It’s hard to explain, but there is something cool and somewhat intoxicating about riding in such a large group. The camaraderie was amazing and so was the attention we received by pedestrians and drivers alike. People were waving and cheering, thinking it was some kind of parade. Drivers were honking, some showing their support. Other motorists were obviously frustrated by having to drive slowly behind the pack. They vented their frustration by abruptly changing lanes and speeding by the group of riders.
It wasn’t as scary as I thought it was going to be. I had ridden alone at night in the past, and that was more of a challenge considering that it’s harder to see one lone rider than it is to spot a ton of them.
Everything went smoothly for about the first five or six blocks. We stopped at red lights, rode slowly and chatted with one another as riders behind shouted on bull horns.
Then the poop hit the fan.
All of a sudden from behind someone yelled,“Turn left here.”Without much warning the group shifted to the left and went north on 14th Street.
That’s when the cops started moving into position, pulling into the middle of the group as some riders got left behind because of a red light. Those of us in front had to stop and wait. The flashing lights of the cop cars added to my apprehension, as did the fact that people were being cited. I didn’t want to get a ticket, even if my editor said I could expense it.
I was no longer having fun. The random route — turning on a dime — plus the police presence made me nervous, and the whistling and the hooting and hollering was getting a little annoying. Then there were the screams to “get off your bike,” and “get on the sidewalk,” or “get back on your bike,” by Critical Mass veterans.
At that point I thought to myself that it would be more relaxing to just ride by myself. That way I could go as fast as I wanted and not have to worry about running into someone in front of me or about the cops cracking down. I’m sure the ride was more enjoyable before the police started following the riders. On this night it had the feeling of a protest more than a fun ride through town and I’m not one to “fight the man.”
Just when I thought it couldn’t get any worse, the chain on my bike broke. So there I was, standing on the corner of Wilshire Boulevard and 14th with a busted bike, watching my fellow riders head west on Wilshire followed by a few squad cars. I was kind of relieved. I’m out of shape and I did-n’t feel like riding for another two hours or so, and I really didn’t want to get a ticket, either.
Luckily I was riding with a friend who had a bike rack strapped to his car parked just a few minutes away. He rode off, came back and swooped me up, my heart no longer racing.
As I sat in the passenger seat I thought to myself, “So this is Critical Mass. I think I’ll pass.” On the left, of course.
Originally published in the Santa Monica Daily Press print edition on December 15, 2007. Read the original PDF.