They race in a world of their own. The Packages are just along for the ride.
The messenger nation descended on D.C. in a riot of bikes, beer and bravado.
ESPN Magazine, October 1998
by Scott DeSimon
It's just past 11 p.m., and the Kennedy Center security guards don't seem to know what to make of the motley collection of bikes and riders gathering in the parking lot of the swanky performing arts center. As is typical for the Sunday before Labor Day, Washington is empty. Those who haven't escaped the crushing humidity of late summer are home catching an air- conditioned chill, which makes the group of scruffy, bag-toting miscreants all the more puzzling. Twenty-nine-year-old Chris Schmidt rides past the security booth, messenger bag slung over his left shoulder. The crowd dressed in what looks like a mixture Tour de France chic and street- thug tough, greets him almost as one. Chris. Schmitty, Wassup, man? Everyone knows "D.C.'s Fastest Messenger." He's a local legend. Schmidt, who, until a recent buzz cut, bore an eerie resemblance to a young Peter Frampton, is uncharacteristically on time barely. He's just biked in from across the Potomac River, where he shares an apartment with his new wife. The heavy air has taken its toil, and already he"s soaked with sweat. He dismounts and hands a clammy five-dollar bill to an organizer who, in turn, hands him a list of checkpoints around the city.
Not content with (or maybe embarrassed by) being fully legit, the organizers of the sixth annual Cycle Messenger World Championships have returned to their anarchistic roots and convened this impromptu and illegal late-night race, which they call an alleycat, on the night before the "official" and legal Championship finals. Chris is the only top rider to make an appearance. The other top seeds, mostly Europeans, are resting up for tomorrow, the main event. It wouldn't matter anyway. Schmidt rides these streets for a living; no out-of-town (let alone foreign) rider is going to beat him on his turf. Besides, there's $100 to be won. On a whistle, the riders 60 in all mount their bikes and spin out past the security detail, off into the night and the traffic of New Hampshire Avenue. The security guards look relieved to see them go. Tonight's alleycat like the official races during the rest of the weekend is a descendant of guerrilla messenger races that sprang up in Toronto 12 years ago. The races were usually secret, always illegal blitzes through the city, barrelling full-on, only to lock up the cranks for an extended laying down of rubber. The trackstand competition, known as the Circle of Death, is an exercise in existential cycling that has riders balancing upright, feet on pedals and stationary, defying Newton's laws for as long as possible. Minutes go by and one by one, the riders topple and the crowd closes in. After a few more minutes, a judge calls for hands to come off the handlebars, reducing the ranks even further. The crowd, by this time in an anticipatory frenzy, surrounds the last of the riders. Feet come off, one at a time, and then it’s a frantic dance of contortions to keep from hitting the ground first. Eight-plus minutes takes home the prize.
An anachronism in these digital times, messengers are both a necessity and a favorite scapegoat in traffic-clotted cities. They spend their days dodging oblivious drivers, sucking bus fumes and trying not to piss off the police. This is the type of thing that breeds community, and somewhere back in the pre-digital ’80s, the job developed into a subculture and a lifestyle. It’s a scene rich with the snarl of punk, the cool of hip-hop, the creative energy of art school and the gearhead mentality of the bike geek. Everyone, it seems, has a "project," is in a band, puts out a 'zine or just can't stand authority.
Schmidt, a.k.a., THC (The Highest Chris), fits right in. Raised in the Northern Virginia suburbs, he raced BMX bikes in high school. After a couple of dalliances with higher education, he dropped out of college and headed where cars, trucks, buses, pedestrians and police are natural hazards as racers pass through checkpoints and complete a series of off-the-wall tasks. (An infamous Boston alleycat last year included a required spanking by a dominatrix, Don't expect a repeat of that here. "Butt-slapping ain't world-class, explains CMWC president Andy Zalan.)
In the main event, stylized, traffic-free courses simulate a courier's day. Each is given a manifest of pickups and deliveries. What follows is a free-form race in which creative route planning is as important as speed. The first to complete the manifest, in any order, wins.
Ancillary contests test ancillary skills, some more applicable to the job than others. There’s a cargo race, where riders are laden with cement blocks, pylons and other unwieldy baggage; a bunny-hop competition, in which rider and cycle hop upwards of four feet m the air; a 150-yard sprint; and a relay, where packages are passed like batons. There's also freestyle stunt riding, during which bikers jump on and over cars, trash cans and other urban detritus.
Then there are the track-bike events. With no freewheel (no gears: pedal forward for forward and backward for backward) and no brakes, track riders exist perpetually on the edge of messy disaster. It stands to reason that these events are the crowd favorites. The longest-skid contest sends riders back to D.C. By this time, he had taken to road racing. Delivering was a perfect excuse to ride 12 hours a day and still pay the rent. Known as "The Midnight Athlete by his road-racing teammates, he is rarely off his bike, pealing at night from party to party, often biking back to the ’burbs at 4 a.m. Not surprisingly, he's unloved by the community he needs to make a living, the dispatchers, who would prefer he show up for work on time. "I've been fired by about 10 messenger companies in D.C.," he says, laughing. "There are only two or three left."
