They race in a world of their own. The Packages are just along forthe ride.
The messenger nation descended on D.C. in a riot of bikes, beer andbravado.
ESPN Magazine, October 1998
by Scott DeSimon
It's just past 11 p.m., and the Kennedy Center security guards don'tseem to know what to make of the motley collection of bikes and ridersgathering in the parking lot of the swanky performing arts center. As istypical for the Sunday before Labor Day, Washington is empty. Those whohaven't escaped the crushing humidity of late summer are home catchingan air- conditioned chill, which makes the group of scruffy, bag-totingmiscreants all the more puzzling. Twenty-nine-year-old Chris Schmidt ridespast the security booth, messenger bag slung over his left shoulder. Thecrowd dressed in what looks like a mixture Tour de France chic and street-thug tough, greets him almost as one. Chris. Schmitty, Wassup, man? Everyoneknows "D.C.'s Fastest Messenger." He's a local legend. Schmidt,who, until a recent buzz cut, bore an eerie resemblance to a young PeterFrampton, is uncharacteristically on time barely. He's just biked in fromacross 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, inturn, hands him a list of checkpoints around the city.
Not content with (or maybe embarrassed by) being fully legit, the organizersof the sixth annual Cycle Messenger World Championships have returned totheir anarchistic roots and convened this impromptu and illegal late-nightrace, 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, themain event. It wouldn't matter anyway. Schmidt rides these streets fora living; no out-of-town (let alone foreign) rider is going to beat himon his turf. Besides, there's $100 to be won. On a whistle, the riders60 in all mount their bikes and spin out past the security detail, offinto the night and the traffic of New Hampshire Avenue. The security guardslook relieved to see them go. Tonight's alleycat like the official racesduring the rest of the weekend is a descendant of guerrilla messenger racesthat sprang up in Toronto 12 years ago. The races were usually secret,always illegal blitzes through the city, barrelling full-on, only to lockup the cranks for an extended laying down of rubber. The trackstand competition,known as the Circle of Death, is an exercise in existential cycling thathas riders balancing upright, feet on pedals and stationary, defying Newton'slaws for as long as possible. Minutes go by and one by one, the riderstopple and the crowd closes in. After a few more minutes, a judge callsfor hands to come off the handlebars, reducing the ranks even further.The crowd, by this time in an anticipatory frenzy, surrounds the last ofthe riders. Feet come off, one at a time, and then it’s a frantic danceof contortions to keep from hitting the ground first. Eight-plus minutestakes home the prize.
An anachronism in these digital times, messengers are both a necessityand a favorite scapegoat in traffic-clotted cities. They spend their daysdodging oblivious drivers, sucking bus fumes and trying not to piss offthe police. This is the type of thing that breeds community, and somewhereback in the pre-digital ’80s, the job developed into a subculture and alifestyle. 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 bikegeek. Everyone, it seems, has a "project," is in a band, putsout a 'zine or just can't stand authority.
Schmidt, a.k.a., THC (The Highest Chris), fits right in. Raised in theNorthern Virginia suburbs, he raced BMX bikes in high school. After a coupleof dalliances with higher education, he dropped out of college and headedwhere cars, trucks, buses, pedestrians and police are natural hazards asracers pass through checkpoints and complete a series of off-the-wall tasks.(An infamous Boston alleycat last year included a required spanking bya dominatrix, Don't expect a repeat of that here. "Butt-slapping ain'tworld-class, explains CMWC president Andy Zalan.)
In the main event, stylized, traffic-free courses simulate a courier'sday. Each is given a manifest of pickups and deliveries. What follows isa 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 thejob than others. There’s a cargo race, where riders are laden with cementblocks, pylons and other unwieldy baggage; a bunny-hop competition, inwhich 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 freestylestunt riding, during which bikers jump on and over cars, trash cans andother urban detritus.
