Lying in bed one more day, with Dolly mooing for attention and a big wind outside, I saw what a light fluff my life had amounted to. Be kind. Ha! I could hardly take over the animal kingdom and stop coyotes eating deer, crows pecking out sheep’s eyes and flies injecting their larvae into the livers of whatever it is. I could do nothing but watch, like some Darwin left behind on the Galapagos as the ocean rose.

      The only question was how. Something with a car. If there’s one thing I had been good at, it was driving a race car. Flat chat down Conrod Straight at Bathurst in the fog—that’s scary. But I did manage to keep it on the road. And ahead. My one-race Formula One career in the Brabham wasn’t too disgraceful either.

      And for my epitaph, for my brilliantly useless career? Something witty, planted in advance--obviously. Perhaps:

      SEE? I WAS RIGHT
      or IF YOU CAN READ THIS YOU’RE TOO CLOSE
      or THANK GOD FOR US ATHEISTS
      or HERE TODAY, HERE TOMORROW.

      My plan was delayed by the storm. The clouds had been strangely lit for days, with a surreal greenish sky, the nights unusually bright, though I could never quite spot the moon. As I sat after breakfast on the deck, gazing at my wife’s ruined garden, drinking Veuve Cliquot (there was unlimited booze), Max kept whining, and then it hit. A blast of wind from the North-East slapped our great double-trunked Siberian Elm, the highest tree in Cabbagetown and one reason I bought the house, and bent it double, roaring. Both trunks snapped low and the tree, not fell, but launched into our neighbour’s yard. Our Tree of Heaven exploded into branches and sticks, and I felt the house behind me shaking the deck.

      Tiles flew off the house next door and pattered on the side of my house. My old unused brick chimney toppled, luckily falling onto next-door’s roof, not mine. The air was black and filled with lashing leaves. Across in the park, trees cracked and crashed. My whole house was shaking, so I grabbed my bottle, ran down the steps into the basement, pulled up a plastic lawn chair and sat there as the world blew to pieces. Thunder echoed, rain started like a breaking wave, and the basement filled to a depth of a couple of inches.

      Came the dawn and my kitchen roof was gone, the street a forest or branches but miraculously the power still worked. The humid heat was now incredible. Global warming is too mild a word. Without the comforting buzz of my window air conditioner I would have sweated, awake all night, or gone out on the deck to feed the mosquitoes.

      That was the day I lost Max. We picked our way early through the litter of branches and pleasantly overgrown grass and weeds to the Farm, then headed, as usual, down to Parliament Street. My one civilised moment of the day. Jet Fuel, home of Toronto’s last big three-dollar latte, serves coffee and rock music, nothing else, to Toronto’s bike riders, racers and couriers. It has—had—its own racing team, with red Jet Fuel racing jerseys for sale above the counter. Weeks ago I’d cleaned the bodies out of the place, all except a couple of guys in the washroom cubicle, and it was mine. The big Espresso machine was a challenge, but I’d finally got it onside. Standing in the doorway gazing into the street I sipped from the tiny cup.

      Nobody locks their bikes outside Jet Fuel; if the wrong person touched one he’d be jumped on so fast...Today I chose a gorgeous white all-Canadian Cervélo , (the R3 Dura Ace, priced at a reasonable $6000 odd, if anyone’s interested) unhooked the attached, mercifully empty, kid’s buggy, fixed seat and tires and rode off down Parliament. Max kept whining and I told him to shut up but he wouldn’t.

