Neutral motion
It’s 1:00 am, cold and almost misty. The streets are erie, almost. I’m somewhere on 30th Street, heading west-ish, towards Market Street; actually, an offshoot. Without ear phones, a song plays — perhaps a radio, or a car — Dire Straits: “Your Latest Trick,” a classic rock tune from the 80s. Something about taxis only taking calls for cash. It’s that time of night, I find myself pushing off the cold by keeping up a good pace. It’s the post-Critical Mass ride home. This particular mass is a perfectly-balanced failure and perfectly-balanced flop and a pivot point of perfect. Love to hate it, or hate to love it, or whatever.
Earlier, I’m chasing a ghost blinky up Park Boulevard, coming from the foot of the Coronado bridge. Red lights seem to be just for me today, and I’m in no mood to try my luck at getting killed by running one. The blinky goes straight, while my tire veers left towards the back side of the Science Theater. A young guy, perhaps Filipino, asks for help putting a rear wheel on a mountain bike with disc brakes. It’s a bit tricky. He queries me about the upcoming event: is it fun? How far do they ride? What is the speed like? Is it dangerous? What do I recommend?
That idea makes me wonder: what do I recommend with Critical Mass? You can ask a hundred people what they think about Critical Mass and get different definitions. This may sound clichéd; but actually, I did ask over a hundred. As a side project, in concert with some others, I took an informal survey at Critical Mass, asking people about why they were there, what was good, bad, how many they’ve ridden, etc.
To say the crowd is diverse, an understatement. Just looking at bikes (secretly, I lust after other bikes, just don’t tell my bike that), there’s nothing missing: welded-together Frankenbikes, 20 feet tall; a brand-new P1, flat black carbon, complete with integrated water bottle; classic steel road frames; smashed beyond belief BMX bikes; track bikes; fixie trick bikes; tandems; Walmart specials; old Raleighs; new Surlys; utility bikes; a unicycle with an impossibly big 33” wheel; beach cruisers; full-suspension mountain bikes; recumbents; mixties; trikes; bikes with trailers. Just before the start there are close to 1,200 bicycles.
The people on the bicycles are just as diverse, if not more so. At one side of the fountain are the Cretins, a group of young riders, who now show up just for the beginning of the ride. The story goes they used to help corral the mass, but after a while, it was just too much to wrangle, and they gave it a critical pass. They are friendly, open to anyone who talks to them. By the trees, the nervous, the stand-offish, those looking for friends. This group, typically white, mid- to late-20s, friendly, but wary, as if I’m selling vacuum cleaners and at any minute their Visa card will magically appear in my hands. Many have driven here, a few Burberry scarves hang loose around necks. Around the fountain, the cliques of friends; to talk to them is to interrupt a conversation, generally with a look of surprise. Mingled amongst the crowds, BMX kids fly off the fountain.
The answers I get to my questions are always slightly different; almost everyone is glad that there is hope to “regain the mass,” others are doubtful that it could ever happen. Some admit they are there for the feeling of anarchy, others are heavily guarded at someone they don’t know asking questions, and a few somewhat hostile. Most are overly happy, enthusiastic about riding free of worry from traffic, free to laugh and yell and ring bells.
I’m lost in the crowd, listening to someone explain to me the correlations between circling Mecca on Hajj and circling the fountain. For a few seconds I almost understand it, but the cheering starts, the mass is moving faster, more people are dumping into the group. I’m swimming against traffic to get to the bike and find friends who are already swept up. But too late, and it’s me in the mass.
Two miles later, we all meet up, and ride down University. The mass is hopelessly stretched out, long and thin. We circle around and hit 30th. Giving up, a small portion of us peel off and stop for the night. We watch the rest of the mass go by for a few minutes; cheering with them. But clearly, sticking together just didn’t happen.
By accident, we meet other riders we know. Stories are told (the cheerleaders on a tandem were seen, but this time, not dressed as cheerleaders), topics drift to this or that. A few stragglers float by from time to time. We laugh, we’re a ragged crew of mismatched people, all for fun. I talk a little about the survey, and the outreach. It’s a curious thing, like putting your finger on a sound.
It gets late, then later, and we all call it time to ride home. Friends head out, and I take a moment to pause on a street corner. It’s eerily quiet. I’m thinking about the night’s activities. We’ve talked to strangers about important things. We ride. We meet later, and talk about the good, the bad, and the indifferent. For some reason, I can’t decide to put it in a win column, or a loss column. Can a thousand people on bikes be so simple as a party? Or is it just another San Diego miss, a thousand people who can not link up and ride for a purpose.
A gentle shrug, and I’m up in the pedals, pushing it out home. The trip isn’t a short one, but on nights like this, there’s no hurry. The only thing to ride with is my thoughts, anyway.