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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
|
Women:
8 would start. Only these 4 would finish: 1. Sheba Farrin
|
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1999 DC Alleycat Points Series