100 years before today, bicyclists rolled down the avenues and through
the horse shit on plank roads for their deliveries. Back in the day
of Billy Ralston and the Comstock lode, drunken miners and newly rich dandies
came our forefathers. Though maximum speed for a bike in the day
was slightly faster than a dray full of sand ne'er do wells, records were
still being set.
In 1899 the first messenger alley cat race was held. Men
proud of their craft (it was deemed unseemly for young women to compete
as it was generally accepted that no woman could possibly muster the strength)
were ready, rock hard from pushing 180lb bikes up hills of 19% grade and
checking out coquettish ladies in their finery ambling down Montgomery
street, were ready to pit themselves against the worst that SF had to offer.
Though many details of the first delivery bike alleycat were destroyed
in the fires following the 1906 quake, a South of Market lad residing in
Iowa City, Iowa was able to recall the splendor of race that coursed through
alleys "South of the Slot."
"We had just downed a pint by the Tar Flats (Embarcadero at Mission)"
When I found myself careening into officer O'Malley. I'd just slid
on some night soil, Officer O'Malley gave me a sound beating and I was
on my way!" Shanghai Pete, the Iowa City grandfather went on to commend
his colleagues. "We didn't much like the snobs on Rincon Hill
so when we got up there from Harry Meigg's one had to be sure to
rip off one of those fancy lanterns for additional points, I was right
behind ol' Ribald Rob when some of the upper crust came out to defend their
Japanese lanterns, Ribald didn't even get off his bike... I'll tell ya
he was a tough act to follow wore a hat with a propeller on it he did.
I missed the lantern, somehow got a petticoat instead...the little lady
was scandalized but it got me 5 points and a pint!"
Not much has changed since 1899 the date of the first Bicycle Delivery
Alleycat Race which was sponsored by So Bags. The So tribe of Native
Northern California Indians, would later through the generations, mutations
and mispronunciations became another kind of San Francisco bag maker.
Aside from that politicians are still crooks, there's still shit in the
road and the hills still climb grades of 19% things have not changed much.
They sank into concentrated preparation. These, the new generation
of tight asses, smelly pits and crazy eyed as they hustled and elbowed
their way toward the bar. It is a tradition as old as the Gods themselves,
a rechanneling of that nervous energy into the relentless abusive pedal
stroke. Some achieve it with a couple beers, some take the edge off
with a couple tokes and still others funnel that uncompromising drive by
having an engrossed zit popping session in the ladies' room. I was
ready, my face looked like exotic fruit gone bad, but I was swelling at
the satisfaction of having executed at least 20 pustules. I found
myself on the starting line straining to hear the instructions over
the ruckus of racers asking for instructions. A young King was a
powder keg looking to launch his krypto into the rear window glass of a
police cruiser, for fun. He wouldn't tonight, it was trouble enough
staying astride his spirited steed.
When the noise died down and the grand prix alleycatters like Hermes,
the "Oh my God!" of spandex realized that hearing instructions hinged on
shutting of mouths, racers murmured amongst themselves trying to make sense
of the complicated instructions.
Grey, the grandson of the only surviving alleycatter of 1899, Shanghai
Pete, originator of the Iowa City messenger dynasty, held up his hand.
"#1, you ride for yourselves, the CMWC is in no way affiliated with this
race."
Either the first rule bounced off beer deafened ears or was met with
puzzlement. After a 15 minute wait and a bike seat lodged in Hermes
mouth Grey added, "#2 you must have 6 stamps on this manifest." Which
he held up. This new information was hotly debated. "Hey what's
he talking about?" "This is ridiculous I don't know where these places
are!" "Dumbass those aren't places, see they don't have addresses!"
"Hey has anyone seen a krypto key around here?" "hey do we need our
bags?" "You know we're supposed to use our locks!" "Hey Grey do we need
our bikes for this?"
Finally 2 cigarettes and a Lance comic later the crowd quieted down.
"The most important piece of information...the address is..." At
that phrase all signs of drunkenness, stonedness and zit popped ecstasy
slipped away. Every messenger, except the littlest king (who was
now in a fetal position caressing his kona), was as alert and big eared
as an elephant on sack. Suddenly there were no questions, arguments
that age old instinct that rests with such wonders of nature as nest building
and web weaving was triggered in 2 words. Years of patient training
from the merciful and kindhearted dispatchers of SF and the world was manifested
in this precious moment. Oh lo how the Stefan's, Pattys and Toms
would revel at their lives' work. Every messenger was transformed
from a babbling lout to a starving cheetah shod with Air Jordans.
When the final syllable of Vermont was uttered the tag crazed rushed
forward not giving Grey time to flee to safety.
They set out, a pack of dingoes after the metaphorical baby.
This was no .99 cent tag to Army street, this was no million dollar slip
and fall lawsuit, it wasn't even a mad dash to the Wall for lunch.
NO this was round trip airfare to the double helix of velodrome madness
in Vancouver. There was a passing sympathy for the fixed gear boys
as the pack grunted up Pothole Hill. At the top they were directed
to the new home of messenger swami Chuck; Pedal Revolution. Doom lurked
in that metal garage. Lee exited and exclaimed to me as he came out,
"Girl you're in trouble" I started to sweat thinking about the carrot
stained yuppie who was waiting there for me with two jumpsuited donut toting
Jim Hensen inspired villains. What waited for me was far worse than
solitary confinement at the cop shop. The beast, my antitheses, the
harbinger of my sordid fate lay waiting inside. There she stood the
mistress of my vomit inspired expulsions... A bottle of beer. I couldn't
let my fear slam me headfirst into a cheesegrater of wasted pleas.
