Post by jay on Jan 30, 2007 11:46:19 GMT -5
PICKLED KITTIES (http://www.dccourier.com/lambchop/pickle.htm)
100 years before today, bicyclists rolled down the avenues and through the horse nuts on plank roads for their deliveries. Back in the day of Billy Ralston and the Comstock lode, drunken miners and newly rich dandies came our forefathers. Though maximum speed for a bike in the day was slightly faster than a dray full of sand ne'er do wells, records were still being set.
In 1899 the first messenger alley cat race was held. Men proud of their craft (it was deemed unseemly for young women to compete as it was generally accepted that no woman could possibly muster the strength) were ready, rock hard from pushing 180lb bikes up hills of 19% grade and checking out coquettish ladies in their finery ambling down Montgomery street, were ready to pit themselves against the worst that SF had to offer.
Though many details of the first delivery bike alleycat were destroyed in the fires following the 1906 quake, a South of Market lad residing in Iowa City, Iowa was able to recall the splendor of race that coursed through alleys "South of the Slot."
"We had just downed a pint by the Tar Flats (Embarcadero at Mission)" When I found myself careening into officer O'Malley. I'd just slid on some night soil, Officer O'Malley gave me a sound beating and I was on my way!" Shanghai Pete, the Iowa City grandfather went on to commend his colleagues. "We didn't much like the snobs on Rincon Hill so when we got up there from Harry Meigg's one had to be sure to rip off one of those fancy lanterns for additional points, I was right behind ol' Ribald Rob when some of the upper crust came out to defend their Japanese lanterns, Ribald didn't even get off his bike... I'll tell ya he was a tough act to follow wore a hat with a propeller on it he did. I missed the lantern, somehow got a petticoat instead...the little lady was scandalized but it got me 5 points and a pint!"
Not much has changed since 1899 the date of the first Bicycle Delivery Alleycat Race which was sponsored by So Bags. The So tribe of Native Northern California Indians, would later through the generations, mutations and mispronunciations became another kind of San Francisco bag maker. Aside from that politicians are still crooks, there's still nuts in the road and the hills still climb grades of 19% things have not changed much.
They sank into concentrated preparation. These, the new generation of tight asses, smelly pits and crazy eyed as they hustled and elbowed their way toward the bar. It is a tradition as old as the Gods themselves, a rechanneling of that nervous energy into the relentless abusive pedal stroke. Some achieve it with a couple beers, some take the edge off with a couple tokes and still others funnel that uncompromising drive by having an engrossed zit popping session in the ladies' room. I was ready, my face looked like exotic fruit gone bad, but I was swelling at the satisfaction of having executed at least 20 pustules. I found myself on the starting line straining to hear the instructions over the ruckus of racers asking for instructions. A young King was a powder keg looking to launch his krypto into the rear window glass of a police cruiser, for fun. He wouldn't tonight, it was trouble enough staying astride his spirited steed.
When the noise died down and the grand prix alleycatters like Hermes, the "Oh my God!" of spandex realized that hearing instructions hinged on shutting of mouths, racers murmured amongst themselves trying to make sense of the complicated instructions.
Grey, the grandson of the only surviving alleycatter of 1899, Shanghai Pete, originator of the Iowa City messenger dynasty, held up his hand. "#1, you ride for yourselves, the CMWC is in no way affiliated with this race."
Either the first rule bounced off beer deafened ears or was met with puzzlement. After a 15 minute wait and a bike seat lodged in Hermes mouth Grey added, "#2 you must have 6 stamps on this manifest." Which he held up. This new information was hotly debated. "Hey what's he talking about?" "This is ridiculous I don't know where these places are!" "Dumbass those aren't places, see they don't have addresses!" "Hey has anyone seen a krypto key around here?" "hey do we need our bags?" "You know we're supposed to use our locks!" "Hey Grey do we need our bikes for this?"
