Bikes about being traffic, not stopping it

By Nick Norman

SAN FRANCISCO -- Critical Mass races past the suits and the mocha drinkers. Ferries unload office zombies and barges push freighters through the bay. Office buildings rise in a concrete crescendo to the skyscraper core of downtown San Francisco. The Embarcadero is the playground for a subversive rendezvous.

Apprehensive drivers stare from behind steering wheels. Their glares grow more intense as the bicycles grow in numbers. They know what's coming: More than 2000 bikes will bring their commute to a halt.

Critical Mass began in San Francisco in 1992 as a simple gathering of friends. Today, it spans six continents and includes tens of thousands of devoted followers. On the last Friday of every month crowds gather in major cities around the globe to express their love of two-wheeled transport.

This phenomenon is not a protest and it's not a demonstration. It's simply a gathering of like-minded folks -- the kind who pedal their way through life.

As the crowd gathers at Justin Herman Plaza the event builds to its full magnitude. Awkward teenagers, bicycling businessmen, even retirees clot the street. "Whoooo, whooooo!" calls one stranger. Nearby, a man tows a bed of sub woofers and speakers.

The numbers swell and colors, sizes and ages blend and sway into a mass -- a Critical Mass.

Don't imagine that you are morally superior because you're on a bicycle.

"Who knows where we're going?"

"We won't know until the cops get here!"

That's right, the cops. But not to arrest anyone or cite the helmet-less. In a supreme act of San Franciscan Zeitgeist, the police safely clear the way for the progression. Critical Mass endorses anarchy, but it's city-assisted anarchy, if only for safety's sake.

Don't pick fights with motorists, even if they're itching for one.

At one point, a marooned taxi driver kills his engine, steps from the vehicle and yells, "Get a job! You're a burden to society! Get a job, you bums!"

One rider retorts, "I'm a software engineer!" The taxi driver fades without a sound.

On another street, a man in a Lexus yells, "You're all drunk!" This, however, is a gross misstatement; there are some people who are perfectly sober.

The cacophony of car horns swells and fades. During a particularly long delay at Union Square, honking reaches its zenith. A cyclist yells, "Honk if you like bikes!" And they keep honking.

An exasperated fellow in a BMW Z3 rests on his horn for a solid 15 minutes.

A rider with a megaphone stops at his hood: "What you're experiencing is called Critical Mass. We're not blocking traffic, we are traffic. Thank you for waiting!" He probably can't hear him over his horn, though.

Do fill gaps to displace cars.

Myriad bicycles slowly pedal by. Some seem almost too light, mere suggestions of bikes. Others look like they've done hard time in a Russian prison. Some are shiny, and others sport a rusty patina. A Penny Farthing -- one giant wheel, one tiny wheel, the rider sitting about eight feet high -- struts above the swaying helmets and hair.

Do stick together and keep it safe.

The procession snakes and squirms all over town. White-tiled walls swoosh by as hundreds of bicyclists coast through a thick, warm concoction of car exhaust, sweat and weed. Chants and whoops ricochet off tunnel walls. Conservative estimates put the downhill speed at 30 miles per hour.

While circling yet another city square, the leaders decide not to turn right for a thirteenth time. Breaking free of the looping path, a jubilantly gay man proclaims, "Going straight in San Francisco?!" His co-riders laugh.

All told, Critical Mass covers over 11 miles of urban terrain. And according to tradition, a party waits at the finish line.

Contact Nick Norman at (408) 551-1918 or npnorman@scu.edu.