Ten blocks from the alleycat finish at Dupont Circle and coasting in as the leader, Schmidt slams into a sewer drain. The familiar burn of pavement is on him as he’s thrown to the street. The bike fares even worse. The Midnight Athlete rides the last eight blocks of the race with a flat, taking second behind another local. It’s typical Schmidt. Two years ago, at the CMWC in San Francisco, he finished in the top 20, but missed a drop-off. Last year, in Barcelona, he was riding in the top 10 before a wrong turn sent him out of the competition. ("I tried to memorize the course," he recalls, sheepishly. "But I guess I was having a tittle too much fun the night before.") Last year, he won a D.C. race, earned a free ticket to Toronto, flew all the way there to compete in the Alleycat Scramble and had to pull out because he brought the wrong shoes. As the other riders straggle in, Schmidt has a smoke and asks around for a spare tube so he can compete in the next day's finals. Someone sells him one, but when Chris tries to pump it up, he finds he’s been ripped off. It's in worse shape than the one he blew in the race. Furious and broke, he walks his bike five blocks to the post-race party.
Outside Metro Cafe, 14th Street, NW is a riot of road, mountain and track bikes. It's messenger central for the weekend. They cling to every imaginable surface like pigeons to a statue. Here and there, pockets of order stand out. Teams huddle, decked out in the matching Lycra uniforms of road racers. These are the Europeans. The rap is they're more interested in winning than hanging out, and there's a general perception that the Euros enjoy a much higher status than their grungy North American counterparts. This doesn't sit well with the old-school types who are used to the sneers of office building security guards and the indignant honks of smug motorists. Rumors spread that The Germans" aren't even couriers, but teams of super riders, pros actually, put together to get publicity for sponsoring messenger companies. A couple guys grumble that "The Germans don't play nice. "I don't want to talk shit about the other teams," says one conspiracy theorist. But I heard in San Francisco some of ‘The Germans’ dropped tacks." In a some what confusing turn, some of the American old-schoolers have taken to referring to all the European couriers as "The Germans. Whether this is a nod to their impeccable dress and officious demeanor, a geographic synecdoche or just bad geography isn't exactly clear.
Still, for a gathering of 500-plus u-lock-wielding daredevils, there's a downright peaceable vibe about the whole thing. Couriers from Norway, Canada, San Fran and Germany spill out onto the sidewalk, forming a spontaneous street party. Inside and out the talk is of beer ( It's called malt liquor. Do they have it in Austria?"), bikes and common travails. The Europeans, in their natty matching uniforms, trade war stories with the rag tag North American set. Even squeaky-clean Oslo isn't safe. I've been hit four times this year, say Linda Vangsnes, a Norwegian courier. "When you're wearing that uniform, you're like a target." Hodari De Palm, dressed in the old- school uni of fatigue shorts and a ratty, white T-shirt, shows off a course map duct-taped to a cast that runs the length of his right arm. "Ho" (his messenger call name) is a six-year veteran who navigates the streets of New York City. Playing hurt is not a big deal "I figured I already paid," he shrugs. I might as well compete."
Schmidt shows up, bike in tow, and in seconds, someone shoves a beer in his hands. The smile returns and the disaster of the alleycat is briefly forgotten. The seeding for tomorrow's finals are posted outside the bar. Because of a slow qualifying heat (he missed a delivery), Chris is somewhere in the middle of the 100 finalists, but he’s not too worried. If he runs a clean race, he knows he has a chance against the Europeans, most of whom have already been in bed for hours. The organizers of the alleycat roll in and, after a brief awards ceremony, Chris settles into a table of locals, $80 richer for his second-place efforts. There will be new tube after all. Well past 3 a.m., Schmidt, with a borrowed wheel, makes his way home across the Potomac to get some sleep for the finals.
Twenty minutes before the mid-afternoon starting call, Schmidt is picking through a container of shrimp and garlic sauce, looking far a little protein for the 96-stop, three-hour marathon in front of him. A teammate reminds him of a courier race last year, where he ate a massive howl of seafood gumbo less than an hour before the start. He raced, won and promptly puked. Schmidt remembers and laughs. A few friends berate him for running the alleycat and wasting all that energy just 12 hours earlier, but they back off when Chris tells them about the 80 bucks.
Lining up for the Le Mans start, the top seeds are heavy with Scandinavians, Swiss and Germans. Hansen ("You know, like the band") and Korte, two Copenhagen couriers, represent the anti- Schmidt. Absent all weekend from CMWC nightlife, they came here to win at all costs. "The Americans don't have the same fighting spirit," says the avuncular 35-year-old Hansen. "They just come to drink beer. I respect that, but I like the competition.
Schmidt would say he came to drink beer and compete, and up until the finals, he seemed to be doing a pretty respectable job at both. The last race is a battle of attrition, with 10 riders cut after each manifest, until only 10 remain. The Europeans take first, second and third. After spending too much time at the early checkpoints, Schmidt catches 30 riders in front of him, but misses the second to last cut, officially bowing out in 22nd place. Sitting on his bike afterward, Schmidt shrugs off the disappointment with a Sam Adams. The local legend isn't fazed. And neither, it seems, are some of his admirers. Much to the chagrin of his teammates, Chris receives an invite from Yvonne Kraft, the teutonic ice queen who is the four-time women's champion. (Kraft is so serious about winning, she flew into D.C. from Karlsruhe, Germany, a few days early to check out the course and train with some road racers. She spent the Friday before the CMWC running jobs for a local messenger company, figuring out the streets and earning $300 in the process.) Kraft asks Schmidt to compete on her team in a series of messenger races in Germany, all expenses paid.
His answer is yes.
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