Finally 2 cigarettes and a Lance comic later the crowd quieted down. "The most important piece of information...the address is..." At that phrase all signs of drunkenness, stonedness and zit popped ecstasy slipped away. Every messenger, except the littlest king (who was now in a fetal position caressing his kona), was as alert and big eared as an elephant on sack. Suddenly there were no questions, arguments that age old instinct that rests with such wonders of nature as nest building and web weaving was triggered in 2 words. Years of patient training from the merciful and kindhearted dispatchers of SF and the world was manifested in this precious moment. Oh lo how the Stefan's, Pattys and Toms would revel at their lives' work. Every messenger was transformed from a babbling lout to a starving cheetah shod with Air Jordans.
When the final syllable of Vermont was uttered the tag crazed rushed forward not giving Grey time to flee to safety.
They set out, a pack of dingoes after the metaphorical baby. This was no .99 cent tag to Army street, this was no million dollar slip and fall lawsuit, it wasn't even a mad dash to the Wall for lunch. NO this was round trip airfare to the double helix of velodrome madness in Vancouver. There was a passing sympathy for the fixed gear boys as the pack grunted up Pothole Hill. At the top they were directed to the new home of messenger swami Chuck; Pedal Revolution. Doom lurked in that metal garage. Lee exited and exclaimed to me as he came out, "Girl you're in trouble" I started to sweat thinking about the carrot stained yuppie who was waiting there for me with two jumpsuited donut toting Jim Hensen inspired villains. What waited for me was far worse than solitary confinement at the cop shop. The beast, my antitheses, the harbinger of my sordid fate lay waiting inside. There she stood the mistress of my vomit inspired expulsions... A bottle of beer. I couldn't let my fear slam me headfirst into a cheesegrater of wasted pleas. I choked down my nausea as I guzzled the only substance known to keep me from sloppy kissing a man. Newsletter Bob, (cousin to the famous "Sideshow" ) shook his head understanding the courage it took to confront my demons in that shed. Belching like the body burning fires of the crematorium in Oaktown and smelling not unlike a crematorium myself I sauntered out realizing a pedal stroke away that I didn't know where to go next. Obstacles were in the alley to Tempest. Cardboard estates, Parking code violations, and dad checking out the littlest king who was in a love embrace with his Crankenkonastein. It was there that the racers were indistinguishable from spectators. Yet another cup of lethal ingestion awaited me. Race organizers and beer loaders amongst them Bargain Jim, urged me to spill the beer, taking pity on my plight. Bathed in beer I pressed on. The world was becoming distorted not unlike working downtown during the day. I saw ahead of me the clever fixed gear boy from N.Y. I couldn't help but wonder how he managed the hills at high velocity with no brakes. Then I knew his kind lived on wanton bloodlust and hurtling down a hill with only a backslide to stop him was probably just a warm up to a night that would be filled with cruising Muni tunnels blindfolded and getting burritos in the Mission while dressed as Cinco de Mayo parader. As I followed him, the beer began to kick in. I thought my muscle mass could counter the intoxicating effects but I was wrong. I was touching the face of my nearest comprehension of an acid trip. Cars were growing arms and I had a thingy growing out of my ear I felt invisible. At 545 Divisidero I saw familiar faces and entertained the idea of taking up the local custom of the indigenous hippies by sitting on the sidewalk and asking for change. I snapped out of it. I was an alleycatter. One of mercury's brood. If I was gonna ask for spare change it would be from the likes of Joel Rich. As I bombed down Divis I saw another single speed guy and that Willowy breed of D.C. brother. The short and swarthy, the long and lanky. Pitbull and Saluki a beautiful vignette of messenger brotherhood going the wrong way, but stylishly so. Old School Crankenstein
Beer taking fullllll effect I pogied a Studebaker. We headed across Geary towards the trees, the land of over priced real estate and overwrought egos. In a squalid pocket of festering opulence stood the last glimpse of reality on the block. Two bullet boys, backs broken by the caring cat of 9 tails stood stamping manifests. Regular interlopers to the filth of the Presidio and Marina districts, these two brave lads stood their ground in a neighborhood where dog walking is a major industry. One could feel their shame at letting this torrid slice of the population languish in elitism and fat bank accounts built on greed and sloth. They gave me the inspiration to go on. Their courage to stand defenseless in a jungle with not so much as a cell phone to protect them gave me new hope in the future of people kind. We whipped down Lombard, the pitbull the saluki and I. I felt safe surrounded by level headed relatively sober dudes being bathed in headlight glare. The marina yuppies would not pick fights with me tonight. I pondered catching a tow up to the top of Lombard but after taking an inventory of all the wholesome groceries in my stomach; Mabel's fried chicken, 100 Pine's 12 butterscotches and a crusty rejected donut that had been sitting on a receptionists desk for 8 consecutive hours and 3 concurrent minutes, I rethought my strategy. We tore our knees out climbing to the movie crew that ambushed us at Lombard and Hyde. Now it all made sense, film trucks at the Wall for a week, it was no coincidence, it was the sequel to..."You girl thingy motherf**ker!" I screamed at Kevin Bacon as he went to stamp my manifest "...let's see you ride down the Nob with no brakes you poser."
