cuponoodles

I've read about the Zoobomb through various weeklies during the past two years of its existence. For those of you not familiar with the weekly bicycle-based activity, the Zoobomb is a gathering of people who take the MAX to Washington Park (Zoo) station, take a elevator up to a spot near the top of the hill, trudge up a trail and then descend a curve-packed street to the bottom.

Matt and Dan had gone on one Zoobomb last week and were hooked. Now it was my turn to experience it.

The two of them and a couple more friends, who were also newly initiated Zoobombers, had spent the past few days assembling their two-wheel open-air caskets out of $10 children's bikes bought at bargain stores. Among the five or so bikes assembled were two 12 inchers, fit for a six-year-old. One of these would be the first bike I would take down the hill.

On Sunday night I was set to take a pink girl's bike, but the seat felt too low. Instead, I opted for the "Magma," which was a black bike of the same height but with a higher seat. When I sat down on it, I had to spread my legs apart as far as physically possible in order to get some room to move my legs and pedal. It wasn't very comfortable.

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After piling the bikes in the back of Matt's hulking crusher of a pickup truck, we hauled out of the Woodstock and rushed down 39th to get some gas. 20 bucks and a quarter tank of gas later, we took off to pick another friend and a couple more bikes from Dan's house. All together, our little faction of Zoobombers would come to include about a dozen people.

The meeting spot for the Zoobombers is Rocco's Pizza, right across from Powell's on Burnside. Most of the Zoobombers had already taken the MAX up to Washington Park, but we had to wait for a couple more friends. After a few adjustments (glow sticks added to the bikes and a tire or two pumped) we set out for the light rail.

We ended up getting split up into two groups on two MAX trains, but we all ended up at the MAX station and crowded onto the elevator. Next we had to traverse a quarter mile or so uphill trail in the moonlight. Sweaty and a little pumped up on adrenaline, the sounds of people talking and laughing grew louder as we climbed up a set of stairs built into the hill.

At the top of the trail were about 30 or so people sitting about drinking a few beers and chatting it up. It was pretty dark, even in the moonlight, so I could only identify my companions by their outlines. Everyone sat around and talked and worked guzzling on the PBR we had brought up. I felt like drinking water than anything after the hike and I made a mental note to bring a bottle the next time up, if there was going to be a next time.

An acquaintance of one of the members of our group told us of what happened to him about a while ago. Apparently he had been going down the hill with the rest of the Zoobombers, but had found himself going onto the gravel on the side of the road. When he tried to get back onto the pavement, he lost control and presumably, consciousness. The next thing he remembers is seeing the light of the inside of an ambulance. He said he had to have 23 stitches for his lower lip and now he can't whistle. When the nurses at the hospital asked what happened to him, he told them he got into a bike accident, which they usually assumed (from the severity of his injuries) to be a motorcycle accident. Four weeks later, he was back with his bike.

People started shouting out "10 minutes" and from then on the minute announcements sometimes rang in at 2 minutes, or 5 minutes, or back to 10 minutes. Eventually people started moving towards the road and pedaled down to the starting point.

I really couldn't pedal my tiny bike, so I ran on foot down to where everyone was gathering and took my place in the crowd. The leaders of the Zoobombers made sure that most of the fast "mini" riders were in the front. I made sure that me and my mini were near the back since I didn't want to be an obstacle for the faster riders to avoid. Larger bikes took up the rear and the rest found themselves in the middle.

In the streetlight I could see a fairly diverse group of Zoobombers with some people who looked over 30, and a few female cyclists. Most of them wore helmet and had safety lights.

The countdown started. "10… 9… 8… 7…"

I gripped my handle bars.

"6… 5… 4…"

I looked over at my friends, some of whom were leaning over their bars, ready to take off.

"3… 2… 1… ZOOBOMB!"

Yelps and shouts came from the crowd as everyone put weight on their pedals and started down the street.

It was difficult to get a start on my little bike and soon I found myself near the back of the pack. The front wheel felt very unstable and overly sensitive to any touch, so I kept putting pressure on my foot brakes to keep the speed manageable. Extreme caution was my mantra.

The speed at which some people were going was incredible. In a blink most of the group was out of my eyesight. Only a lone, brave skateboarder and another mini, who apparently crashed and then caught up, were my companions.

"Nice bike!" said the man on the other mini, which was outfitted with streamers and a basket.

'It's my first time!" I shouted back.

I forgot his response, but I think it was close to, "Whoa, you're riding THAT bike down on your first time? Hope I don't see your mangled corpse on the side of the road on my second ride down."

The turns were sharp and the lighting was dim. I was worried about hitting holes on the parts of the street darkened by tree branches. At one point I almost lost control as I bumped my knee into my handle bars. The bike wobbled for a moment, but I regained my hold on it. I eventually lost sight of the skateboarder and the mini with the streamers.

A little further down the hill, I saw Brenda, a friend of Dan's, who was also on her first Zoobomb. I rode down the rest of the hill with her in the distance. My bike made noisy "eeeee-eee-eee" braking sounds as I took most of the sharp turns carefully, also keeping an eye out for cars (parked and moving) as my head would have come up to approximately bumper height on any SUV.

There was barely any noise in the quiet neighborhood. Only the sound of my tires and brakes were audible as a sped cautiously down the hill. I was sure that a bump or a wandering cat would send me over my handlebars.

Finally, after a quiet but nerve-wracking ride I was at the bottom of the hill where my friends waited. I was dead last, but I was alive.

We made our way down to Goose Hollow, the closest MAX station and took the train back to Washington Park and made our way back up the hill.

Everyone was relaxing and drinking some more beer. Matt had wiped out on the first run, earning what would be nasty road rash on his left elbow. Apparently he had lost control and the bike slid from under him and he skidded down the street on his elbow and hip. As soon as he recovered he was back up and trying to keep up with the pack. The Pabst had helped dull the pain.

A Portland police cruiser made it's way by me on my way to the starting line. When I reached there, the crowd had to make way as it zoomed through a space in the mass. One of the leaders said that this was a warning that the police are on alert and may ticket anyone who ran a stop sign.

After a countdown of 5 seconds, we all headed down the hill again. This time I was on Matt's bike, which was bigger than the 12 incher and had bigger, more controllable handlebars and a hand brake.

The ride went smoothly, with Matt on the mini trailing me most of the way. We both stopped at a intersection with two police cruisers waiting and then kept going down the hill.

At the bottom we saw most of the Zoobombers who were milling about, showing off bikes in the streetlight and chatting. The mass of them had ran everyone stop sign and not one had received a ticket. Safety in numbers is a truth around here, apparently. Some would go for a third run and then finish at Voodoo Donuts.

Matt would go with my friend Cody for another run. The rest of us had a hankering for some food, and I just needed some water. Dan had also sprained his thumb on an accident on the second run and was ready to call it a night. He said that during most of the second run he was in fourth place until he wiped out on a sharp turn. We biked down the sidewalks of Burnside toward Roxy, a 24 hour restaurant on 12th and Stark.

Biscuits and gravy, jukebox music and crude sexual jokes followed.

Bellies full, we each made our way home. Dan and I met up with Matt and a couple others at his truck, parked near Powell's and had an exhausted, quiet ride home.

After participating in my first Zoobomb (and probably not my last) I can say that I've finally been reinitiated into my hometown through a baptism of speed, pavement and pedals.