Hideouswhitenoise, Fall 1996
by Guido
In the human made valley of glass and metal, on the backside of #1 Bush St. in downtown San Francisco, there is a place known to San Francisco bike courier's as the Wall. It is their place to eat, smoke and hang out between the calls that took them from the depths of the city's core, to its grueling heights. During the days preceding the Labour Day week-end, it was the first stop for those who had come to attend the 4th annual Cycle Messenger World Championships.
They had come to race. Like two wheel shriners, a three ring circus, they were traveling entertainers, here to party with others who willingly dropped themselves into a sea of metal sharks that flatulated carbon monoxide. They were here to meet the same crazies who rode in any weather for no money. They were here to engage in group therapy with Doctor's orders to push the envelope of human endurance, punctuated with intense mental abuse, sensory overload and lack of sleep. They had come for the Gathering.
The first messengers began to filter into the city a week and a half before the main event. Names surfaced in conversation, some like old time gunfighters coming to town to defend their rep. Andy Schnieder, the winner of the first race in Berlin in '93 and London in 94 would not be participating, he was busy moving.
Though the festivities did not officially begin until Friday, messengers from fifteen countries from as close as Canada to as far away as New Zealand drank long into the night at the CW and the Zietgiest, both courier bars that let the riders take their bikes into the building as opposed to locking them outside. Now that was civilization. Groups of newly found friends traversed the city, being tourists and taking in the hills.
On Friday, 600 foreign messengers joined approximately 3500 civilian cyclists at Justin Herman Square, for the largest Critical Mass the city had ever seen. The route took them through the city and eventually to the Maritime Hall for the World Welcoming Party.
When those messengers, who became confused and finished the ride to Ocean Beach, found their way back to the party, they were greeted by a sight from an autophile's worse nightmare. Bicycles covering a city block of chain linked fence.
"It would certainly be a good night for someone to be selling spare parts," the comedian running the parking lot commented.
"No it wouldn't," A passing Torontonian Courier rebutted. "Because when we caught him, we'd hang his skinned body as a warning to the rest of his ilk." The Parking Lot attendant frowned and said nothing more.
The Maritime Hall was an explosion of sound and courier sites, half pipes and trick bikes, flying trapeze and bands. With half a mind on where the next beer was coming from and half a mind on the big race the next morning. The nine hundred party goers thrashed long into the night, taking in faces and hurdling language barriers.
The first official race of CMWC 96 began at eight thirty on a cool Saturday, August 31. Heats consisted of fifty riders and the object was to navigate five checkpoints while accumulating as many points as possible. Three of the checkpoints were on relatively flat ground, while the other two were accessible by the agonizingly steep Vallejo St. and the lung buster known as Montegomery. Heats were not won by speed, they were won by strategy and navigation.
Elimination heats were run from 8:30 in the morning to 3:00 in the afternoon. A sizable crowd showed up to cheer the racers who went up the hills and especially those who freefell down them. Couriers sprawled in the parking lot on Front St., drinking beer, exchanging race stories and memorabilia, while their comrades pounded around the course, wheezing up and screaming down hills.
The first naked rider was spotted at Checkpoint #5 near the end of the Saturday's racing. The lone cyclist who was in a state of nature was not from Boston, but was the lone courier from Edmonton. Stripping down to a Japanese fan, the crazy canuck threw modesty to the wind and finished the race wearing nothing but shoes and a smile.
The event ran like a swiss watch. Heroic volunteers manned the information booths, barricades and checkpoints. Police turned out in droves, to make sure everything was under control and the day passed with minimal injuries and maximum sunburns.
The second day of racing saw more elimination rounds, including the much anticipated women's heat as well as the cargo, basket and old git races. Highlights of the second day included the wipe out by the woman from Denver. Luckily she only received a small facial wound, but it caused quite a scare in the crowd. Later, the spectators were entertained by the clowning of Eric Zoe, undisputed king of the cargo bike. And of course there were more naked riders.
It wouldn't be a Cycle Messenger World Championship if there weren't a lot of people racing around nude. Most riders became loose with their clothing later in the day when it became a little warmer, go figure. Cosmos from San Fran, a couple of Chicks and Chains from Vancouver and others who couldn't be recognized later with their clothes on competed for the surprise of the crowd.
That night revelers gathered at the SOMAR, a city owned hall situated at Brannon and Ninth. Courier Art covered the wall. The first part of the evening was like a bizarre twilight zone episode with bike messengers perusing art like art snobs at an auction. As the night progressed and the music turned up, the couriers reverted to form and they drank into the night. Racers waited expectantly for the results, not knowing if they should go home and rest for the final, or drink until the sun came up.
Early Monday Morning a large group of groggy messengers assembled for the finals at Justin Herman Square. Posted as a two hour race, the course was extended a few more city blocks and included a few more of San Francisco's notorious hills. Each racer received an embroidered race bag courtesy of Timbuk2, that were filled with packages to drop.
The racers lined up in a bunch, back almost one hundred feet from their bikes piled high. The countdown was given and they were off. Racers bounded over each other, grabbing their bikes, trying to beat the pack out of the square. One unfortunate competitor had his bike damaged during the rush, but found a substitute and quickly rejoined the throng.
The final was more of a lap race, then a navigational race. As the riders completed each lap, a certain percentage was eliminated from the pack. Competitors who thought they were in for a two hour race, quickly found themselves in a one hour final. Racers who were pacing themselves for a two hour race were out of luck.
Justin Herman Square was the host for the closing events that were filled with laughter, camaraderie and sadness. Bands entertained the throng as did the always crowd pleasing Trials event. The awards ceremony followed with the top male rider awarded to Sven Baumann of Switzerland. The top female rider and who finished third overall was Ivonne Kraft, Cycle Messenger Female World Champion, four years in a row.
The final order of business was messengers taking to the stage to speak of their fallen. One after another, teary eyed messengers told of their friends who had died. Unfortunately most of them had fallen, not under the wheels of an automobile, but under the influence of drugs and depression. As one women, who had just buried her brother a few days earlier, said. "If you see someone who needs help, help them, because if we don't take care of each other, who will?"
Couriers then mounted their bikes and took a slow ride along the harbour to a the area of the city known as Mission Point. A burying ground for messenger's bikes and a place to mourn SF's deceased messengers. One Hundred and Fifty couriers stood in silence, remembering their dead. Complete strangers hugged whoever was closest and wished them well, knowing someday it could be them.
An old bike had been found on the ride out to the Point. As a tribute to a fallen friend and all those who had gone before, the velo was thrown into the bay. Small groups of cyclists began to drift away and head toward the finishing party at the SOMAR.
The closing party was more subdued then the previous night, or as jammed packed crazy as the Friday night world welcoming party at Maritime Hall. It might have been the ceremony at Mission Point, or the knowledge that a week-end they had planned for over a year was quickly coming to an end. New found friends gathered and spoke reverently about the fantastic week-end just passed. They had come to San Francisco to race, but racing had become secondary to the people met, the memories shared and the knowledge they weren't crazy for doing such a fucked up job. As the night drifted into twilight, messengers staggered off, with the parting call of, "I'll see you next year in Barcelona."
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