      Turning up Sumach Street it happened. From the lane behind No-Frills, in a sudden burst of barking, a pack of six or seven dogs came at us. I stood up and sprinted, but they were onto me, one nasty little cur clamped to my right ankle, its head going round and round with the pedal but hanging on. Another snapped at my left calf, drew blood. The noise was incredible. I thought I was getting clear, but I fell and skidded to a stop on my left hip. Jumped up, held and shook my bike between me and the pack, yelling “Down! Down! Bad dogs!,” and they held back, growling. But then the Doberman darted round and jumped, hitting me in the side. I swung the bike and punched and fought him off. If you kick a jumping dog hard enough in the chest you can kill it but it didn’t work for me. A bull terrier had my left leg—and Max was there, biting savagely at him. Bull terriers aren’t supposed to let go once they bite, but this one did. Now it was a dogfight. I jumped on the bike, sprinted off, and looking back got a glimpse of Max, holding his own, I thought.

      But I never saw him again, and I lied to myself that he’s likely joined the pack and is herding them around and eating well.

      I spent the rest of that day house-hunting, but ended up back in my own bed. Lying awake I must have dozed, because I slowly woke, hot and cold with sweat. The AC was off. The power was off. That’s it: the end. My power generator should take over but I couldn’t get the damn thing to fire up and work. I ran a long cord up the stairs to my air conditioner but couldn’t persuade it to go. No, that’s it. That’s it. Enough. I found a blue Prius hybrid parked at the Beer Store and used it to refill the truck, then spent two blistering days clearing the roads I planned to use.

      I slept rather well, getting used to the quiet now. The sun rose North of the Don Jail today, June 21, its last day before heading south again, I believe. I trimmed, shaved and applied some of that new deodorant that makes girls flock to you. In my whole career as a motoring correspondent and part-time racing driver I had never even sat in a Ferrari. It would be a Ferrari. After a crappy breakfast—no time for a goodbye espresso—I left a message on the machine:

      Hi! You have reached Alvin Williams. Sorry I can’t come to the phone right now because I’m dead.

      In the truck I made my way through branch-littered streets to Ferrari Maserati of Ontario on Avenue Road and smashed my way in through the big doors. This was, unquestionably, the way to go.

      It felt like my first sight of the Henry Moore gallery at the AGO: beauty everywhere. But before looking over the feast of red cars sculpted on the gleaming white showroom floor, I sat and read the leather-bound sales manuals. If I chose the FXX, I learned, my driving style would be compared and supplemented with suggestions from Michael Schumacher, Rubens Barrichello and Ferrari’s professional in-house Test Drivers. I wonder what they would suggest.

      Every Client, I read, who signs up for the FXX project by purchasing one of the estimated 20 or so cars being built, will actually be joining Team Ferrari, and will have his driving experiences at the wheel of this new car monitored directly by the Prancing Horse’s technicians and specialists.

      The FXX will provide the basic framework on which the specifics of future extreme models will be worked out. The exceptionally powerful FXX delivers absolutely blistering performance on all fronts.

      The FXX has not been homologated for road use and thus will not be a competition model. It will be used exclusively on the track as part of a specific ongoing research and development programme featuring this first ever group of Client Test Drivers.

      The FXX is powered by an imposing 6,262 cc V12 engine that can punch out over 800 hp at 8,500 rpm. Its gearbox is the result of the transfer of F1 strategies, delivering gear change times of under 100 ms. This is almost as fast as the F1 single-seaters, themselves the absolute pinnacle of current technological achievement.

      Hmm. Of course, if they didn’t have my FXX I’d have to settle for an F430 Scuderia, a pissy little 660 horsepower Enzo, or at the worst, a 612 --ugh! Is nothing sacred?—four door. I moved among the cars. Right at the back, under a silver dustcover—the FXX!

      The keys hung on hooks so I drove the lesser lights and Maseratis out of the way, blipping them fiercely, left them in the street and approached my car, the last FXX in Toronto, probably in Canada. It huge tank was only half-full, and the other Ferraris were hard to siphon, but I managed, and pulling on a red Ferrari racing suit, shoes and gloves—no need for a helmet—I fired it up.

