "well, that Tozer boy better be careful on that thing." "Yep, that's some powerful."
Not without a certain amount of ironic humour, one teen turned to his friend and mulled what kind of effect the whole thing would have on climate change.
And, of course, both the drivers and the firefighters standing by would wave their arms during the worst of the burn, trying to whip up the crowd into cheers and hollerin'. Not much encouragement was needed, though. Everyone was really into it, a collective shared experience that binds the city together. For some, it is sports. For others, it is music.
And for the good people in the more rural parts of this province, it's watching a procession of cars in various states of disrepair spin their tires bald until they pop, then trundle off into the wings on their rims, buoyed by the adulation of the assembled multitude.
And you know? It was awesome. Sure it was ridiculous. Sure it was madness. But, as an outsider looking in, I could see why everyone liked it, and why they'd been promoting it as the weekend's top draw for awhile. It was a good day out for everyone, a great collective cultural experience and, I gotta say, I do like the look of wisps of smoke becoming billowing clouds.
And, hey, it got me out into the sun, especially when the car parade happened and I got to sit on a grassy hill taking pics of antique cars filing down Water Street with the bridge in the background.
Where else would that count as work?
