Thursday, March 22, 2007

A story...

It was a fateful summer night in Seattle, august fourth I believe.
The night commemorated the tenth annual Dead Baby Downhill Raceday. The Sprockettes (minibikedanceteam) came up to perform for emerald city. It was a momentous day because we were performing a song with the Vancouver BC bike dance team, The B.C.Clettes. This was a song we choreographed long distance through videos. God bless the information age. Cyclecide was there with their genius pedal powered inventions. The beer was flowing, water bottles being filled up from the keg by rockabilly chicks with big arms and perfect makeup, for free. I did not drink much because i knew we were going to perform. I needed to be clear of mind for our big once-a-year in Seattle. The sun had set and I took a curb to see the BCclettes for my first time. I couldn't help but squeal. It was unreal to see a bike inspired dance team from another country. Inspired by some wacky idea my roomate and i had in the throws of spring some years ago. The colors they chose were red and black, and they made a banner to hang while they danced in the dirty street in the brick warehouse district of Georgetown. The banner had a little pink and black heart in the corner as a shout out to us. They had more of a burlesque show, with bike wheels and jazz hands. It was awesome.
Then it was showtime. I went to the van, caked pink makeup on my eyes and down my cheeks, extra eyeliner, straightened my stockings, a rushed through the chaos of cyclists to set up the bikes for the first number. It went wonderfully. The music was so loud, people could feel it. That's the way I like it.
The next number was to M.I.A., our biggest workout. This song shows that we have come a long way from our first dances. At the end of the song, four girls hold up a bicycle, I get on top, and do a split kick off, and it's the end of the song.
What happened is the whole reason for the blog. I had a shaky dismount and when i looked down at there i was going to land, there was a person. So I am like a cat in the air, trying to get out of this predicament a story up in the air, but to no avail. I land, on the pavement and my elbow dislocates. A gruesome sight. This time it went out the side of my arm, not breaking the skin, and flopped around to the horror of the audience members right in front of me. Good thing that was the end of the song. The money shot.
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Here's what it should have looked like:

I have had this injury once before.
It was three years ago near the traintracks on a normally deserted street, now inhabited with hundreds of cyclists, bike mutations, beer cans, and costumes.
It was an event called The Chunkathalon, put on by the famous bike gang C.H.V.N.K. 666 , originators of Northwest American mutant bikes. They throw an all day event that the devil himself is scared to attend. You have no idea about hardcoreness of bike culture until you see the Flaming Bikes O Death.
It was epic. I was at the height of my bike advocate days, a year er so after we started that Zoobomb thing, and I felt on top of my game. I had won one of the derby competitions earlier that day, I was hoisted on shoulders, and cheered for by a motley crew of degenerate bikers. The derby was a whole 'nother story too. This was before it wimped out completely. The audience was circled around the competitiors, the last one to put their foot down won. As more and more people get out, the crowd moves in. They are also avidly throwing objects at the competitors. Things like baby dolls, beer cans, bike wheels, helmets, 55 gallon barrels, barricades, you get the picture. By the time it was just me and the other competitor, the crowd had cinched in tight, and all the rubble cast into the circle was concentrated and we were offroading for our title. I think we both fell down at the same time, but I was heralded winner. Oh man did that put a wind in my sail.
When it came time for jousting, I thought I should just watch, but the pressure was on by a few friends, and my ego wanted to be the ultimate freakbikeculture championess.
And my opponent was the female ringer for the illustrious 666ers. Zoobomb had a friendly rivalry with the chunkers. Basically, they created mutant bikes, we thought that was keen, so we made fun of them to get them to react. We were such new jack toys back then. Maybe nothing has changed. Anyway, it was the female leader of Zoobomb against the female leader of Chunk 666. This was when ladies didn't joust as much as they do now (I'm proud of you girls!). So this little alley next to the roaring traintracks filled with dirty pedal pushers roared a 3..2..1....JOUST!!! and we were off. First time we both stood our ground. Second time the same. Third time, the tie breaker, no luck. We were steadfast to our tall steeds. After three it should be a draw, right? But the crowd wanted blood. The fourth time, my squire, dirty mike gave me a Team Team shirt for good luck, handed me my lance, and off I went. And off my bike I went.
Into the ground I went. Out of the socket my precious little elbow went. The crowd went silent. I stood up quick, looked at it, and jammed it into the closest thing I could call home. Instantly there was a weed pipe in my face, some arnica on my joint, some anti-inflammatories under my tongue and a slint made of the Team Team Tshirt. I went onto the HQ and laid down on a mattress in the middle of the livingroom. Inside was quieter. A few people would amble in, looking drunkly for a hidden beer. Outside the show was continuing. The end of my world was just a notch in the belt of the chaos that is the Chunkathalon. I lay there on the unsheeted bed, hand on my elbow, mind blank with the hard reality that I wasn't going on that Fat Tire Tour de Fat with Cyclecide next week. The random outburst of crowd affirmations of carnage, loudspeaker judges fighting with the masses, egging them on, drunken prolifery; it was all muffled by the curtained windows. I wanted to be out there. i wanted to just get up, do a handstand, and say, "Just Kidding!" I wanted to be a part of this most amazing apocalypse going on outside. It was all slipping away from me. The more moments I lay in the makeshift infirmary, the less I felt on top of the pillars. I had vigorously climbed to the top, and then I had fallen quite quickly back down. Oh the injustice! How terrible this humble pie tasted!
Then the meds began to work, and in comes the man who started this whole chunking mess, Megulon 5. I had the biggest crush on him. It probably started as a professional crush, but went deeper. He asked me if I needed anything as I sat there, dazed but the realest I had ever felt, and I boldly asked for a kiss. He obliged and that was the beginning of my secret love affair with bicycle royalty.

I think Rev. Phil has the whole jousting fall on tape. If i can get it, i will upload it here for your own horrific enjoyment.

On a side note, if you liked this story, and you have your own stories of bike gang misadventures, i am compiling them for a history book. So feel free to submit them to me so we can determine the future representation of the mutant bike gang movement.

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