Get Hot!
With that we raced to Union Hollywood Squares. We were bombing through the crowds of our anxious spectators. As messengers passed the crowds were stunned and appalled at our reckless belching. No man woman or child was spared from the beer induced turbo fart that jettisoned Andy "the Kid," Strachan into Market Street putting him ahead of Toby. The Kid had been dogging Toby for miles, mercilessly drafting the back wheel never relenting for a moment. Psychologically, the Kid was at the top of his game the cunning Boston cat was looking to crush Toby at the first sign of weakness. Toby was running scared, indeed running for his life, he knew the Kid was one with whom talk was cheap, there would be no convincing the Kid to relent tonight, he was thingyed and ready pump, his Zefal lethally visible and protruding from his bag. And then fate dealt her cruel hand, despite the tuffies and his winning heart the Kid was dealt a cruel blow and a flat.
Meanwhile 15 minutes behind them the rest of the pack rocketed down Stockton to Market. Dazed hippies counted their conk shells, bums screamed nonsense at no one and gang bangers clutched their starter jacketed girlfriends close.
Cheers rippled through the crowds at the Tempest as I swerved to an fro like a muni bus at rush hour avoiding crushed cigarette butts in the street. The Kid and all the rest were there except for a few racers who had disappeared in the Haight, so at least I wasn't dead last. But then after a certain point in the race, as our ancestors would remark and in fact have inscribed on their graves, "I went to win, I rode as if it was the last...and in the end I'm quite surprised, all things considered, that I made it back alive!" Shanghai Pete: Iowa City, Iowa circa 1996.
Lambchop Monthly
100 years before today, bicyclists rolled down the avenues and through the horse nuts on plank roads for their deliveries. Back in the day of Billy Ralston and the Comstock lode, drunken miners and newly rich dandies came our forefathers. Though maximum speed for a bike in the day was slightly faster than a dray full of sand ne'er do wells, records were still being set.
In 1899 the first messenger alley cat race was held. Men proud of their craft (it was deemed unseemly for young women to compete as it was generally accepted that no woman could possibly muster the strength) were ready, rock hard from pushing 180lb bikes up hills of 19% grade and checking out coquettish ladies in their finery ambling down Montgomery street, were ready to pit themselves against the worst that SF had to offer.
Though many details of the first delivery bike alleycat were destroyed in the fires following the 1906 quake, a South of Market lad residing in Iowa City, Iowa was able to recall the splendor of race that coursed through alleys "South of the Slot."
"We had just downed a pint by the Tar Flats (Embarcadero at Mission)" When I found myself careening into officer O'Malley. I'd just slid on some night soil, Officer O'Malley gave me a sound beating and I was on my way!" Shanghai Pete, the Iowa City grandfather went on to commend his colleagues. "We didn't much like the snobs on Rincon Hill so when we got up there from Harry Meigg's one had to be sure to rip off one of those fancy lanterns for additional points, I was right behind ol' Ribald Rob when some of the upper crust came out to defend their Japanese lanterns, Ribald didn't even get off his bike... I'll tell ya he was a tough act to follow wore a hat with a propeller on it he did. I missed the lantern, somehow got a petticoat instead...the little lady was scandalized but it got me 5 points and a pint!"
