The Bucket List Critical Mass

More than a schmaltzy piece of clichéd dreck with Jack Nicholson, Morgan Freeman, and Sean Hayes, the bucket list is a giant to-do list of things we all vow to do someday, maybe, or at least when friends from out of town stop by and crash on our air mattress. Sensing our own mortality, The A.V. Club gets the jump on death and vows to check out every “you’ve never seen ____?!” in town, determining whether it was worth the wait or worth dying having not experienced it. In this outing: Critical Mass, the monthly bike rally that energizes pedal-pushers and annoys car-pedal-pushers throughout the city.

Critical Mass' Chicago website makes one thing abundantly clear: The ride itself has no political agenda. Sure, individual riders might want to use the monthly outing as a grassroots movement against the city's reliance on automobiles—or as the beginnings of some left-wing protest—but the ride itself is merely meant for bike lovers, pure and simple. "The point of the Mass is the Mass," the site reads, "nothing more."

The problem is, due to its sheer size, this gathering of bike enthusiasts can't help but make a statement. On the last Friday of every month, hundreds of Massers gather in Daley Plaza after work before embarking on a citywide ride that lasts well into the night—clogging streets, disrupting traffic, and disobeying stoplights left and right. There's a lot of yelling, a lot of honking, and more than a little drinking. It's really hard not to notice.

As an amateur bike enthusiast/wannabe, I've always been curious about Critical Mass; I've seen the monthly groups plow through intersections, shouting from their tricked-out old-timey bikes (sometimes riding naked), and thought, "That could be me!" So I set off last month hoping for Mass appeal—only to be met with Mass disappointment in all three phases of the experience.

1) Anticipation
I and my beloved Bianchi rolled into Daley Plaza, the preordained meeting spot, at 5:20 p.m., a mere 10 minutes before the specified meeting time. It was crowded, but I still had space to roll my bike around and take a survey of what was happening. A few bikers had ditched their wheels and hopped up onto the base of the Picasso statue to lie down. Others lazily lounged by the fountain at the other Plaza corner. But most were standing holding their handlebars, making idle chit-chat with their neighbors—who so far mostly looked to be dressed-down North Siders pushing standard-issue road bikes and hybrids—and nodding along as one bike equipped with speakers pumped Jackson 5 tunes. Where were all the weirdos?

No sooner did I have this thought than "Peter's Gyrator," a tricycle contraption with an empty storage locker and in-your-face American flags off the back, whizzed by. (Peter himself was wearing a woven hat like Raiden from Mortal Kombat, and sported a long, thin, gray beard.) A few minutes later, a purple-and-yellow contraption floated into my periphery: another three-wheeler, powered not by pedals, but by pulling on the handlebars rowing-machine-style. Out of the corner of my eye, I spotted a large, tan man lounging atop a way-too-small two-wheeler with shiny metal rims. Now we're talking!

Steve Heisler

Not literally, though—while others were greeted with shouts of recognition (clearly there were plenty of repeat customers), I found it intimidating to jump into conversation with these bikers without some sort of "in"—"I like your contraption," for example. No biggie, because surely we were going to be biking shortly.

Only, nope. The minutes crept by as the crowd grew little by little. Even the chattiest of Cathys started to look bored around 6 p.m.; and the police officers, relegated to a corner of the plaza by the adjacent building, were fidgeting. At around 6:15 p.m., a woman with a huge smile worked her way through the now-thick mass of people to hand me The Derailleur, "An unofficial publication of Chicago Critical Mass" printed on folded, colored paper. Inside I found basic tips on corking (how to effectively block traffic for Mass purposes), how to flyer for fun and profit (hand them out), a section called "Swank It Up!" (wearing feathers and stuff to meet other cyclists), a screed on how to spot "covert operators of the capitalist conspiracy to further coopt and defuse non-fossil-fueled transportation movements" written by bike collective The Rat Patrol ("Wears helmet even when not on bike"), and a message from Alex Wilson about how Critical Mass is political ("grassroots movement to promote bicycles"). Guess Alex never checked the website.

Shortly thereafter, a tall, bearded fellow, also smiling broadly, handed me a leaflet touting the day's ride: "The Spirit Of '68 Tour": In honor of the Chicago riots, we would be taking Van Buren over to the Union Park area, swinging up Kedzie through Humboldt Park, back east down Milwaukee and Division, then hitting easterly streets like State and Clark to finish south on Michigan Avenue. Great. I mounted my bicycle and headed over to the street. And waited, and waited.

Finally, at around 6:45 p.m., the Jackson 5 shut off for a moment, and I heard the shout I'd waited an hour and a half to hear: "Let's ride!"

2) More anticipation
Cheers erupted from the crowd as the bikes hit the street; I lined up next to a three-part model—dad pedaling standard-issue mountain bike, with child in makeshift front seat and dog standing in back trailer—and started pedaling. Oh, to be out on the streets! With the Mass! Well, it seemed first we had to circle the plaza a few times, then a few more times, cheer, and circle some more. About 10 minutes later, only half the plaza had been emptied, but at least we had grouped at one of the corners, and were beginning to shove off officially. A guy with a boombox-type contraption slung across his back opened a can of Miller High Life. So that's what I'd been missing. We continued to stand around, only this time on our tiptoes above our bikes.

Steve Heisler

3) The "ride"
After another all-out yell, the front of the crowd began to lurch forward; since I was in the middle of the group (the rest of the plaza began to file in around 7 p.m.), it was about three minutes before I was able to go anywhere; and when I finally did, it was no faster than if I was walking my bike forward, Flintstones-style. A few college-aged girls in big sunglasses and skirts struggled to stay on their saddles, what with all the wobbling. I spotted a car off to the side, now trapped, its driver seething. "Have a nice Friday!" a perky, short-haired gal shouted in his direction. He won't. A few pedestrians took out their cameras to snap pictures of the spectacle, and one decided to wave his Cubs jersey. "Go Cubs!" one biker shot back. "Alright, a fan!" the jersey-holder said. The bikers laughed: "Uh, not really!"

Things didn't improve once we turned down Harrison; despite shifting into a much lower gear, I was still struggling to get enough momentum to move in any semblance of a straight line. I felt extreme sympathy, though, for the guy on the two-story bike next to me, perpetually on the verge of falling over. Any time the crowd thinned, and I began to taste sweet speed, someone would swerve too close to their friend and cut me off. A few "brave" bikers even ventured over to the other side of the road—you know, where traffic goes the opposite direction. Because if there's one thing that promotes bike awareness, it's ignoring your surroundings.

Nearly 30 minutes later, the Mass had made it only to Ashland and Washington. There had been some wooing, more drinking, and not much actual biking. Because I had been spending all that time adjusting my handlebars and avoiding total collapse, my arms were getting sore, not to mention my ass. I'd have felt more empowered gathering a bunch of friends together for a brisk, responsible ride, or simply biking to work as much as possible. That's my way of making a statement.