Originally Posted by Tim Parr, Blue Magazine

I once read that David Byrne rides a bike to all of his gigs. And for some reason, I've remembered that tidbit. To me that's a definition of hardcore not yet explored. I'm not sure if he realizes it, but it's more impressive than that big white suit -- and that was a good suit.

Bikes are cool. It's taken me 30 years to feel comfortable saying those three words in the same sentence, in print, but I firmly believe them to be true. There was a time when I wasn't sure. With the profile of "bikers" being comparable to athletic accountants, or some sort of anal aerobic league bowler looking like a neon stuffed sausage, saying that bikes are a good thing was progressive and, for the most part, a look into the future. I'm not necessarily referring to mountain bikes or anything else that has been mass marketed in the last 20 years. I'm just talking about the thing with two wheels that sits in everybody's hallways and has been underneath just about every ass across America. The bicycle, the one we all have ridden in all of its many shapes, is a timeless piece of cool. It has endured.

The one place in America where bikes can thrive and reach their full potential is in urban centers. If you look in the city streets you'll see the bicycle in its purest state. It's an act of personal expression, it's transportation, it's green and, above all else, it is so damn right. Cycling in the cities has got more flavor than anything in sports that I've seen in the last several years. Not only is it the best thing to happen to the bicycle, but urban cycling also has a backbone of passion inspired from a true creative sense -- and individualism. To leave the car at home and cruise through the city streets is strength. And in today's over-hyped world of action sports that strength is more extreme that any freakin' bungee cord or mobile snowboard exhibition travelling through Pensacola.

Deciding to ride that two-wheeled piece of **** rusting in the garage to get downtown is the most prolific piece of performance art I can ever hope to witness or experience. Take five years of higher education, 20 years of swimming upstream and 30 years of thinking how a person can leave their mark in the world: it all comes together and makes sense when you decide to ride.

And not only is urban cycling unique, it's also diverse. Take, for example, the bike-messenger scene. Not known to many people, there is a global underground racing circuit called Alley Cat racing. They're illegal. They're aerobic punk rock. They happen right downtown with no street closures, no support vehicles, no fat endorsements and, more importantly, no uptight self-proclaimed experts. When you take a look at what's going on, it's urban sport in one of its purest forms. It's a racing format that can be found in New York, Boston, San Francisco, Berlin, London and every other major metropolis around the world. It's a scene run by bike messengers in places where most sanctioned bike racers wouldn't have the guts to show up. What's even more impressive is that these guys pull off events with the organizational finesse of Martha Stewart coupled with the passion of Ali. It's something to see.

Last 4th of July there was an Alley Cat race in NYC that drew riders from up and down the Eastern seaboard, and even as far away as San Francisco. The format runs like this: At the beginning of the race each messenger is handed a manifesto, which is a list of 10-15 check points. At each check point, each rider is required to get something or perform some act. After all the check points are met, it's a mad dash to the finish.

With a start in Manhattan, and the finish line in Brooklyn, riders found themselves in and out of porn shops, cemeteries, government buildings and tourist-ridden hell holes. It's obvious that a certain level of street smarts is mandatory if you have any intentions of finishing one of these. About an hour later, the first group came riffling over the finish line spewing stories of cab-driver angst, the rush of hooking the back of trucks across the Manhattan Bridge and a hundred other near-death experiences. Clearly the beginnings of urban folklore.

After it was all said and done, the winner of the day got a plane ticket to the world championships and last place got a set of jumper cables (everybody in-between received some signature of merit for just showing dirty teeth). So shines a good deed in a weary world. We're talking about a networked nationwide underground scene that rewards its participants for being in top physical shape, as well as shells out prizes to those with the biggest spirits. As I look at what our society awards our top athletes, and how sports marketing plans are designed to feed on the weak self-esteem of sport participants, I can only hope that this holy grail of networked Olympiads somehow sheds some light.

Not only is the bike a great athletic piece of steel in the cities, but it's also a way to save your mind. Once my friend Woo and I were sitting on the corner of Market and 2nd Street in San Francisco watching a gridlock of cars aggravate one another as they inched their way through the intersection. We sat there slinked over our bikes and he says to me in a moment of unemphasized reality, "You know, the streets can't get any wider."

It seemed to make sense. Then his face really tweaks, and he squeaks out, "And the buildings? They can't get any skinnier." And for being such a simple statement, it's something that I wonder if anybody has really thought about. Streets can't get wider. Buildings can't get skinnier. Which means that this **** is only going to get worse. But the beauty of riding bikes in any city is this: You don't care.

The overcrowding is inevitable, and you have a way to deal with it. It's that simple. No anti-car activism necessary here. To sit and preach about how bikes will radically resurrect our society is too hippity-dippity for me. When I see those bearded types who are convinced that bicycle transportation is on the horizon for everybody, I cringe. That doesn't work. Riding bikes is not for everybody. Change is a scary thing to the masses, and we are a car culture. And let's not forget that, for the most part, we're also a bunch of lemmings. I don't expect the average Joe to put a .45 slug into the engine block of the family Chrysler.

The way I see it, after 30 years of questioning the establishment I don't find it alright to sit with the rest of the cattle in traffic. In fact, with alternative culture claiming the way it does these days, shlepping along at a snails pace in traffic seems contradictory to youth culture in general. To sit on your ass in a car surrounded by crusty power suits who have surrendered themselves to traffic is hypocritical. I find it a warped sense of what is "normal." It surprises me that so many young people tolerate it. Get out.

Get the cobwebs off the two-wheeled hoopty wedged in the hall closet. Pump the cracked old tires up enough to float your fatty and go ripping out the door. As you coast down the street rearrange the beer shoved down your pants, keep your rolled-up pants from sucking into your rusted out chain and realize how large Evel Knievel really is. Pull up any place you damn well please and relish in the glory of living in the Telly Savalas part of your life. You've always had it there, it's about time you revisited. Get on your bike.