Not much has changed since 1899 the date of the first Bicycle Delivery Alleycat Race which was sponsored by So Bags. The So tribe of Native Northern California Indians, would later through the generations, mutations and mispronunciations became another kind of San Francisco bag maker. Aside from that politicians are still crooks, there's still nuts in the road and the hills still climb grades of 19% things have not changed much.
They sank into concentrated preparation. These, the new generation of tight asses, smelly pits and crazy eyed as they hustled and elbowed their way toward the bar. It is a tradition as old as the Gods themselves, a rechanneling of that nervous energy into the relentless abusive pedal stroke. Some achieve it with a couple beers, some take the edge off with a couple tokes and still others funnel that uncompromising drive by having an engrossed zit popping session in the ladies' room. I was ready, my face looked like exotic fruit gone bad, but I was swelling at the satisfaction of having executed at least 20 pustules. I found myself on the starting line straining to hear the instructions over the ruckus of racers asking for instructions. A young King was a powder keg looking to launch his krypto into the rear window glass of a police cruiser, for fun. He wouldn't tonight, it was trouble enough staying astride his spirited steed.
When the noise died down and the grand prix alleycatters like Hermes, the "Oh my God!" of spandex realized that hearing instructions hinged on shutting of mouths, racers murmured amongst themselves trying to make sense of the complicated instructions.
Grey, the grandson of the only surviving alleycatter of 1899, Shanghai Pete, originator of the Iowa City messenger dynasty, held up his hand. "#1, you ride for yourselves, the CMWC is in no way affiliated with this race."
Either the first rule bounced off beer deafened ears or was met with puzzlement. After a 15 minute wait and a bike seat lodged in Hermes mouth Grey added, "#2 you must have 6 stamps on this manifest." Which he held up. This new information was hotly debated. "Hey what's he talking about?" "This is ridiculous I don't know where these places are!" "Dumbass those aren't places, see they don't have addresses!" "Hey has anyone seen a krypto key around here?" "hey do we need our bags?" "You know we're supposed to use our locks!" "Hey Grey do we need our bikes for this?"
Finally 2 cigarettes and a Lance comic later the crowd quieted down. "The most important piece of information...the address is..." At that phrase all signs of drunkenness, stonedness and zit popped ecstasy slipped away. Every messenger, except the littlest king (who was now in a fetal position caressing his kona), was as alert and big eared as an elephant on sack. Suddenly there were no questions, arguments that age old instinct that rests with such wonders of nature as nest building and web weaving was triggered in 2 words. Years of patient training from the merciful and kindhearted dispatchers of SF and the world was manifested in this precious moment. Oh lo how the Stefan's, Pattys and Toms would revel at their lives' work. Every messenger was transformed from a babbling lout to a starving cheetah shod with Air Jordans.
When the final syllable of Vermont was uttered the tag crazed rushed forward not giving Grey time to flee to safety.
They set out, a pack of dingoes after the metaphorical baby. This was no .99 cent tag to Army street, this was no million dollar slip and fall lawsuit, it wasn't even a mad dash to the Wall for lunch. NO this was round trip airfare to the double helix of velodrome madness in Vancouver. There was a passing sympathy for the fixed gear boys as the pack grunted up Pothole Hill. At the top they were directed to the new home of messenger swami Chuck; Pedal Revolution. Doom lurked in that metal garage. Lee exited and exclaimed to me as he came out, "Girl you're in trouble" I started to sweat thinking about the carrot stained yuppie who was waiting there for me with two jumpsuited donut toting Jim Hensen inspired villains. What waited for me was far worse than solitary confinement at the cop shop. The beast, my antitheses, the harbinger of my sordid fate lay waiting inside. There she stood the mistress of my vomit inspired expulsions... A bottle of beer. I couldn't let my fear slam me headfirst into a cheesegrater of wasted pleas. I choked down my nausea as I guzzled the only substance known to keep me from sloppy kissing a man. Newsletter Bob, (cousin to the famous "Sideshow" ) shook his head understanding the courage it took to confront my demons in that shed. Belching like the body burning fires of the crematorium in Oaktown and smelling not unlike a crematorium