I choked down my nausea as I guzzled the only substance known to keep me
from sloppy kissing a man. Newsletter Bob, (cousin to the famous
"Sideshow" ) shook his head understanding the courage it took to confront
my demons in that shed. Belching like the body burning fires of the
crematorium in Oaktown and smelling not unlike a crematorium myself I sauntered
out realizing a pedal stroke away that I didn't know where to go next.
Obstacles were in the alley to Tempest. Cardboard estates, Parking
code violations, and dad checking out the littlest king who was in a love
embrace with his Crankenkonastein. It was there that the racers were
indistinguishable from spectators. Yet another cup of lethal ingestion
awaited me. Race organizers and beer loaders amongst them Bargain
Jim, urged me to spill the beer, taking pity on my plight. Bathed
in beer I pressed on. The world was becoming distorted not unlike
working downtown during the day. I saw ahead of me the clever fixed
gear boy from N.Y. I couldn't help but wonder how he managed the
hills at high velocity with no brakes. Then I knew his kind lived
on wanton bloodlust and hurtling down a hill with only a backslide to stop
him was probably just a warm up to a night that would be filled with cruising
Muni tunnels blindfolded and getting burritos in the Mission while dressed
as Cinco de Mayo parader. As I followed him, the beer began to kick
in. I thought my muscle mass could counter the intoxicating effects
but I was wrong. I was touching the face of my nearest comprehension
of an acid trip. Cars were growing arms and I had a penis growing
out of my ear I felt invisible. At 545 Divisidero I saw familiar
faces and entertained the idea of taking up the local custom of the indigenous
hippies by sitting on the sidewalk and asking for change. I snapped
out of it. I was an alleycatter. One of mercury's brood.
If I was gonna ask for spare change it would be from the likes of Joel
Rich. As I bombed down Divis I saw another single speed guy and that
Willowy breed of D.C. brother. The short and swarthy, the long and
lanky. Pitbull and Saluki a beautiful vignette of messenger brotherhood
going the wrong way, but stylishly so.
Beer taking fullllll effect I pogied a Studebaker. We headed
across Geary towards the trees, the land of over priced real estate and
overwrought egos. In a squalid pocket of festering opulence stood
the last glimpse of reality on the block. Two bullet boys, backs
broken by the caring cat of 9 tails stood stamping manifests. Regular
interlopers to the filth of the Presidio and Marina districts, these two
brave lads stood their ground in a neighborhood where dog walking is a
major industry. One could feel their shame at letting this torrid
slice of the population languish in elitism and fat bank accounts built
on greed and sloth. They gave me the inspiration to go on.
Their courage to stand defenseless in a jungle with not so much as a cell
phone to protect them gave me new hope in the future of people kind.
We whipped down Lombard, the pitbull the saluki and I. I felt safe
surrounded by level headed relatively sober dudes being bathed in headlight
glare. The marina yuppies would not pick fights with me tonight.
I pondered catching a tow up to the top of Lombard but after taking an
inventory of all the wholesome groceries in my stomach; Mabel's fried chicken,
100 Pine's 12 butterscotches and a crusty rejected donut that had been
sitting on a receptionists desk for 8 consecutive hours and 3 concurrent
minutes, I rethought my strategy. We tore our knees out climbing
to the movie crew that ambushed us at Lombard and Hyde. Now it all
made sense, film trucks at the Wall for a week, it was no coincidence,
it was the sequel to..."You pussy motherfucker!" I screamed at Kevin Bacon
as he went to stamp my manifest "...let's see you ride down the Nob with
no brakes you poser."
With that we raced to Union Hollywood Squares. We were bombing
through the crowds of our anxious spectators. As messengers passed
the crowds were stunned and appalled at our reckless belching. No
man woman or child was spared from the beer induced turbo fart that jettisoned
Andy "the Kid," Strachan into Market Street putting him ahead of Toby.
The Kid had been dogging Toby for miles, mercilessly drafting the back
wheel never relenting for a moment. Psychologically, the Kid was
at the top of his game the cunning Boston cat was looking to crush Toby
at the first sign of weakness. Toby was running scared, indeed running
for his life, he knew the Kid was one with whom talk was cheap, there would
be no convincing the Kid to relent tonight, he was cocked and ready pump,
his Zefal lethally visible and protruding from his bag. And then
fate dealt her cruel hand, despite the tuffies and his winning heart the
Kid was dealt a cruel blow and a flat.
Meanwhile 15 minutes behind them the rest of the pack rocketed down
Stockton to Market. Dazed hippies counted their conk shells, bums
screamed nonsense at no one and gang bangers clutched their starter jacketed
girlfriends close.
Cheers rippled through the crowds at the Tempest as I swerved
to an fro like a muni bus at rush hour avoiding crushed cigarette butts
in the street. The Kid and all the rest were there except for a few
racers who had disappeared in the Haight, so at least I wasn't dead last.
But then after a certain point in the race, as our ancestors would remark
and in fact have inscribed on their graves, "I went to win, I rode as if
it was the last...and in the end I'm quite surprised, all things considered,
that I made it back alive!" Shanghai Pete: Iowa City, Iowa circa 1996.
