When my friend Michael Burton first started talking up bikes and bugging me to get on one, I told him my most recent encounter with a cyclist had been with a bike messenger who spat on me because I was in his way as he ran a red light. Michael was just starting to get involved in a group known for its spotty regard for traffic laws. Critical Mass, an informal agglomeration of cyclists, is named after the unwritten rule that governs bike traffic in Chinese cities–cyclists wanting to cross the prevailing flow gather at intersections until there are enough of them to burst through to the other side.
But Michael did convince me to meet Jim Redd, describing him as a 56-year-old hell-raiser, famous for his wild adventures and police evasions. When we met at the Exchequer, under the Wabash Avenue tracks at Adams, Jim looked at me skeptically. “What’s your angle,” he wanted to know. “I’m a pedestrian,” I said. “Kristin was once spat on by a bike messenger,” Michael offered helpfully. Jim sipped his beer. “Is there a place in this mass for pedestrians?” I asked him. Pedestrians and mass-transit riders–aren’t we natural allies against the lumbering car? Jim thought a minute and then said, “Pedestrians have a place. They’re called sidewalks.” He had a point: it’s illegal to ride your bike on the sidewalk in Chicago if you’re over 12.
I know this now because after I met Jim I agreed to ride with Critical Mass in January. Jim set me up with a bike and Michael brought a helmet, and they rode me downtown to work. I was afraid to bike by myself because I hadn’t been on a bike in about nine years and the thought of riding in car traffic filled my heart with ice and dread.
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On a mild night in February, Michael invited me to come along on an “urban assault.” I’d heard about such adventures at the Exchequer, night rides through rail yards, industrial areas, wasted space by the river. Where Critical Mass jockeys with traffic on the busiest streets, the urban assault travels the empty, underdeveloped, and forgotten places, pushing the limits of what’s public and what’s not.
Back on the smooth pavement we fairly flew. Gliding north under Wacker and Michigan we came to rest outside the Billy Goat. We dragged our bikes inside and scarfed down hamburgers and Old Style. The guys talked about how all that development was encroaching on their night rides. They’d have to scout out new routes, maybe down the river where the old meatpacking plants were. “There’s just not as much wasted space anymore,” Jim sighed into his beer.
I was still limiting myself to off-peak hours in April when Tom McBride got killed by a guy in a sport utility vehicle in Austin. The story spread quickly: a messenger heading to work, McBride had been riding in from Oak Park on Washington when the SUV cut him off. He struck the car with his fist; he and the driver exchanged words. Outraged, the motorist maneuvered around behind him and hit him several times, knocking him to the ground and finally running him over. (“What was he doing, provoking someone in an SUV?” would be one of my coworkers’ first questions.) One story has bystanders chasing the driver to his house. I don’t know if that’s true, but the driver, who lost his license plate at the scene, turned himself in to the police. He’s been charged with first-degree murder.
