I remember very well the first time I rode with the Crew. Cruising up N. Williams street, six strong, wheels turning and chains squeaking. It was a quiet night, to me at least, since I was still new to these parts of Central Cascadia. Of course, some people still called it simply PDX, but I don't think it matters much- in any case, I wasn't used to riding streets that weren't busy with people, autos, other bikes, etc. The weather was chill as well, and riding with even a light jacket was a little alien to me.
At first I had a hard time keeping up. I hadn't thought it would be a problem, since most everyone around me had only a single gear, in stark contrast to my nine. Some were free and some were fixed, but I didn't think they would be half as quick as they soon turned out to be. A few of them seemed amused by my multiple speeds, in a quiet, cocky kind of way. Their faces said "if that's what you want, go for it"... I was beginning to understand that they preferred to shift their bodies instead of gears.
I didn't quite know what to expect from this crew. Friends of friends brought back wild tales from the west coast, from here. Official news rarely made it as far as my home town, so all I really had to go on was rumors. To be quite honest, I was a little disappointed by their initial outgoing nature. I had imagined shady meeting conditions and background checks, secretive codes and whatnot, but instead I got general hospitality. It seemed that if I was a tourist who wanted to ride with their crew, that was just fine and dandy. If I had been an undercover agent, no one would have known the better. So much for security culture.
Our appearance must have been a scruffy one. Most of our bikes are either scratched black or so covered in duct-tape and stickers as not be be recognizably one color. Black work pants with holes, dark brown or green jackets, sweaters. Nappy hair, a few cycling caps. Patches with small intricate designs. Fairly typical for this bunch.
The ride thus far had been exceedingly routine. We were running proposals of one sort or another to a group up north, some Liberation Front no doubt. There were a lot more of those here than back in the Free State.
Occupied territories always looked different to me. Not that it should be a surprise, considering 90% of the land on this continent is occupied. I think the thing that gets me the most is all the writing on the walls. Graffiti, everywhere, everyone's got a message and every building is fair medium. Illegal communication seems such an odd concept, but here it is on all sides, in every direction. I pass a church with "Circumvent the State" and "Fix Shit Up" scrawled across the front, red and black.
The sky is a deep mix of red-purple and blue-black. Clouds to the east pick up the last rays of diminishing light, the land below already dark. The sky seems unusually large, not because of he sky line, but because of it's ominous tones. An earlier sprinkle has left everything glistening or else damp. The road is a moist black, not enough to kick up water from wheels, but just enough to hear it below. The shining drops on glass and metal give more dimensions to everything, it all seems more complex than it naturally might. It's a reserved kind of beauty, one which with a slight change in perception could easily become ugly. The scene is strangely urban, considering the parks and trees. Litter in the streets, dirty sidewalks, unattended (or else quietly squatted) buildings, boards on windows.
We're passing a small corner store when I first hear someone beside me quietly mutter "oh shit". I hadn't even noticed the the quiet hum of the bio-electric motor approaching from behind. We're all riding right in the middle of the road, ignoring the outdated, faded "bike lane", so whatever is behind us is our problem. Without so much as wondering first what it might be, I look back over my shoulder. It's a small car, bright blue-white lights glaring straight at us. I can't make out any discerning features, until the loudspeaker comes on.
"Move to the side of the road. This is the Portland Police. Move to the side of the road immediately."
I hadn't expected this on my first ride, and my heart starts racing almost instantly. I look around for signs of compliance, everyone is just riding, looking straight ahead.
"Move over right now!" the car demands.
Slowly, the other bikers start to move to the right, keeping pace but stretching out. I'm second from the front in the newly forming line. No one else seems very concerned, though I imagine they must be!
Finally, the patrol car comes up along side and advances to the front. Stern eyebrows, black goggles and shaved blond hair peer out from the window, small tethered mouthpiece raised to mouth. Without the specific introduction, I would have thought this car to be any other company service vehicle. AT&T, Quest Next, several loud symbols litter the sides of the car, the doors. The PPD symbol seems small in comparison, quaint against the white background.
"O.K., you know the rules, everyone pull over and come to a complete stop. I need I.D. from everyone"
He uses the speaker phone now even though he's less than half a meter away. The rule he is of course speaking of, is an otherwise obscure anti-mob law prohibiting more than two bicycles riding together at any time.
D.m., the biker in front of me, and now line leader, raises his right hand, clenching and un-clenching a fist twice. I have no idea what this means, if anything.
"I said pull the fuck over, right now!" yells the officer, drawing his car closer, pushing us towards the curb.
I'm almost too nervous to notice D.m. calmly reach into his pocket. He pulls something small up to his mouth briefly. I'm trying to determine when and if the crew is going to stop, what we will say, etc.
I almost don't catch D.m. tossing whatever his small object is right into the cab of the car.
"Oh shit-" comes from within, as the window electronically closes, too late. The car revs and speeds forward- and I just catch D.m. lightly shift his weight forward on his bike. The rear tire lifts almost imperceptively as he jerks his pedals backwards. In a quick save, I swerve to the side and whizz past him.
Now I'm cruising alone, wondering what in the world is going on, when the patrol car, not more than four yards ahead of me, simply bursts. The windows blow out first, a white flash blasting from the cab. The beams of the doors bend outwards and smoke instantly billows out, the whole of the car jolting downwards, pushing the suspension into the ground. It's forward motion is quickly converted into slow uncontrolled turn, and I finally come to my senses, too late. The car drifts right in front of me and my breaking efforts do little at this late moment. My wheel jolts sideways violently and I lurch forward and around upon impact, sliding down the door to the ground amidst a shower of tiny glass particles.
My ears are ringing and I sit panting, still confused due to sudden lack of oxygen. Sitting against the hot door, I'm now facing the crew, all standing above their bikes, back down the road.
"You were supposed to stop-" somebody yells.
So this is what it's like to ride with the Crew.
Ack is a Bike Punk for life. He works with various social justice groups, (big suprise, right?) and stuff... Ack really digs on Sandwiches.
