Man Over Marin

by Steve

Mercury Rising, Issue # 2, December 1991

Note -William Gibson refers to Steve Mathiasson's" Man OverMarin" article in his Acknowledgments at the end of his novel "VirtualLight":

"I am indebted to Marcus, aka Fur, one of the editors of MercuryRising, published by and for the San Francisco Bike Messenger Association,who kindly provided a complete file of back issues and then didn't hearfrom me for a year or so (sorry). Mercury Rising exists "to inform,amuse, piss of, and otherwise reinforce" the messenger community.It provided me with Chevette Washington's workplace and a good deal ofher character. Special thanks to Steve Mathiasson, whose Mercury Risingstory "Man Over Marin" was the basis for Chevette's dream inChapter 8.S. (while I didn't know what it really meant prior to the publicationof the hardcover), proj on!"

Vancouver, B.C., January 1993

The sky was blue and the crisp dry air was biting at his face as hepedalled along Folsom. The stiff side wind was tugging at, his wheels,so Ed’s attention was divided between chewing on his special power mixtureand keeping his bike in the lane.

The weekend before Ed had pounded No-Doz, speed, bee-pollen, and ginsengroot into a fist- sized lump, which he had then soaked for the rest ofthe week in a bowl of Jolt Cola and tea bags. This was what he was gnawingon as he rode, choking it down with gulps of sickly sweet espresso squirtedfrom his water bottle.

The weather was perfect. The wind was blowing hard, the sky was clear,and the pavement was dry.

So far everything is going according to plan, Ed was thinking, I mightjust be able to pull it off.

He took a left on Sixth Street and started pedalling hard. With thewind at his back he flew through the red lights at Howard and Mission,got a green at Market, and after bunny-hopping both sets of tracks andlanding in a hard lean, found himself headed toward Nob Hill on Taylor.

OK, one last swig of espresso, and time to jettison the water bottle.

The power mixture was kicking in hard. Ed’s legs were pumping like pistons.The wind was pushing him, and the sky was beckoning. The hill was approachingand he knew he was ready.

Rather than shifting down, as he usually would have, he bent over alifted the chain up onto a new chainring he had ordered through the mail.It was way too large for the derailleur; it barely fit on his frame withoutrubbing the chainstay. Sixty-eight teeth seized the chain and his hammeringslowed to a steady spin.

Shit, not fast enough. I'm almost at the damn hill.

Ed stood up and started pounding. He was on the hill now, but losingspeed. He tried visualizing a muni bus right behind him, snorting downhis neck. That helped, but it wasn't enough. He focused on the spirit ofEvel Knievel. He was no longer on a bicycle. He was a screaming, bellowing,gaining speed up the hill. It was just in time, the crest was up ahead.His lungs were melting and his veins pulsed with lactic acid when he reachedthe top; he pulled up hard on the handlebars and shot into the air. Hewas aloft.

Nob Hill receded behind him, shrinking into the city. Ed was soaringout over the bay riding the wing and still pedalling hard.

AaaaaaaaaaaH! I did it! I'm flying!

He looked back over his shoulder for a quick glance at the city, thenfixed his eyes straight ahead and kept pedalling he wanted to get as highand far as possible before he had to start looking for a place to land.

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