Twenty Eleven

There are enough blogs out there about bike racing, and I just don't feel compelled to add to them at the moment. However, I need a place to put the picture above (courtesy of Amy Dykema) to capture the day that I finally won a goddamned road race. Even if it was sort of an alleycat cyclocross type of road race. Blogged to death on the team site here with pictures here.

final four, a long overdue (alleycat) race report

The Bicycle Film Festival just pulled through Chicago. A citywide scavenger hunt, a Blues Brothers-themed alleycat, loads of short films, and a block party were all on the agenda.

Tacked on to the tail end of it all was a sprints and skids competition benefiting the largest and most utilitarian member of our team, the Cuttin' Cruiser. The fixed gear gang were doing backward loops, barspins, one-foot-through-the-frame skids, 180s and whatnot, but to be honest, they were kind of a sideshow compared to the flatland bmx-ers leftover from the earlier comp.

I sat out the IRO sprints, mostly on account of the fact that it seems like the kind of thing you do in a wintertime bar. For me the main event was the sprint comp. Two blocks long, one-on-one. Fairly small turnout at 30-something contestants, but nonetheless fun.

I'm not particularly experienced at these, but it seems like there's not a lot of strategy: just go for 30 seconds. It's a little longer than a simple sprint, but not long enough that there are any options for drafting or playing scratch games. I wasn't sure if I was in the right gear, wasn't sure I could get to speed quick enough, wasn't sure if I could spin out if someone in a steeper gear was reeling me in late. It's amazing how such a short event could still break down to a beginning, middle, and end.

My plan was to start hard-ish, and keep an eye on the other guy, and stay just ahead of him while conserving my energy for the later rounds. First round was harder than I expected, nerves and adrenaline pushing me to a 1-2 length win.

Second round I had the benefit of racing a guy who popped his chain. One less trip to the red zone.

Third round I raced my teammate Daryl. He was one of the guys I'd hoped not to race, but it was impossible to avoid those guys in the later rounds. I held him off, but I was helped by the fact that he spent his morning finishing 6th at Glencoe.

That put me in the final four. Somehow one of the bracket winners (Simon?) had been accidentally set aside, and so when he surfaced, he was thrown in for a three-man heat. I wasn't thrilled about it, as it gave me another pair of wheels to watch, but what can you do. Simon took it, and tying for third won me a pint of Ole Grand Dad, a fitting and useful prize (and apparently a third place tradition for Chicago alleycats).

In retrospect, as tricked out as my bike is, the low-spoke-count wheels were a little heavy off the line, but mostly I should've just hammered harder off the line and not bothered eyeballing the two other guys. There's also a distinct possibility that I'm just not as fast as the guy that beat me.

If there's some silver lining, it's that my teammate Stanley beat the guy that beat me, to take home the win. I jokingly harassed him that we had unfinished business at the end of the day, but as he won the Blues Brothers alleycat the day before and finished fourth at Glencoe that morning, he had good reason not to take me up on it...not that I really wanted to.

Actually, the highlight of the day was that my family finally came out to see me race, and they got to meet the team, watch some tricks, check out the chifg scene, and learn how to evade masked strangers that want to shake your hand. One thing I found particularly funny: my kids were starving, but we couldn't go eat dinner until the sprints were done, so every time I won a heat, they were totally disappointed: "Not again!" Gotta love your fans.

UPDATED: Messenger Worlds #1 - Berlin 1993

The Worlds are coming up "just down the road" in Toronto. I considered going, but I figure they'll have enough retirees without me posing. It got me digging around in the basement though:

"The U.S. would have been shut out of medals if not for Avi Neurohr of Boston. Neurohr won the 'Most Outrageous Uniform' competition by bunny-hopping onto the course wearing only a sock."
-Bicycling Magazine, October 1993

It had to show up here eventually.

