"Those Damn Messengers" Messenger Race

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Metro Cafe, Washington, DC, December 18th, 1999
Full results

by Sheba Farrin

I cannot navigate and race my bike at the same time. I just can't. Nor can I eat a banana, read a map, make a phone call, or pump up a flat tire with any level of dexterity. All of these actions, necessary steps to finishing the "Those Damn Messengers" Messenger Race, only brought me to new levels of panic. In hindsight, I can laugh…

December 18th, 1999 was a relatively cold night in Washington, DC, but the rain that had been threatening held off, a blessing to the 28 men and 8 women who gathered at the Metro Café on 14th Street to demonstrate their courier savvy. I knew I should have warmed up first, but the trip up 14th Street hill to the new Columbia Heights Subway sort-of did the trick. Thirty-six of us weaved around traffic and each other in a mad dash for the first checkpoint, and then back to Metro Café.

Arriving back at Metro, someone handed me a phone number and I called it to find the location of the next checkpoint. As I struggled to connect, Jay Moglia shouted to me, "Where's the Toledo Lounge?" For a moment I ignored him, concentrating on remembering how to dial a telephone without hyperventilating. Then I realized that Jay was telling me what I was trying to figure out. "Up 18th Street!" I yelled as I tried to jump in behind him.

Jay's small gap was more than I could compensate for, although he stayed within my sight through the next couple stops, I began to regret the long training ride I had taken earlier in the day. When I arrived back at Metro, Jay was finishing his 5-second track stand skill. There were people all around my timer, Laura Vogel, and me as I did my track stand, balancing in one place on my bike, without touching the ground. I quickly began pursuing Jay on a trip to upper Georgetown. Lots of climbing, and more pain from tired quads. Somewhere along the way I lost Jay. As I began the return trip, I saw Therese Bjorn, not too far behind me, on her way to 2001 Wisconsin; we gave each other a cheer as we passed.

On my way back down to Metro, I could hear someone making his or her way up behind me. When he arrived on my wheel, I carried us down to the bottom of P Street before I asked him if he would pull. As the stranger passed me to take the lead, I breathlessly pleaded, "Don't drop me." His response, "Oh, no way." told me that we were in the race together, for the long haul. I was grateful, as the little rise up P Street into Dupont Circle proved to be one of the hardest moments of my evening, and the next checkpoint, back in Georgetown, forced us to do it twice.

My new friend and I crashed over an obstacle, the bunny-hop skill, and headed back to the west. With a bit of open road before us and a newfound partnership, we exchanged vital information. Turns out, Chip Atkins is a Richmond messenger, hence his vaguely familiar appearance and his absolute need to keep me for directions. Sitting on his wheel, I often was able to even get my head together enough to keep us from getting totally lost. Except when the checkpoint was Johnson Avenue, Northwest. I stood there, begging Jason Stevenson to hurry as he tried to read a map. I was grateful that I was not the only one who had no clue, but when Jason told me "Off Corcoran Street", I led Chip and myself in the wrong direction twice before taking a deep breath and remembering where the hell good old Corcoran Street was in relation to the Metro Café.

The race organizers, Shawn Bega and Andy Zalan, borrowed my wind trainer for the race. Had I known their diabolical plan, it never would have happened. How could I have guessed the way they could torture me with my own equipment? Lock your bike, run into the club. Inside, through door guys and spectators, the band , Del Rey, playing on the stage. I barely remember hearing their music as I jumped onto a bike on the wind trainer. "Now grab a banana and eat it!" Cristina Calle shouts at me. Everything is a blur. I think my legs were pedaling really hard and I didn't realize that I was on a track bike until I tried to get off and it threw my forward. Now I am a person who cannot eat while I exercise. For eighty-mile races, I use liquid food, nothing solid, ever. Eat a banana? In a rush? I shoved three quarters of the banana in my mouth and tried to chew. Nothing. The banana turned into a semi-solid, sticky mass in my mouth. My swallow reflex had turned to a gag and I wondered if I would have to spit it out to avoid throwing up. I looked to Cristina for help. "Just shove it in your mouth." Oh sure, just. I took one more painful bite of the banana and saw the crowd for the first real time, laughing and pointing. Hot on Chip's heels, I was far less amused. A couple blocks later, as I finally swallowed the last bits of banana, Chip yelled to me how much he needed that food. If we weren't partners, I might have killed him.

A quick trip to southwest, Chip waiting for me coming back uphill, and then we were back at Metro for what would prove to be the final skill, titled by Shawn and Andy, "You're gonna hate us for this one." Say what? I thought I already did. Of course, I could hate them more, if they were to say, let the air out of my tire and make me pump it back up before I can continue. And of course there is that problem with mounting panic. My air cartridge fails. I fumble with it to no avail so I go to my backup, the small hand pump. Turns out, it's set to the wrong valve setting. I try to reverse it, not reversible. I must have looked ridiculous there in the cold, in my silver skirt screaming, "Does anyone have a pump?" Ah, Chip, my hero of the night, now done with his own tire, hands me his pump and gets on his bike to wait. More people are showing up and getting the air let out of their tires as Chip and I head up 18th Street to club Asylum.

According to the ticket we received, Asylum is our final checkpoint, and I feel truly happy for the first time in many miles. We go down through Adams Morgan and head east on U Street. As we sat at the light at 16th, waiting for traffic, Chip suddenly yelled, "Shit! We gotta go!" I looked around and saw the problem, Frank Peele passing us. At about my one hundred and tenth mile of the day, I knew that Frank had it on me, but I didn't want to hold back Chip, who clearly had more strength that me on that night. "Chip! You have to go!" Good racer, Chip, he finally did. When we arrived at Metro, Chip and Franker finished in that order, and just about a half block ahead of me. We were 5th, 6th and 7th overall.

Thanks to our sponsors who gave all of these people prizes:
Timbuk2, Bailey Works, Chrome, and Slouch Messenger Bags
Swobo, Jinx Proof Tattoos, East Coast Clothing, Burrito Brothers, and Patagonia and Spencer Lebouf.
Thanks to our bars: Asylum, Toledo Lounge, and above all, The Metro Cafe.
Thanks to our bands: Big Orange Pop and Del Rey

Overall:
36 would start.
Only these 20 would finish:

1. Jay Moglia
2. John Whiitington
3. Colin Maher
4. Jason Stevenson
5. Chip Atkins
6. Frank Peele
7. Sheba Farrin
8. Brian Kemler
9. Miles and Miles and Miles
10. Nathan Osborn
11. Neil thomson
12. Delaney T Vance
13. Therese Bjorn
14. Sami Fournier
15. Ted Kaye
16. Scrooge
17. Corey Twyman
18. Lee Johnson
19. Eugen "Duck" Lee
20. Lisa Martin

Women:
8 would start.
Only these 4 would finish:

1. Sheba Farrin
2. Therese Bjorn
3. Sami Fournier
4. Lisa Martin

Other Catagories:

Top Mountain Bike:
Frank Peele

Top Out of Towner:
Chip Atkins (Richmond)

Top Track Bike:
Jason Stevenson

Most City Papers Collected:
(winner of the Jinx Proof tattoo)
Jason Stevenson

1999 DC Alleycat Points Series

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