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Fast Times at the Bike Messenger World Championships

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>From the Village Voice:

  Published September 20 - 26, 2000





Fast Times at the Bike Messenger World Championships

Spin City

by Michael Kamber



The air is filled with shouts and the sound of skidding tires as riders jump

from their still-rolling bikes and sprint to the dispatch station. Jostling

like hungry men on a breadline, they push forward shouting, "Dropping

off—stamp me, stamp me," or "I need a package—I'm going long." Moments later,

they're running alongside their bikes, vaulting into the saddle in mid stride

as supporters hand off water bottles and shout encouragement: "Do it for San

Francisco. Go, motherfucker!"



Through the din, a voice comes over a radio: "He's liquored up, brown Bianchi

coming to you." The race marshal gives a "roger" and flags down the weaving

offender as he pulls into the pickup station. "You're drunk—out of the race,"

he tells the spiky-haired, shirtless rider (later identified as "Willie from

Boston"), gently leading him by the arm away from the bedlam.



"Who the hell wants to race for four hours anyway?" replies Willie. "Give me

a beer." High-fives are exchanged as his support team rushes up, struggling

with a cooler and a portable radio blasting the Cro-Mags. Willie pops the top

on a cold Schaeffer, takes a long pull, and watches the sweating, frenetic

riders for a moment. "Hey guys," he calls out, "only three hours, 40 minutes

to go."



Five hundred and fifty messengers from 25 countries descended on

Philadelphia's Fairmount Park last weekend for the Eighth Annual Bike

Messenger World Championships, a gathering equal parts bacchanal and

carnage-strewn athletic event. (Originally slated to take place in Boston,

the competition was moved to Philly after a Beantown messenger knocked a

Federal Reserve Bank executive into a coma.) While some riders train hard for

the event, many view it primarily as an opportunity to establish friendships

with their global counterparts; past host cities have included Zurich, San

Francisco, and Barcelona.



But the competition's international makeup has brought with it cultural

tensions. Alongside the three-mile course, Stephanie Larkin and her heavily

tattooed fiancé, Sean Terwilliger, both Philadelphia messengers, shout

encouragement to friends from the shade of a maple tree. But they remain

silent as scores of tall, blond riders storm by—each sporting thighs that

appear sculpted of bronze Plasticine.



"Those Danes are pros," says Larkin, pointing to the identically spandexed

riders. "They come over here every year and kick our asses and it really

pisses me off." Before the race, Jasper Jensen, the reigning European bike

messenger world champion, denied charges of professionalism. "Our advantage

is that we wait until after the race to party," he said, sitting next to his

$2000 18-speed Colnago. But he admitted that many Europeans are part-time

messengers who use the job to stay in shape when they're not competing in
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