*Update: Just to clear up some confusion, it was a single speed, but back in the stone age, track frames were hard to come by and pretty expensive. To tune your chain slack, you either had to replace your chain as it got stretched out, file out the drops a little deeper, and maybe cobble together a homemade chain slack contraption. It wasn't bulletproof, and I didn't want to drop my chain in the race, so I ran a derailleur without gears or cables.

Ghetto, yes, but I still finished around 40th, despite the fact that I watched at least 25 people skip the last checkpoint (changing a flat) and finish ahead of me. I was also placed in the 16th (and last) row at the start, instead of the 8th, where I was supposed to be. I was supposedly 2nd North American, but everybody knew the results were a total joke. 6 German newspapers reported 6 different winners (from their own city, of course), and nobody reported the fact that a Women's team beat all the Men's teams (Go Running Gags! Thanks for the place to crash, Katherina!)

I was on the news, but the interview was so painfully bad that I resorted to hitting on the reporter. My prize was a Cannondale MTB frame tagged by the messengers who hosted the race. It's still in my basement, unbuilt.

What else? The beer was good and plentiful. The Euros had road bikes, but most everyone else had MTBs with slicks. Boston and SF were the only crews I remember rolling deep on road single speeds. I don't remember meeting anyone from Chicago. NY thought they invented the sport, and the SF guys were pretty high on themselves, too, except for Marcus. He was the last person I saw in Berlin, yelling "BOS-TON!" across the train station as I headed to Amsterdam. I was bummed out to hear that he ODed before the '96 Worlds in SF.

I only noticed a couple riders on "pure" fixed gears (Boston and SF - though see the comments below, there were a few more, no doubt). Two NY guys thought we should skip the formalities and hand the prize to them. They rolled in on tricked out race bikes, and it was obvious they weren't riding their "work bikes" as the rules specified, but nobody really gave a shit about things like that. They ripped on my fellow Bostonians for staying out 'til 6 am in East Berlin the night before the race. (Uh, it's a MESSENGER race, in BERLIN! What, are you gonna come home telling everyone you were tucked in bed the night before?) I remember being very happy to beat both of them.

The Scandinavian teams were cool and wicked fast, and the Danish women were 6 feet tall and smokin' hot. The Germans were uptight roadies and they were about the only ones who took it seriously. Way too seriously.

The Americans were most likely to be tattooed and pierced. One guy worked as a messenger in Afghanistan, and he about cried when he took the stage to a standing ovation. I don't remember much about the intros, but racers generally took to the stage with a healthy amount of braggadocio: "Yeeeaahhh boyeeee! We're gonna kick some mufuckin' ASS tomorrow!" (NY) or elation: "this fucking rocks!" (everyone else). Of the three of us from Boston, nobody felt much like chest thumping or saying anything, so we just walked on stage in our underwear and mess' bags.

It was strangely legitimate. They shut down huge chunks of the city for us, and I don't mean a couple blocks across the tracks. On day 1, we ran through a ped underpass to deliver a package at the "Victory Column"(you might recognize it from Wings of Desire or a U2 video). On day 2, we raced right through Brandenburg Gate. Four years before, it was a checkpoint for East Berliners trying to drive $50 cars into a different world, and we were ripping laps through it. In the finals, we raced ten plus miles through the city, at one point, shunted right into traffic, in a plaza not unlike Times Square. I remember skitching a bus and looking over and seeing a family looking quizzically at my bare ass.

The only real complaint I had about the race was the "hassle" checkpoint. You got there, and you had to get a signature from one of the tables, where they would essentially refuse to take your package or say you were at the wrong table. You had to "convince" them in some way. They were trying to simulate the BS a messenger would have to do, so I don't think it was a terrible idea, but the execution killed the race for everyone but the first few racers to get in. Everyone else got stuck in line, waiting to get to an open table. The entire race was pretty much decided by a sprint from the start to that checkpoint. I had picked up 100 spots pretty easily in the bunch start, but that checkpoint allowed the 5 leaders to be off racing for the win while everyone else stood in line. To be honest, I was surprised the event was as organized as it was - seriously, a bunch of messengers staging a race? In Boston, we would've all ended up in jail.

