To my delighted astonishment, I've made four in a row now. It's a great party, and it's almost impossible not to make new friends every time you ride it.
James, the character in the red shirt on the chopper-style bike, was letting people take turns on his ride. He'd shout, 'No, put your feet on the pedals!'
I took a stab at it myself, and it's not an easy bike to ride. Not as tricky as a short wheelbase recumbent, perhaps, but definitely an adjustment.
So anyway, the big thing on this Critical Mess was what I think of, thanks to the novel Motherless Brooklyn, as wheels within wheels.
A couple of days before my car was stolen, Corinna found me a Long Haul Trucker frameset at a swap meet. I'm trying to get the shekels together to build it out, I think it'll fit me better than the Diamondback I'm on. Plus, no bend in the frame. God bless 4130 Chromo, an aluminum or carbon fiber frame wouldn't have gotten me anywhere these past eleven months. But added to bent frame, the grip shifters are worn out, there's wobble in the crankset that can't be tightened out, the derailleurs have worn out springs that keep them from ever being adjusted properly...it's probably time to retire the Cross Campus.
Something awesome about Critical Mass is it's anarchy factor. The ride goes where it goes. Meaning the guy up front probably decides unless the guy behind him decides not to follow. We had a law enforcement presence in the Sunfresh parking lot this time, just one cop car, but as we each asked him if he was our escort, he told us it was high time we fucked off.
I don't know who called the law on us, but I could tell that this one patrolman knew he couldn't bust 200 cyclists at once for whatever crime we weren't probably even committing if you get right down to it. I do think his presence queered the game a bit, as it's the first Critical Mass I've seen not go through the Plaza and that did stop at the first few stoplights instead of directing traffic around itself.
At one point a guy I was riding next to complained that we hadn't ridden over to Troost* or hit the Nelson, and I said we should get up front and direct. He agreed and took off faster than I can ride. And sure enough, we headed east on 31st, passing up Troost to go north on Prospect.
So anyway, there's this guy riding with two panniers up front and none in the back. Which I thought was eccentric even for this motley crew. All that weight and wind-grab up front.
I rode up next to him and inquired about those front panniers. His answer gave away his identity.
I wish I could post pics of the guy, but what I got was pretty blurry. The Hawaiian shirt should have given it away: when I signed up for my first Bike MS a couple of years ago, I was told I wasn't the only rider who preferred Alohas to jerseys.
"I've done a lot of touring," he said. "I got used to the weight up front."
You're Rick Gibson, I said.
Yep. My first Bike MS I rode with him, me with barely enough shit to change a flat and him with four panniers of gear and 'If I decide I'm too tired to go to Sedalia, I'll just pitch my tent and sleep were I like.'
Rick had ridden from Alaska to San Diego. He commuted by bike. I wanted to be like him but I didn't know how to even start to think that way.
This year I don't get to do Bike MS, I have to work that weekend. But Rick was the first rider who got me interested in transportational riding. I pointed to my bike with its racks and panniers and said, "See what you've done?"
I started to tell him about Corinna, the dream girl I plan to marry and he thought she sounded familiar. Then, when I saw her again, I told her I wanted her to meet Rick.
As we ride up to him, she said, "You're the guy I bought the Long Haul Trucker frame off of, right?"
Wheels within wheels, for sure.
By the time the party was heading downtown, it had gotten dark. I played Taillight Fairy: I'd been in a hardware store that was selling clip on flashers for a buck. I figured the two AA batteries in them were worth that much and had bought the last five they had. There were a lot more than five riders who didn't have a single light on their bikes, so I gave the dollar flashers away.
*If you don't live in Kansas City, Troost is the dividing line engineered by J.C. Nichols that divides the city along racial and economic lines. The deed restrictions that didn't even allow houses west of Troost to be rented to black folks haven't been enforceable for decades, but the aftermath of this Apartheid-style segregation lingers.
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