Critical Mass Again

I rode in Critical Mass tonight and had a fine time; the ride was dry and festive; I was dressed just right in a waffle-shirt, flannel, vest, and armwarmers with wool tights and jeans; a few snorts of bourbon kept the chill off and a safety meeting at ride’s end, under the Fremont Troll, made the ride home for me that much more interesting.

I love the mood at the mass up; it’s heartwarming to see familiar faces with bikes getting ready to ride. Some people really make the scene: Haulin’ Colin was there with a kegcrow in his trailer and a friend sitting next to it dispensing en route; a couple girls in tights rode up on a tandem singing happy birthday and handing out brownies; Aaron was there on his fucking tall bike; and Derek Ito worked the crowd with flyers for the FHR on Sunday.

And I like the swarming as people begin circling before leaving Westlake Center; the first few minutes of the ride as riders pour into the streets thrills me, too.

But I think I pinpointed tonight what’s the challenging part and it’s not even the somewhat adversarial stance that some participants take towards cars; I’m used to that.

There are two things, really, one of them a drum I regularly beat.

That, the first one, is that what I like best about the bike is using it for transportation; riding to places, not just around is, for me, what cycling is all about. And Critical Mass, for all its hoopla, is really just another ride around; it’s fun to be on our bikes together, but where are we going?

The second thing is embodied in the Simpson’s quote, “No one suspects the butterfly.” My friend Moosh said that on a ride when we were breaking some traffic laws sneakily.

I support Critical Mass’ noble mission of making the bicycle more; but part of me that likes it better being invisible.