Midnight Mystery Ride

The heat from earlier in the week finally broke. (It was just over one billion degrees on Wednesday, which is about forty-one celcius. Right?) Today’s high was a crisp and refreshing eighty-three degrees. Still higher than average, but what a difference. I felt like one of the living again.

With all the inactivity during the heat wave, I’ve had lots of energy to burn, even after spending seven hours tonight gardening and cleaning the yard. So as midnight approached, I decided to join in on a Midnight Mystery Ride. There have been lots of them already, and it’s typically a small and organized affair. A few dozen folks will meet up at midnight (of course) and then the leader, who is usually different every time, will guide them to a secret destination. Cans of beer will magically appear, and conversation will theoretically be made between likeminded but previously unaquainted cyclists.

I’ve passed on the many earlier rides. I’m never in the mood to hang around with strangers, and the weather has often sucked too. But tonight was a glorious evening — perfect biking weather — and I’ve been in a social mood. So at a quarter til twelve, still full of energy and enjoying the night air, I sped over to the starting point in Northeast.

I was a little too late, and as I got close I saw maybe two dozen folks heading in the wrong direction. They told me they were trying to catch up with the main group who had already left, and I joined their motley peloton in the chase. It took us a couple of miles to find the others, but it was obvious when we got near. We could see the flashing police lights from blocks away.

We got to an otherwise abandoned intersection along the waterfront near Union Station, and our little group sat at the red light, wondering what to do. For a quarter mile on the road to our left were maybe ten or so motorcycle cops, each with several young hipsters next to their bikes on the curb. I had heard that a police presence was expected, but it was clear that they had something to prove tonight.

Finally a girl on a fixie (my favorite!) in a cute little sweater (it was, like, eighty degrees) but no helmet or lights, rode over from one of the cops and told us what people were getting tickets for, which amounted to not stopping at red lights and obstructing traffic. (One poor guy had an open beer in his front basket and got arrested with a DUI. But, well, he’s obviously very stupid, and it was probably for the best.) So, we all hesitantly turned left at the green light, and rode in the bike lane of an otherwise deserted road until the mass of cyclists a couple of hundred strong appeared before us, traveling in the opposite direction.

Since there were cops right behind us, we all very carefully signalled and turned right into a parking lot, then turned left out of it to join the main ride. Then everyone very nervously made their way out of Northwest, over the top of the Steel Bridge, and down to the Esplanade, where with two thirds of the group lost somewhere behind, we sat. And sat. And sat. The leader wanted to head back to the original destination, but scores of people protested and simply decided to ride off “South! South! South!” That is, thoroughly intimidated by the prospect of a ticket, they simply avoided roads by continuing down the riverside path. Little by little, people trickled away, and the crowd slowly dwindled from, maybe seventy, to fifty, then thirty.

One organizer was speaking on the phone to someone at the planned destination, trying to figure out what to do. He announced to the people within hearing range, “He says if we don’t go back, then the cops have won,” which did absolutely nothing to galvanize the crowd, who wanted nothing more than a fun time and all but ignored him. I yelled back, “They already have,” and he laughed uncomfortably and continued chattering with his pal on the other end. Ultimately, nothing was decided.

After half an hour of sitting still, and seeing the same faces I always see at every event, people who undoubtedly recognize me but who’ve never said hello, I decided I might as well get out of there. I buzzed down the Esplanade and soon passed thirty or so bikes chained up to a railing. Their riders were down the embankment, next to the river, standing and socializing on an old contcrete landing. I stopped to take a picture, and a guy I would refer to as “older,” but who was probably in fact younger than me, came riding up. He called out the wrong name, confusing me with someone else whom I know to be incredibly unattractive. (Awesome!) Then he introduced himself (Randy? Raleigh? Roger?), and I swear to God he was cruising me.

When I told him I wasn’t going “down there” to hang out because I didn’t know anybody, he smiled big and said maybe I could meet somebody that way. I momentarily considered whether I’d want to get to know him. Hmm… nope. So home I went.

On the way back, I passed several packs of cyclists. Each time I wondered if they had split off from the mystery ride as well, but in Portland, groups of people are just out riding at 1 a.m. on a Friday night anyway. They were probably just having their own private fun. While I was silently gliding around Ladd Circle, I saw a bunch of bikes lying in the grass, and standing, sitting, or reclining around them were their owners, enjoying the beautiful summer night, just like me, living life while they had the chance. Those were the people, I realized, that I had wanted to meet tonight. And I looked back at them somewhat longingly as I rode on, but, of course, I didn’t stop.