Then there are the track-bike events. With no freewheel (no gears: pedalforward for forward and backward for backward) and no brakes, track ridersexist perpetually on the edge of messy disaster. It stands to reason thatthese events are the crowd favorites. The longest-skid contest sends ridersback to D.C. By this time, he had taken to road racing. Delivering wasa 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 offhis 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 needsto make a living, the dispatchers, who would prefer he show up for workon 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 inas the leader, Schmidt slams into a sewer drain. The familiar burn of pavementis on him as he’s thrown to the street. The bike fares even worse. TheMidnight Athlete rides the last eight blocks of the race with a flat, takingsecond behind another local. It’s typical Schmidt. Two years ago, at theCMWC 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 turnsent him out of the competition. ("I tried to memorize the course,"he recalls, sheepishly. "But I guess I was having a tittle too muchfun the night before.") Last year, he won a D.C. race, earned a freeticket to Toronto, flew all the way there to compete in the Alleycat Scrambleand had to pull out because he brought the wrong shoes. As the other ridersstraggle in, Schmidt has a smoke and asks around for a spare tube so hecan compete in the next day's finals. Someone sells him one, but when Christries to pump it up, he finds he’s been ripped off. It's in worse shapethan the one he blew in the race. Furious and broke, he walks his bikefive blocks to the post-race party.
Outside Metro Cafe, 14th Street, NW is a riot of road, mountain andtrack bikes. It's messenger central for the weekend. They cling to everyimaginable surface like pigeons to a statue. Here and there, pockets oforder stand out. Teams huddle, decked out in the matching Lycra uniformsof road racers. These are the Europeans. The rap is they're more interestedin winning than hanging out, and there's a general perception that theEuros 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 sneersof office building security guards and the indignant honks of smug motorists.Rumors spread that The Germans" aren't even couriers, but teams ofsuper riders, pros actually, put together to get publicity for sponsoringmessenger companies. A couple guys grumble that "The Germans don'tplay nice. "I don't want to talk shit about the other teams,"says one conspiracy theorist. But I heard in San Francisco some of ‘TheGermans’ dropped tacks." In a some what confusing turn, some of theAmerican old-schoolers have taken to referring to all the European couriersas "The Germans. Whether this is a nod to their impeccable dress andofficious demeanor, a geographic synecdoche or just bad geography isn'texactly clear.
Still, for a gathering of 500-plus u-lock-wielding daredevils, there'sa downright peaceable vibe about the whole thing. Couriers from Norway,Canada, San Fran and Germany spill out onto the sidewalk, forming a spontaneousstreet 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 NorthAmerican set. Even squeaky-clean Oslo isn't safe. I've been hit four timesthis year, say Linda Vangsnes, a Norwegian courier. "When you're wearingthat uniform, you're like a target." Hodari De Palm, dressed in theold- school uni of fatigue shorts and a ratty, white T-shirt, shows offa 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 navigatesthe streets of New York City. Playing hurt is not a big deal "I figuredI already paid," he shrugs. I might as well compete."
Schmidt shows up, bike in tow, and in seconds, someone shoves a beerin his hands. The smile returns and the disaster of the alleycat is brieflyforgotten. The seeding for tomorrow's finals are posted outside the bar.Because of a slow qualifying heat (he missed a delivery), Chris is somewherein the middle of the 100 finalists, but he’s not too worried. If he runsa clean race, he knows he has a chance against the Europeans, most of whomhave already been in bed for hours. The organizers of the alleycat rollin 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 acrossthe Potomac to get some sleep for the finals.
Twenty minutes before the mid-afternoon starting call, Schmidt is pickingthrough a container of shrimp and garlic sauce, looking far a little proteinfor the 96-stop, three-hour marathon in front of him. A teammate remindshim of a courier race last year, where he ate a massive howl of seafoodgumbo less than an hour before the start. He raced, won and promptly puked.Schmidt remembers and laughs. A few friends berate him for running thealleycat and wasting all that energy just 12 hours earlier, but they backoff 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 weekendfrom CMWC nightlife, they came here to win at all costs. "The Americansdon't have the same fighting spirit," says the avuncular 35-year-oldHansen. "They just come to drink beer. I respect that, but I likethe competition.
Schmidt would say he came to drink beer and compete, and up until thefinals, he seemed to be doing a pretty respectable job at both. The lastrace is a battle of attrition, with 10 riders cut after each manifest,until only 10 remain. The Europeans take first, second and third. Afterspending too much time at the early checkpoints, Schmidt catches 30 ridersin front of him, but misses the second to last cut, officially bowing outin 22nd place. Sitting on his bike afterward, Schmidt shrugs off the disappointmentwith 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 receivesan invite from Yvonne Kraft, the teutonic ice queen who is the four-timewomen'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 trainwith some road racers. She spent the Friday before the CMWC running jobsfor a local messenger company, figuring out the streets and earning $300in the process.) Kraft asks Schmidt to compete on her team in a seriesof messenger races in Germany, all expenses paid.
His answer is yes.
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