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Night of The Bikers
D.C.'s bicycle couriers race the clock--and each other.
Washington City Paper, April 21, 1995
By Maurice Martin
They gathered at twilight. By 8:30 p.m. on Saturday, April 15, nearly 80
bicycle couriers had jammed into Dupont Circle, awaiting the start of the
First Annual D.C. Outlaw Courier Race.
Though increasingly common in other cities with heavy courier traffic, the
race was the first of its kind in Washington: a nine-mile trek in the dark
through eight checkpoints and back to the Circle. "This is an unsanctioned
event," admitted race organizer and veteran courier Urk, who like most of
his colleagues, goes by his biker nickname. "We've got no insurance, and
everybody enters at their own risk."
Urk started the race by jumping onto the lip of the bubbling fountain and
shouting out the first checkpoint: "The Chinese Embassy, 2300 Connecticut."
Seconds earlier, every bike had been pointed in a different direction. Suddenly,
in the same fluid motion you see in a school of fish when a shark approaches,
the bikes aligned and streamed out of the circle, flowing past both sides
of the underpass opening and heading northwest up Connecticut.
Sidewalk pedestrians looked up in confusion. One man strolling past a bar
stared with bug-eyed wonder. A motorist honked, angry to find himself behind
a clump of cyclists. "Fuck off!" one of the couriers yelled back. Then he
and the rest of the pack accelerated, running red lights all the way.
Like outlaw races in other cities, this one simulated a courier's day on
the job. Contestants not only had to hit the eight checkpoints, but get their
manifests stamped at each. They used all their law-flouting tricks, including
"snatching"--grabbing hold of a car.
Whoever was monitoring the Chinese Embassy's surveillance cameras must have
seen a disturbing tableau: 80 couriers storming up Connecticut in fairly
tight formation, then swarming around the man who rubber-stamped their manifest
sheets.
As they got their stamps, the racers were told that their next stop was the
National Research Council on 2001 Wisconsin Ave. NW (having to plan their
routes as they rode made the race that much more like a day on the job).
In this case, there was no consensus about the best route; some couriers
turned west onto Kalorama Road, others backtracked down Connecticut, and
some continued north across the Taft Bridge.
The race, Urk said, was inspired by his most disturbing experience as a courier:
a violent confrontation with a mob of street vendors. While he fought with
his back to a wall, three of his fellow bicycle couriers rode by. None stopped
or called for help.
"That shouldn't happen," he said. "Couriers need to back each other up at
any cost. Without that, we're just a bunch of individual people running into
the streets with the whole city against us." Since the demise of d.c. space--once
the high temple of local courier culture--the profession has splintered,
and Urk hoped that a race would pull it back together.
His confrontation also illustrates the Washington police's hostility toward
couriers. "It was a rainy day in January," Urk recalled. "These two ladies
negligently jaywalked across the street in front of me." There was a near-accident,
followed by an angry exchange of words that attracted an interloper. "The
two women happened to be black, I happen to be white. All of a sudden I'm
Whitey the Oppressor in the view of the random street vigilante. This guy
starts getting in my face." Urk couldn't get rid of him, and before he know
it Vigilante Man was joined by a half-dozen street vendors.
Urk tried his radio, but was in what couriers call a "black hole"--a spot
where tall buildings block transmission. Vigilante Man disappeared around
a corner, returned with a full Pepsi bottle, and threw it at Urk's back,
breaking two ribs and cracking another. When Urk tried to defend himself
with his bicycle lock, his shoulder was pulled out of its socket.
To add insult to injury, Urk said, when the police finally arrived they threatened
to arrest him. "They told me I had been loud and disruptive in the street.
Couriers are always cast as the culprits."
That was Urk's last day on the job. His injuries forced him to retire, at
age 27, after 13 years as a bicycle courier. Among other things, the race
was a way of ending his career on an upbeat note.
But wouldn't an outlaw race just reinforce the couriers' negative image as
reckless lawbreakers? "I don't think so," Urk said. "It's not going to affect
many people. At 8 o'clock on a Saturday night, this town's pretty much vacant
of traffic."
The atmosphere at the third checkpoint, Kennedy Center, was like that of
a kids' bike-tag game after curfew. While busloads of senior citizens lined
up for the new Neil Simon play, race organizers huddled surreptitiously at
the edge of the dark parking lot, checking the progress of the race via walkie-talkie
and keeping their eyes peeled for police.
The first contestant to arrive was Zack Doo-Doo, a big guy with a yellow
ponytail. After getting his stamp, Doo-Doo spun around and cranked off in
the direction of point No. 4, the Corcoran Gallery. Among those cheering
him on was A.Z., a race organizer who talked about the complex relationship
white-collar Washington has with its couriers. On one hand, there's the bad
reputation; on the other, that free-spiritedness.
"They want to love us, but they hate us too much," A.Z. said, noting that
when he's making deliveries, elevator conversation inevitably turns to his
job. On sunny days, everyone wishes they were out riding. On cold days, people
express sympathy. A.Z.'s inevitable response: "It's never a good day to work
in an office."
From the Corcoran, racers were sent to 807 Maine Ave. SW. Those who could
resist the batter-fried aroma of Water Street's seafood eateries then biked
uphill to the U.S. Postal Service Headquarters at 475 L'Enfant Plaza SW.
The man for whom that plaza was named might be pleased to hear that couriers
from other cities like D.C.; its grid design makes it easy to navigate compared
to cities like Toronto or San Francisco.
"It's really quick," said a dreadlocked Joe Dias, one of eight couriers from
Toronto who drove down to be in the race. But unlike D.C., Dias added, the
Toronto police at least try to make cyclists obey traffic laws. "I'm amazed--here
they blow red lights right in front of the cops," he said. "Man, if you did
that in Toronto, they'd be on your ass."
Just a few minutes after Dias had left checkpoint No. 7 (the 12th Street
loading entrance for Columbia Square and the Warner Theater), heading for
the final stop (Techworld Plaza), word came over the walkie-talkie that Doo-Doo
had arrived back at Dupont Circle, making him the first-place winner. His
total time: a little more than 40 minutes.
As the rest of the pack straggled in, Doo-Doo recounted his ride to a semicircle
of admiring rookies. The most dangerous obstacles, he said, were the tourists
along Wisconsin Avenue in Georgetown. Dias beat all other out-of-towners.
In the women's division, a third-year courier named Sheba took first prize.
"Just one big happy family," she said, looking around at the boisterous mob.
The also-rans had stories to tell as well. One rider videotaped the race
by duct-taping a camcorder to his helmet. One group took a wrong turn and
ended up riding half a mile on Interstate 295. A few others racers collided
with each other, resulting in ugly-looking scrapes. But overall, there were
no serious injuries and no trouble with the police.
After Doo-Doo had held court for about 30 minutes, several couriers grabbed
him and threw him into the fountain. Dias looked on approvingly and observed,
"That's a new custom, man."
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