Urban Cycling: Decide
to Ride
by Tim Parr
I once read that David Byrne rides
a bike to all of his gigs. And for some reason, I've remembered that tidbit.
To me that's a definition of hardcore not yet explored. I'm not sure if he realizes
it, but it's more impressive than that big white suit -- and that was a good
suit.
Bikes are cool. It's taken me 30 years to feel comfortable saying those three
words in the same sentence, in print, but I firmly believe them to be true.
There was a time when I wasn't sure. With the profile of "bikers" being comparable
to athletic accountants, or some sort of anal aerobic league bowler looking
like a neon stuffed sausage, saying that bikes are a good
thing was progressive and, for the most part, a look into the future. I'm not
necessarily referring to mountain bikes or anything else that has been mass
marketed in the last 20 years. I'm just talking about the thing with two wheels
that sits in everybody's hallways and has been underneath just about every ass
across America. The bicycle, the one we all have ridden in all of its many shapes,
is a timeless piece of cool. It has endured.
The one place in America where bikes can thrive and reach their full potential
is in urban centers. If you look in the city streets you'll see the bicycle
in its purest state. It's an act of personal expression, it's transportation,
it's green and, above all else, it is so damn right. Cycling in the cities has
got more flavor than anything in sports that I've seen in the last several years.
Not only is it the best thing to happen to the bicycle, but urban cycling also
has a backbone of passion inspired from a true creative sense -- and individualism.
To leave the car at home and cruise through the city streets is strength. And
in today's over-hyped world of action sports that strength is more extreme that
any freakin' bungee cord or mobile snowboard exhibition travelling through Pensacola.
Deciding to ride that two-wheeled piece of shit rusting in the garage to get
downtown is the most prolific piece of performance art I can ever hope to witness
or experience. Take five years of higher education, 20 years of swimming upstream
and 30 years of thinking how a person can leave their mark in the world: it
all comes together and makes sense when you decide to ride.
And not only is urban cycling unique, it's also diverse. Take, for example,
the bike-messenger scene. Not known to many people, there is a global underground
racing circuit called Alley Cat racing. They're illegal. They're aerobic punk
rock. They happen right downtown with no street closures, no support vehicles,
no fat endorsements and, more importantly, no uptight self-proclaimed experts.
When you take a look at what's going on, it's urban sport in one of its purest
forms. It's a racing format that can be found in New York, Boston, San Francisco,
Berlin, London and every other major metropolis around the world. It's a scene
run by bike messengers in places where most sanctioned bike racers wouldn't
have the guts to show up. What's even more impressive is that these guys pull
off events with the organizational finesse of Martha Stewart coupled with the
passion of Ali. It's something to see.
Last 4th of July there was an Alley Cat race in NYC that drew riders from up
and down the Eastern seaboard, and even as far away as San Francisco. The format
runs like this: At the beginning of the race each messenger is handed a manifesto,
which is a list of 10-15 check points. At each check point, each rider is required
to get something or perform some act. After all the check points are met, it's
a mad dash to the finish.
With a start in Manhattan, and the finish line in Brooklyn, riders found themselves
in and out of porn shops, cemeteries, government buildings and tourist-ridden
hell holes. It's obvious that a certain level of street smarts is mandatory
if you have any intentions of finishing one of these. About an hour later, the
first group came riffling over the finish line spewing stories of cab-driver
angst, the rush of hooking the back of trucks across the Manhattan Bridge and
a hundred other near-death experiences. Clearly the beginnings of urban folklore.
After it was all said and done, the winner of the day got a plane ticket to
the world championships and last place got a set of jumper cables (everybody
in-between received some signature of merit for just showing dirty teeth). So
shines a good deed in a weary world. We're talking about a networked nationwide
underground scene that rewards its participants for being in top physical shape,
as well as shells out prizes to those with the biggest spirits. As I look at
what our society awards our top athletes, and how sports marketing plans are
designed to feed on the weak self-esteem of sport participants, I can only hope
that this holy grail of networked Olympiads somehow sheds some light.
Not only is the bike a great athletic piece of steel in the cities, but it's
also a way to save your mind. Once my friend Woo and I were sitting on the corner
of Market and 2nd Street in San Francisco watching a gridlock of cars aggravate
one another as they inched their way through the intersection. We sat there
slinked over our bikes and he says to me in a moment of unemphasized reality,
"You know, the streets can't get any wider."
It seemed to make sense. Then his face really tweaks, and he squeaks out, "And
the buildings? They can't get any skinnier." And for being such a simple statement,
it's something that I wonder if anybody has really thought about. Streets can't
get wider. Buildings can't get skinnier. Which means that this shit is only
going to get worse. But the beauty of riding bikes in any city is this: You
don't care.
The overcrowding is inevitable, and you have a way to deal with it. It's that
simple. No anti-car activism necessary here. To sit and preach about how bikes
will radically resurrect our society is too hippity-dippity for me. When I see
those bearded types who are convinced that bicycle transportation is on the
horizon for everybody, I cringe. That doesn't work. Riding bikes is not for
everybody. Change is a scary thing to the masses, and we are a car culture.
And let's not forget that, for the most part, we're also a bunch of lemmings.
I don't expect the average Joe to put a .45 slug into the engine block of the
family Chrysler.
The way I see it, after 30 years of questioning the establishment I don't find
it alright to sit with the rest of the cattle in traffic. In fact, with alternative
culture claiming the way it does these days, shlepping along at a snails pace
in traffic seems contradictory to youth culture in general. To sit on your ass
in a car surrounded by crusty power suits who have surrendered themselves to
traffic is hypocritical. I find it a warped sense of what is "normal." It surprises
me that so many young people tolerate it. Get out.
Get the cobwebs off the two-wheeled hoopty wedged in the hall closet. Pump the
cracked old tires up enough to float your fatty and go ripping out the door.
As you coast down the street rearrange the beer shoved down your pants, keep
your rolled-up pants from sucking into your rusted out chain and realize how
large Evel Knievel really is. Pull up any place you damn well please and relish
in the glory of living in the Telly Savalas part of your life. You've always
had it there, it's about time you revisited. Get on your bike.
© Tim Parr
Blue Magazine, vol 2, issue 1