from Hideouswhitenoise #31, Spring 1997
by Guido
"You're crazy to ride your bike in downtown traffic," the baggage lady claimed. I was getting worried, that was the second person who had given me that wide eyed expression with the half smile twist when I mentioned that I was going to ride my bike in downtown Boston Traffic.
It was only after I learned that it was illegal to ride a bike anywhere on the property of Logan Airport that I came to the conclusion that Boston might not be all that friendly of a place to ride a bike.
But how bad could it be? Maybe it wasn't such a good idea to participate in my first Alleycat race in a foreign city. But the first place prize of $888.00 American put up by Timbuk2 bags was to tempting a prize to pass on. Not that I had any chance of winning, but I was the only Canadian down here and I had to put in a showing.
But this was all part of the strategy. The Americans would think that all Canadians were as slow as me and when they came to race in the Great White North, they would be taken completely by surprise.
But regardless of strategy, or stupidity, I was going to race in this Crazy Eight race, named after the date, the amount of check-points and the prize money, and damn the consequences. And hey, it would be more romantic to get run down in a foreign city anyway. Off to find the water shuttle.
And in the end I didn't get run down I did end up losing my stop watch, gloves, wrench and Alley cat racing cherry I did get to know Boston in the only way you can, on the back of a bike. As I crossed the inner harbour I couldn't help but think if you put a CN Tower and a Skydome beside Boston's financial district how similar the skylines would be to Toronto's, but I would soon learn how different they were up close.
Upon landing I obtained directions to find bike messengers from the water taxi dude and I and Daughter of Elephant bike charged into traffic. It took about five minutes to assimilate with the metal monsters and realize that traffic was traffic no matter what city you were in.
The old part of the city was filled with beautiful architecture and urban planning that could only be achieved before the advent of the carbon burner. The streets were narrow and windy making it easy to dominate traffic, but who knows I might have hit town during a mellow period. Police don't seem to care about traffic infractions It appeared the messengers of Boston had trained their auto drivers well.
My search ended at a famous brand named coffee shop where a gaggle of couriers congregated and also Elvis. He asked me not to go into details, but its true Elvis is running a messenger company in Boston.
Everyone was really friendly and pleased that someone had come all the way from Toronto to get run over in Boston. As always the Canadians were the first to arrive and last to leave. Sometimes harder to get rid of then cockroaches.
It wasn't long before I was set up with a place to stay, the luxurious seventh floor of 140 Boylston, home of Performance Messengers, who were also gracious enough to give over the space after the party, and being toured around the city by Matt, one of the race organizers.
He gave me pointers on the course and pointed out key monuments. He had to do some calls and rode off, but not before giving me one more cryptic clue. ÒKeep your eyes out for Dunkin' Donuts.
My best strategy would be to go over the course a few times to familiarize myself with the terrain. This would give me an advantage over the home town riders. But yah know, I had seen most of the course and Daughter of Elephant Bike had an amazing memory, so if I got lost she would find the way. I decided to find some beer and get stanked.
That night was a blur of meeting more people and seeing messengers from other cities watching couriers from New York slowly dribble into town in two's and threes.
But that night wasn't all just drinking and socializing, it was also an eyeopener about what it's like to ride in boston. What it comes down to is that Bike Messengers and cyclists in general are hated by City Hall.
To get your bike on the subway, you have to get a license from City Hall that costs you $5.00. Many messengers told me of stories concerning messengers and police. At the time I could only feel revulsion, but now I can't really remember what they were all about. Blame the Pilgrim. If there are any Boston Messengers reading this please send examples< href="mailto: hwn@lglobal.com>
I think the night ended at a bar, but who knows. After drinking a couple of those giant jugs of Pilgrim beer, I wasn't quite sure where, or who I was.
The morning came to quickly with me and D.O.E. bike joining a posse of New York messengers riding the course. The race was scheduled to start at 1:08 p.m. and as the start time approached, so did the crappy weather. The snow started to fall as did the temperature.
The starting point was Copley Square a small park situated in the stuck between Boylston and St. James Ave. As the time slowly approached, the front steps of the square slowly filled with riders and spectators.
Media filtered through the racers while race organizers passed out race numbers and tried to answer last minute questions. The official count of racers were 77 with a few from Philly, Washington, a big crew of twenty from NY and one lone rider from Toronto.
Just after 1:00 p.m. the racers positioned their bikes on the square and stepped back twenty feet. They waited for the countdown and then it came and we were off.
The drivers of Boston didn't expect to be suddenly confronted by 77 howling messengers hitting the street enmasse, weaving through traffic, racing to the first check-point. The race was set up that you didn't have to follow any set pattern to complete the race. All you had to do was make all eight check-points and then get back to the finish line.
I followed most of the racers to the deserted lobby of 300 Massachusetts. Ave. Racers ran about like cops with their heads chopped off, finally finding the checkpoint in the back of the building.
Next was a bar at 822 Beacon St where you had to suck back a drink. Over the bridge to Cambridge and 77 Massachusetts Ave, the front door of MIT where you were given a raw egg to carry around. A right on Main St. to Kendall Square to pack a potato. Gee, we weren't going to have to stop and cook something weird along the way were we?
Across the Charles River Dam stopping at a Dunkin' Donuts for a Boston cream donut to drop on the front steps of the State Police Barracks at 160 Beverly. Over to Pemberton Square where you were given a huge book to carry. To 140 Boylston, up six flights of stairs to have your ass whipped by not one but two dominatrix's and then to One Financial Place and the finish line.
Nearing the finish, my chain came off and wedged its way between the crank and the frame so I was forced to run the last few blocks over the finish line. I might not of won, but I was the first Canadian over the line I was the only Canadian in the race,, but hey I'll get my glory where I can.
Half way through the race the snow had turned to freezing rain and then to rain, but I didn't care I was having to much fun to know how soaked I was until it was all said and done. And when it was done so was I. I barely had enough energy to drag myself back to the keg party and drink until 3:30 in the morning.
The winner was Bobeck from Boston who won the cash and a ticket to Toronto for the Human Powered Roller coaster, with other miscellaneous prizes given out by Kryptonite locks and other sponsors who I don't know who they were because I was too tanked during the award ceremony to remember.
The week-end was a howling lot of fun and like all of these events I met messengers from other cities that in the end were just like me. Fucked up. Hats off to Jeff, Jesse and Matt and whoever else was involved in the organization of this crazy event. I had so much fun I'm coming back next year.
Arriving back home in Toronto, aching from sleeping on a floor and feverish with a cold, I asked the information desk what was the best route to ride my bike into the city. The woman behind the desk gave me a wide eyed look with a half smile twist. "You have to be crazy to ride your bike in downtown traffic."
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