Whose Streets? Their Streets!

The first big event I endured for this story was the weekly Saturday-night mplsbikelove.com bike ride in July. I met thirty riders, mostly of the messenger and “posenger” (Gene Oberpriller’s derisive coinage) variety—Surly fixed-gears, oversized messenger bags, visible rock-hard calves. When I pulled into the Dinkytown McDonald’s parking lot at five minutes before ten, a pedal snapped off my 1970s Schwinn Continental. “Bummer,” some dude commiserated. I was actually relieved.

Somebody examined the damage. There was enough left when the bolt snapped off to remove it. “You’re in luck!” the guy exclaimed. (Uh, maybe not . . . .) The cry went out, “Who has an extra pedal?” Messenger bags were searched. Somebody stepped forward out of the darkness. “I do.” But that pedal didn’t fit—something to do with vintage-Schwinn English-measurement issues. Unless these strangers could smell writer, they had no idea who I was or what I was up to, but they persisted. “Wait here, man,” one of them said. “We’ll go up the block and see if Varsity Cycle has any pedals in their dumpsters. They usually do.” I went to the liquor store across the street and bought a six-pack. No matter how this turns out . . . .

When the guys came back, they had a pedal that fit. I went on the ride, and, at each stop, I drank a beer (somebody had room in his messenger bag for my six-pack) and listened to the other riders talk about eggbeater pedals and bullhorn handlebars and how Chrome brand messenger bags are still good but too trendy—also about collections for comrades injured by moron drivers. (Note: According to the city’s figures, 30 percent of all bicycle accidents are the result of cars failing to yield to cyclists, and 30 percent are the result of cyclists failing to yield to cars.) There were also horror stories about people getting mugged or “bottled” on the greenway after dark and something called “U-lock justice,” wherein you stick your U-lock in your back pocket and use it as a blunt instrument if someone cuts you off in his car. (Note: Nobody ever really admits to this.)

Both at the beer stops and on the ride, as I listen to the cyclists and whip through a night illuminated only by a $25 bar-mounted lamp, a psychological profile reveals itself. The profile seems to apply to all cyclists, whether they wear sausage suits or ride fixies, whether they’re commuters or recreationists. High in the saddle, they’re aware of their vulnerability, knowing an open car door could put them in traction; they feel either ignored or persecuted by both the motoring public and the police; they’re infused with the self-righteousness of knowing they’re combating America’s obesity trend and that their carbon emission number is next to zero. All of which can render them either amusingly insufferable or just plain insufferable.