Issue link: https://bluemagazine.uberflip.com/i/25065
of the race each messenger is handed a manifesto, which is a list of 10-15 check points. At each check point, each rider is required to get something or perform some act. After all the check points are met, it's a mad dash to the finish. With a start in Manhattan, and the finish line in Brooklyn, riders found themselves in and out of porn shops, cemeteries, government buildings and tourist-ridden hell holes. It's obvious that a certain level of street smarts is mandatory if you have any intentions of finishing one of these. About an hour later, the fi rst group came riffling over the finish line spewing stories of cab-driver angst, the rush of hooking the back of trucks across the Manhattan Bridge and a hundred other near-death experiences. Clearly the beginnings of urban folklore. After it was all said and done, the winner of the day got a plane ticket to the world championships and last place got a set of jumper cables (everybody in-between received some signature of merit for just showing dirty teeth). So shines a good deed in a weary world . We're talking about a networked nationwide underground scene that rewards its participants for being in top physical shape, as well as shells out prizes to those with the biggest spirits. As I look at what our society awards our top athletes, and how sports marketing plans are designed to feed on the weak self-esteem of sport participants, I can only hope that this holy grail of networked Olympiads somehow sheds some lig ht. Not only is the bike a great athletic piece of steel in the cities, but it's also a way to save your mind. Once my friend Woo and I were sitting on the corner of Market and 2nd Street in San Francisco watching a gridlock of cars aggravate one another as they inched their way through the intersection. We sat there slinked over our bi kes and he says to me in a moment of unemphasi;;ed rea l ity, can't get any wider." It seemed to make sense. Then his face really tweaks, and he riding bikes in any city is this: You don't care. The overcrowding is inevitable, and you have way to deal with it. It's that simple. No anti-car activi necessary here. To sit and preach about how bikes wi radica lly resurrect our society is too hippity-dippity for When I see those bearded types who are convinced bicycle transportation is on the horizon for pvpn/h()r cringe. That doesn't work. Riding bi kes is not for A\lAnmr,,"" Change is a scary thing to the masses, and we are a ca culture. And let's not forget that, for the most part, we' also a bunch of lemmings. I don't expect the average Joe put a .45 slug into the engine block of the fa mily Chrysler The way I see it, after 30 years of questioning establishment I don't find it alright to sit with the rest of cattle in traffic. In fact, with alternative culture claiming way it does these days, shlepping along at a snails pace i traffic seems contradictory to youth culture in general. To on your ass in a car surrounded by crusty power suits wh have surrendered themselves to traffic is hypocritical. ( fin It a warped sense of what is "normal." "You know, the streets squeaks out, "And the buildings? They can't get any skinnier." And for being such a simple statement, it's something that I wonder if anybody has rea lly thought about. Streets can't get wider. Buildings can't get skinnier. which means that this shit is only going to get worse. But the beauty of tolerate it. Get out. Get the cobwebs off the two-wheeled me that so many young peopl wedged in the hall closet. Pump the cracked old ti res enough to float your fatty and go ripping out the door. you coast down the street rearrange the beer shoved your pants, keep your rolled-up pants from sucking i your rusted out chain and rea lize how large Evil Kn really is. Pull up any place you damn well please and reli in the glory of living in the Telly Savalas part of your Ii �u've always had it \.Jet on your oll\.e . • th� �:, it's about time you revisited It surprise