Feaverish

Well, I’ve gone and got a nemesis! It all started when I began riding my bike to work a little over a year ago, and, to keep things interesting, turned my daily commute into a race. My competitors: anything that moves. Motorized vehicles are tough, though I diligently shake my fist at each and every passing car or truck, breathlessly shouting impotent threats along the lines of “I’ll get you yet!” or “You haven’t seen the last of me, Goldfinger!”

Fellow bike commuters are another story. Unaware of their participation in an all-out hardcore street race, they’re naturally at a disadvantage. Their surprise when I fly past is palpable, my arms stretched overhead in the international symbol for hard-fought victory.

There’s one cyclist, though, who beats me every time.

She’s in her late thirties, and can’t be an inch over 5’2”, but man can she ride a bike. Oh, and that bike! It’s this NASA-issue carbon-fiber creation with more gears than spokes, and I’m sure it cost as much as I make in a year. I’m not gonna use that as an excuse, though. Every morning on the same long stretch of level ground, she whizzes past me like I’m standing still.

I try. I really do. I stand up and mash the pedals until my breath comes in gulps and the sweat runs down my back (and into lands beyond), but there’s only so fast you can go in one gear without your legs flying off. My only chance to catch up to her comes after we’ve crossed the Hawthorne Bridge into downtown Portland and traffic avoidance becomes decidedly more death-defying. I for one enjoy slinking between buses and weaving in and out of traffic-jammed cars (as part of the race, I get a point for every driver who swears at me), but my nemesis stays pinned to the far right-hand side of the road, and favors streets with bike lanes (I ride along the bus mall, because there are fewer cars and even fewer cops, though it was on the bus mall that I got busted).

We ran into each other at Trader Joe’s the other day. We were both wearing our typical biking getup — her: neon pink U.S. Postal Service jersey, black tights, robotic-looking bike shoes. Me: stained “Fat Camp” t-shirt, worn-out sneakers, Swedish-Army–issue gray woolen cutoffs (digression: as the weather gets warmer, I keep cutting off more and more of the pants. At first they were just below the calf, now they’re just below the knee. By August I’ll be the guy riding around in gray woolen hot pants). We spotted each other from across the store (she was buying energy bars and pineapple juice, I was buying beer and pretzel sticks) and stared daggers for a good five minutes. Finally she just smirked and went back to her shopping, secure and confident in her speed and padded underwear.

Depressed, I slouched to the checkout and paid for my Sunday morning snack. A few minutes later, at the bike rack, I sawed through her high-tech brake cables with the sharp, rock-salty edge of an organic Bavarian pretzel stick (five for a dollar!). The next time she passes me it’ll be in an ambulance on a one-way trip to the ICU. That’s how we handle things on the mean streets of Portland.

If you wanna see how things are handled on the mean streets of various other cities, check out these bike messenger urban race videos. Wear some headphones, though, as mad licks are loudly shredded throughout the movies. Personal faves are “drag race NYC,” “san fran,” and “rumble through the bronx.”