Bikes and Bridges

Yesterday, at 1130 am, a bunch of bike riders showed up at my front door with their bikes. Big beards, thick rimmed glasses, a few tattoos; the kind of nerds everyone wishes they could be. The people that corporations look to for their next million dollar idea. Early Adopters who pretend they don't know - and even more so don't care - that this is who they are.



I had taken the last bench seat out so that we could fit the bikes in. They fit perfectly. Metha proved to be a good packer.



We drove to St Augustine and met up with about 150 other people from around the state. Every race that is "organized" by fixed gear riders is deliberately unorganized. The most information we had to go on was an intersection name and a something posted online that said "Registration, 2 PM" followed by a question mark. After driving down several narrow, badly paved roads in what looked to be one of oldest sections of the oldest city in America, we arrived at a wooden two-story house. The house was painted pink. We knew we had arrived at the right place, not because we had an address or as the result of any sign-age, but because of the 100 or so dreadlocked, beer laden smokers carbing up for the race. We walked through the crowd and ascended the four steps that led to the front porch where Eric, the organizer of the race, was taking the eight dollar registration fee and stuffing it into a white, letter-sized envelope.

The guy next to him would ask, "What's your name?" Really only wanting first names. Then, "Where are you from?" He wrote the answers down on a piece of paper that - up to this point - was the first sign of any preparation. It had numbers typed and double spaced down the left side so that they could see how many people had registered.

At about 350 PM, Eric called out to everyone to go down the street where to the park where we would be starting. Half of the riders rode to the left and half to the right. The park was to the right. After ten minutes or so, everyone had made it to the park, and the race was ready to start. We laid our bikes on the ground and walked to the sidewalk - the makeshift starting line. After a few words of thanks, Eric yelled go, the riders raced to pick up their bikes and the race had started. No police escort, no blocking off of roads. just a bunch of red light and stop sign running, weaving in and out of traffic and amazing fun.

Each check point had a map (which, for the most part had no street names) to the next of ten check points. Somewhere early on, one of the bikers mouthed off the the sergeant of the police force who then set her officers to snipe mode on any biker breaking any laws. The only person to get a ticket was Eric, the organizer of the race, who wasn't even racing.

After an hour and fifteen minutes of grueling riding back and forth over drawbridges several hundred meters long, I reached the finish line with 11 maps in my pocket. 15th place.

I'm so thankful for this culture of people who love life and are okay with discovering along the way. People who are willing to start the journey, whether it be from Orlando or the starting line of a race, without a clear destination in mind. People who are willing to step out in faith and hope that things will work out one step at a time. It feels good to move forward together rather than being dragged along by someone else. Even in a race, there's a feeling of cooperation... knowing that we're all looking for the same thing and that no one has really found it yet... but hoping that we'll get there together.