One had only to the listen to
the sounds of last night's event to get a sense of the drama that
ensued.
Oscillating between the wild
rage of cowbells and cheers to the grim silence that follows a body slamming
into a barrier.
Hey man, I can dig
a night of drama. But this was well beyond the limits of fun.
Trimble boasted on
the podium, before doling out messenger bags, champagne and tubs of flowers, "I
think we found the limit of what fixed gear bikes can do" to which a rowdy
heckler responded , "I think you went too far".
I'm glad I'm not the only one
who felt like yelling at Trimble by the end of the night.
I know what you're thinking:
"It's a fucking unsanctioned race! See rule 5". I get it. It's an event born of
cut-throat, alley-cat, fixed gear messenger culture. I respect the culture, and
the danger, and the speed.
But the cycling
community respects its members. And no race director sets out to plan an event
for Carnage. And if they do, they should be held in the same regard as their
barbaric historical counter parts, the Romans.
By the third turn
of the course any rider morphed from athlete to survivalist. Blind turns and
unswept corners were the lions pit towhich Trimble threw his
racers.
"Coming in hot" is such a
grave understatement for the speed of the first lap. Pressed up against the
guardrail, I heard one rider's dad marvel at the speed of the motopace, assuming
the riders would be far behind. When we saw how closely Bezdek and his fearless
competitors followed, the tension was palpable. The hair on my arms
raised.
What rider wouldn't push
himself so instantly against the wall of pain. After the gut wrenching anxiety
of having the entire event pushed back nearly an hour due to what every
spectator had referred to as someone literally having their "face ripped off" in
the first qualifier.
Everyone was itching to get
their ass in a saddle and get it over with.
The pack came around the final
chicane for the straight away on the first lap. One rider down, two riders down,
finally four at the same corner. Riders and bikes flying into the air, over the
barriers, into the crowd. It was obvious something was wrong. (Watch that crash
here:http://m.youtube.com/#/watch?v=po44w_WDpKs)
Quickly the crowd divided into
groups of those who would gladly attend a dog fight and those who'd rather not
see someone they love break a collar bone.
Holding my vegan ice cream
come that was so kindly supplied by one of the many awesome food trucks, I felt
instantly sickened. I threw my ice cream come in the trash and went in search of
my riders. Luckily Josh Direen of Stanridge Speed Cycles came out relatively
unscathed while others hunkered down in piles of mulch to assess the damage to
their $200 kits, $3000 bikes and their asses.
It didn't stop there. It was
only a handful of laps before other riders went down on what we had already
determined was an unrideable course. At one point, riders crashed so hard into
the barriers, an audible, collective gasp was emitted and the entire crowd
lurched back in fear.
By now, my team was frantic.
With one rider possibly still in the race, we held our ground for one more lap.
No sign of Travis Freeman of Paradise Garage Racing. We ran up an down the
midway, in the dark, wildly searching for what we hoped was a conscious
rider.
Where the hell was the medical
team at this unsanctioned shit show? The staff comprised of two people, sitting
on the ground, flashlights in their teeth, haphazardly applying band aids to
downed riders, no visible indication that they were health professionals of any
kind. Their shelter a pitiful pop up tent. More than disappointing, it was
hazardous. And another injustice to the riders that paid for this
race.
Look at any parking lot at a
USA cycling race and you will see a lot of privileged white boys and doctors on
carbon bike shaped objects, with all the benefit of pro level gear and none of
the camaraderie of an event like Redhookcrit.
When i see the photographs of
people putting their hands on fallen riders, I see that not everyone came with
the same blood lust. I dig the vibe at this kind of event. But I don't think
it's a fair playing field for a group of people that worked long and hard to get
here. I can't help but feel patronized by Trimble's coaxing, "Keep it clean,
keep it safe" with 11 laps to go and few riders left in the field. Maybe it's a
little late for that.
This race finished with five
riders. And despite the fact that the gentleman favored to win managed to keep
his bike tread side down and come across the line first, I'm wary to say there
was more than a little bit of luck involved.
I won't downplay what
incredible athletes these men are. Standing on black wooden boxes with their
shaved quads shining in stage light, I can't help but marvel at the courage and
skill required to maneuver this course and live to get kissed by a girl in a red
dress.
I want to say that there are
two different kinds of riders; those who are driven by some god like force and
those who fall in their wake. But in reality, these men were separated by the
limits of a course boobie-trapped for failure. And even in a place where
danger and street cred rule, fairness should preside alongside.
