25 June 2004
Summer Is For Bikes!
A clot of bicycles begins to form in Justin Herman Plaza around 5:30pm on the last Friday of the month. Bikes lie against trees and trash bins while their riders loll on the plaza steps. A handful at a time, more bikes coast lazily into the plaza. A few BMX bikes dance and leap as their riders show off their stunts. A press photographer documents the scene from a cherry picker as tall as the palm trees. I ride up as the Ferry Building clock tower strikes 6.
The ride will start whenever we reach critical mass—in this case, that's the point when people begin ringing their bells, wooping, and easing their bikes onto Market Street. But right now, something's still missing....
At 6:20, the party starts: the guy with the awesome sound-system pedals into the plaza, blasting AC/DC's "Thunderstruck". A cheer goes up. This guy's bike is a homegrown marvel: it sports a cargo trailer carrying an amplifier, two hefty speakers, and a large subwoofer. A cable connects the rig to a set of controls on his handlebars. He parks his bike, engages a heavy-duty kickstand, and manipulates the controls. The music switches from metal to discofunk, and people start dancing—some on their feet, some on two wheels.
"Let's go!"
"Let's ride!"
"WOOOOT!" No cue has been given, no starting gun has gone off, but suddenly we collectively agree to begin.
Hundreds of bikes stream onto Market Street, forming a friendly, slow-moving traffic wedge. Cars and buses can't get around us, but we try to reward their patience with smiles, ding-a-ling bells, and disco music. More experienced riders "cork" traffic by interposing their bikes and bodies between us and any impatient drivers, gently assuring them that we'll be out of their way in a moment and that we don't want anyone to get hurt.
At the first sign of police, we turn off of Market and head toward Union Square, taking two laps around it as astonished tourists pull out their cameras and ask what's going on. "It's Critical Mass!" We ring our bells at them and heading into the Stockon Tunnel, where Magma Lou's automatic dynamo lights kick on. We emerge in Chinatown, where the residents have little objection to a throng of bikes. Left on Broadway and we're in another tunnel, wooping as our mobile stereo plays "Jungle Boogie". Its rider picks his ass up off the saddle and dances on his pedals. Left on Van Ness, and after a brief but strenuous climb, it's all downhill.
I remember I have a letter in my basket, spot a postbox, and glide up to it. I pause to watch the magnificent, flowing herd. It instinctively turns toward Valencia Street, but I point Magma Lou uphill toward home. Later, enjoying a refreshing glass on water at my back door, I hear them on Haight Street; you can't mistake that festive cheering and bell-ringing for anything but Critical Mass.