The Championship of Cycling's Subculture
by Chip Baker
Bicyclist, July 1997
Bike messengers are a different breed. To outsiders, they appear tobe equal parts anarchist, Hell's Angel and Nazi storm trooper. They livehard, ride hard and sometimes die hard.
The only time you probably notice them in your daily life is when theyare pressed up against you, dripping with sweat in a crowded elevator,or as a high-speed blur as one flashes by in front of your car. They arenot people you think of as being "one of us," and you probablydon't consider them athletes. Spend some time with them (which is fairly-impossible,due to the fact that they live in such a tight-knit group and accept outsiderswith about as much affection as a wolf pack) and you'll see past the harshexteriors and find bicycle fanatics who are more committed to the sportof cycling than you and I combined. Most of them choose messenger worknot because they can't get a job doing something more socially acceptable,but because they can't find any other way of life that rewards them forriding their hearts out eight hours a day five days a week.
What’s even more amazing than the fact that messengers risk their livesevery day is that even after an entire day in the saddle, they can rallythe energy and enthusiasm to ride out of the city and into the surroundingheadlands for more pedal-pushing pleasure ln a roundabout way, that ishow the whole idea of a world championships for bike messengers was spawned.It grew from the alley cat underground races that have been as much a partof the bike messenger culture as messenger bags. It became their Woodstockan opportunity to gather the "global tribe", share ideas, admireeach others' new tattoos and scars, exchange art and music party and testtheir mettle in some of the most demanding cycling cities in the world.This year's Cycle Messenger World Championships (CMWC) took place in SanFrancisco, California, and took advantage of both its hilly terrain andfervent bike culture. Participants came from as far as Europe the Far Eastand Canada.
While rolling along Fisherman's Wharf on a prerace tour of the racecoursetalking with one of my courier buddies, I noticed a group of five riderslooking suspiciously like neo-pro Euro road racers. Upon further investigation,it was decided that the entire Euro contingent was cheating" or atleast that's how the couriers from New York, Boston and San Francisco sawit. It seems these cyclists had a real problem with the fact that the Eurosdidn't smoke, drank far too infrequently and, frankly, took their "training"much too seriously. What a surprise, I thought, Euros dominating a bikerace. I guess that was my real problem with the Worlds as I saw it, theAmericans, Canadians and Japanese came for the party, the exchange of artand ideas and to be around like-minded bikers, and the Euros were crashingthe party. While the Americans didn't stand a real chance of victory, theydid put up one heck of a fight and our women rode respectably.
Qualifying rounds narrowed the field of competitors to the 100 fastestcouriers. A miss-and-out format was used, where points were accumulatedby picking up packages of varying sizes. A PC computer, for example, countedfor double what a flat envelope would. Riders had to pick up packages anddeliver them to the next checkpoint to drop their "tags." Therewere numerous check points, throughout the course, making strategy an integralpart of the success.
In the final, the 100 fastest messengers took off from the eastern waterfrontat Embarcadero Plaza in a Le Mans start, where the riders dashed down thestreet to their bikes. The ensuing rush of bodies left a few riders crasheda mere 50 feet into the race, looking for spare wheels and bikes. The rulesof the qualifier were supplanted for a simpler, fast-paced format in thefinal. Racers still had to pick up and deliver packages, but the slowerriders were pulled from the field by officials based upon their place inthe pack.
What really mattered was the actual competition. The course was laidout along the Embarcadero and snaked through town, featuring a downhillsection that would make Mammoth Mountain's fabled Kamikaze downhill palein comparison. A checkpoint was at the top, forcing riders to get off theirbikes and run down e flight of stairs before remounting their bikes. Theyhit warp speed on the down hill in about five seconds, at which point manyriders were seen riding no hands, strapping their bags back on. The messengershit Broadway at about 40 to 50 mph and took the turns so hard their rearwheels chattered across the broken pavement. Oh yeah, and did I point outthat about 95 percent of the racers were on drop bar road bikes with skinnytires?
While it was amazing that the descent didn't actually claim some seriousbody count, the climb definitely took its toll. San Francisco is knownfor its hills, and the race promoters ran contestants over some doozies.With packages under their arms or strapped to their backs, the riders humpedup those hills like mountain goats. Grunting and grinding, that sectionhammered home to every spectator pre sent that these cyclists were thereal deal.
This year’s messenger of all messengers was Sven Baumann, a Swiss riderfor Cyclomessengers Unis Suisses. Many pints were tilted in his name andmany more for all who came and saw and rode their hearts out, proving onceagain that it's not so much the winning that matters, but putting everythingyou have into the competition.
Chip Baker, an eight-year San Francisco resident, is the former editorof California Bicyclist.
If you have comments or suggestions, email me at messvilleto@yahoo.com