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  1. Ok, better the sounds of transit than me screaming.
    When I got home late last night, there was a note from my daughter saying she’d be playing against a school on the North Shore – the presumption being that I’d drive her. During rush hour.
    The next morning I disabused her of that notion. She has a Compass Card. She knows her way around. There’d be other parents doing the vehicular slog. Maybe they’d drive her.
    But I felt guilty, esp. while looking at the map during the day which indicated a drive of just under an hour return trip contrasted with over two hours by transit.
    As rush hour approached, the times on the map changed and the guilt started to evaporate. There was now just a 10 min difference in a one way trip. There were two crashes before the Ironworkers and one on the Lions Gate. She called to say she had a ride and she’d be late.
    I would have lost my composure had I been the driver. My day would have been ruined. When I did drive her a few days ago from another event, when I got home, I needed a drink. Two, in fact.
    So, I started wondering about these sporting events. And why were they scheduled at rush hour?
    Listening to Pico Iyer’s account of playing ping pong with his neighbours in Tokyo, he describes a lot of fun. People switch partners every five minutes. They play like crazy. No one cares who wins. They laugh.
    Whatever the putative benefits of inter-murals, how does that square with the agony of the drive?
    I wonder what the parents of the Humboldt victims would have to say about that

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