      What a racket! No way you could use this thing on the road. Can’t be bothered going back for earplugs. It was hard to get it moving, and when I reached the Avenue Road straight and unwisely punched the throttle, the back wheels just spun. Easy, boy. I slowed, amid fumes of burning rubber, and tried again. The acceleration punched me in the back and the F1 engine hit the rev limiter before I could click the shift paddle. So I backed off again and just burbled it home to River Street. I went in for a long drink of water and a pee.

      Confident now (what can I lose? I’m test-driving a $2 million car) I did a tyre-smoking U-turn, round the excellent S-bend and North on Bayview, sound echoing off the old Bloor Viaduct, up the tightening curve of the entry-ramp with the tail hanging out deliciously and onto the DVP South. The V12’s screech was beyond belief; if anyone’s still alive in the city they’ll surely hear me--it’s better than sending up balloons—and they’ll come out to Exhibition Place. Too late, but I’ve got my diary on me. If it’s only me, it’s over anyway. But God! If I could just see another human face...

      Down Lakeshore I noticed the showpiece wind turbine generator’s propeller was slowly turning, but it’s probably not connected to anything. I knew the Molson Indy circuit well. It’s not called that now, except by everyone who loves the idea of a car race sponsored by a beer company. Took a few slow laps to check it out, then rounded Turn Two and planted it. This is living! Under the footbridge I snatch a glance down at 300 kph. Zip zip zip zip zip down to first, then gently, gently round the forty kph hairpin, blast up to the left-hander, right, left, down the bendy back straight, right, left, through the insanely quick left-hander onto Pit Straight, click the right-hand paddles up, up, up, howling towards Princes Gate arch, with the white Angel on top, then slam on the Brembos for down three gears and swing right into Turn One. And repeat. And repeat.

      When I’d had enough I wouldn’t turn right. The plan was to keep accelerating and hit the left-hand concrete pillar of the arch at around—well, as fast as it would go. That should do it.

      But the plan went wrong.

      As I braked for the hairpin, someone shot me. Three shots, one hitting the car, one hitting me in the jaw. I kept on, out of range, my jaw, numb and somehow misplaced. Left window broken. Jesus! Someone’s trying to kill me!

      I finished the lap, found I’d driven through the arch under the angel, braked and was slowing, shaking so much I couldn’t drive fast. Behind me, another shot. I rolled almost to a stop, curious to know who it was. I didn’t want to die without knowing. Incredibly it was a Hummer. A black H3 cruised by me. The driver wore a back-to-front baseball cap. The passenger was a blonde teenager with tattooed arms, waving a pistol at me. And laughing. They were both laughing. It drove away, crunching through fallen branches.

      A Hummer is a slug on the highway, flat out at 71 mph, and my FXX does 200, but I was in no mood for a car chase. I unbuckled my harness and sat in the noisily idling car waiting for them to return, but they must have got bored. My jaw hurt now and I couldn’t swear, even in a whisper. When I tried to touch my chin something was wrong, missing. I switched off into silence. A single gull cried out from the lake, over to my right. I climbed up and out and walked through the long grass nearly to the water’s edge.

      The sun had set and Lake Ontario was smooth-skinned, silver and violet. Quiet now, only the lapping of small waves. Again that gull. I sat heavily and leaned back against a stone pillar. Looking down I was surprised by all the blood. My red racing suit was darker, and the blood ran in pulses like the waves but silently. I needed water. Like a fool I hadn’t seen that the pillar I leaned against was a water fountain. All I had to do was stand, push in the metal button and I could drink. Again I touched my jaw but it felt soft instead of bony... A last drink of water would have been paradise, and I struggled to stand but fell back.

      Now I felt cold. One of those warmed blankets they give you in hospital would be nice. Light drained out of the sky. Venus brightened, then other small stars shone. There was nothing to be done now. I lay listening to my breathing, until it happened.

      Slowly the stars dimmed and the lake brightened. I watched a full moon rise. Then, a few minutes later, a second full moon. That was the moment I knew.

END