There was definitely a thread of Euro racers that fancied themselves head and shoulders above everyone else. Another Bostonian and I came back from riding in the city, and there was a gaggle of Euro racer dudes sitting at a picnic table. Pat was kinda punk rock looking, pierced face and all, and he rolled up on his Pinarello (single speed, with a straight bar), right up next to their table. He did a nose wheelie in slow motion, gently placed his back wheel on the bench, then powered up into a wheelie with the front wheel crossed up. For one instant, he froze and looked like was going to do a trials move up onto the table, but he just set it down nice and gentle. The roadies didn't say a word, but all the messengers standing around went completely apeshit.

It wasn't a scene, it wasn't a posefest, it was a bunch of freaks throwin' down and gettin' stupid together. Maybe I will go to Toronto after all.

it's getting sloppy out there

This is what happens when you start to see alley cats crop up in places like St. Augustine, Florida: accidents, cops, tickets, and collisions.

Part of me wants to say "rock on."

However, more of me wants to say "this is grown folks business and you best handle your ride first."

For obvious reasons, my heart's just not into 'cat racing at the moment, but it's true, there's nothing like it, and I surely can't hold it against anyone for wanting to give it a go. But that's the kind of pack you stay out of.

Photos from the event. Whiskey and wheels, indeed.

Why post it? Well, there are lots of 'cats sprouting up everywhere, but I thought this one was worth mentioning if only because it's in a dinky little town with nary a courier in site (iirc, the site of the oldest jail in North America) and because two, yes TWO, of the competitors launched on or over the hoods of cars. A coincidence?

Matthew Manger-Lynch, 1978-2008

The Tour da Chicago is no more.

For the "official" rundown, read the Chicago Tribune version of events; please skip the hundreds of snarky comments. The local news, for lack of anything substantial to report, cobbled together a story from youtube clips. It was less than flattering.

There's so much more to the story, but this much needs to be said: Matt was out front. He was riding boldly and aggressively. He made a bad decision. He couldn't undo it in time. From what I hear, that sounds like him.

Matt's family are sportsmen (and women), adventurers, outdoorsmen, risk-takers, achievers...and they welcomed the other racers with open arms. We should all be so lucky to have a family like that, a family capable of celebrating a life so vigorously in the wake of such an event. Their response was uplifting and inspiring; some even urged the racers to continue the Tour. The idea was not well received.

Had things happened differently, Matt would probably be taking a long pull, without any complaints, at the front of the Stage Four right about now.

alleycat with a twist

It's about time somebody came up with a twist on the "two-man" alleycat. From NYBMA (NY Bike Messenger Association):

The New Jack City Alleycat drew about 40 people out to King Kog last Friday. The point of the 90 minute race was to sell as much crack as you could to the dirty scumbag drug dealers in Williamsburg & Greenpoint. Whenever you ran out of crack, you could go back to the first checkpoint & get more. That sounds easy enough, but drug pushing is boring without the risk of your ass landing in jail. That's why two of the 40 racers were chosen at random to be "cops", who got to hide out at the checkpoints for 10 minutes at a time, and bust you. Whenever you got busted, you got no points for that drug sale. The cops though, got points for each bust they made. In the end, there would be two winners - the pusher who sold the most crack, and the cop who got the most busts. The best Crack dealer was Shawn (Cleveland), and the best cop was Tom (who played good cop to my bad cop. I found through this race that when presented with fake authority, the ability to abuse it is easily taken advantage of.) Check Messnyc.net for more results or details and pictures or something maybe, someday.

It's interesting that it took this long for some significant variety to bubble up in this space. The Boston Scrambler (2003) was a free-for-all delivery contest, in which the racers delivered packages, but chose their own route through the city, and unlike most races, could deliver the packages in any order. The Bobo Challenge (Atlanta) was a scavenger hunt, and there's always Poker runs, but this one has an "Assassin" element to it.