myself I sauntered out realizing a pedal stroke away that I didn't know where to go next. Obstacles were in the alley to Tempest. Cardboard estates, Parking code violations, and dad checking out the littlest king who was in a love embrace with his Crankenkonastein. It was there that the racers were indistinguishable from spectators. Yet another cup of lethal ingestion awaited me. Race organizers and beer loaders amongst them Bargain Jim, urged me to spill the beer, taking pity on my plight. Bathed in beer I pressed on. The world was becoming distorted not unlike working downtown during the day. I saw ahead of me the clever fixed gear boy from N.Y. I couldn't help but wonder how he managed the hills at high velocity with no brakes. Then I knew his kind lived on wanton bloodlust and hurtling down a hill with only a backslide to stop him was probably just a warm up to a night that would be filled with cruising Muni tunnels blindfolded and getting burritos in the Mission while dressed as Cinco de Mayo parader. As I followed him, the beer began to kick in. I thought my muscle mass could counter the intoxicating effects but I was wrong. I was touching the face of my nearest comprehension of an acid trip. Cars were growing arms and I had a thingy growing out of my ear I felt invisible. At 545 Divisidero I saw familiar faces and entertained the idea of taking up the local custom of the indigenous hippies by sitting on the sidewalk and asking for change. I snapped out of it. I was an alleycatter. One of mercury's brood. If I was gonna ask for spare change it would be from the likes of Joel Rich. As I bombed down Divis I saw another single speed guy and that Willowy breed of D.C. brother. The short and swarthy, the long and lanky. Pitbull and Saluki a beautiful vignette of messenger brotherhood going the wrong way, but stylishly so. Old School Crankenstein
Beer taking fullllll effect I pogied a Studebaker. We headed across Geary towards the trees, the land of over priced real estate and overwrought egos. In a squalid pocket of festering opulence stood the last glimpse of reality on the block. Two bullet boys, backs broken by the caring cat of 9 tails stood stamping manifests. Regular interlopers to the filth of the Presidio and Marina districts, these two brave lads stood their ground in a neighborhood where dog walking is a major industry. One could feel their shame at letting this torrid slice of the population languish in elitism and fat bank accounts built on greed and sloth. They gave me the inspiration to go on. Their courage to stand defenseless in a jungle with not so much as a cell phone to protect them gave me new hope in the future of people kind. We whipped down Lombard, the pitbull the saluki and I. I felt safe surrounded by level headed relatively sober dudes being bathed in headlight glare. The marina yuppies would not pick fights with me tonight. I pondered catching a tow up to the top of Lombard but after taking an inventory of all the wholesome groceries in my stomach; Mabel's fried chicken, 100 Pine's 12 butterscotches and a crusty rejected donut that had been sitting on a receptionists desk for 8 consecutive hours and 3 concurrent minutes, I rethought my strategy. We tore our knees out climbing to the movie crew that ambushed us at Lombard and Hyde. Now it all made sense, film trucks at the Wall for a week, it was no coincidence, it was the sequel to..."You girl thingy motherf**ker!" I screamed at Kevin Bacon as he went to stamp my manifest "...let's see you ride down the Nob with no brakes you poser."
Get Hot!
With that we raced to Union Hollywood Squares. We were bombing through the crowds of our anxious spectators. As messengers passed the crowds were stunned and appalled at our reckless belching. No man woman or child was spared from the beer induced turbo fart that jettisoned Andy "the Kid," Strachan into Market Street putting him ahead of Toby. The Kid had been dogging Toby for miles, mercilessly drafting the back wheel never relenting for a moment. Psychologically, the Kid was at the top of his game the cunning Boston cat was looking to crush Toby at the first sign of weakness. Toby was running scared, indeed running for his life, he knew the Kid was one with whom talk was cheap, there would be no convincing the Kid to relent tonight, he was thingyed and ready pump, his Zefal lethally visible and protruding from his bag. And then fate dealt her cruel hand, despite the tuffies and his winning heart the Kid was dealt a cruel blow and a flat.
Meanwhile 15 minutes behind them the rest of the pack rocketed down Stockton to Market. Dazed hippies counted their conk shells, bums screamed nonsense at no one and gang bangers clutched their starter jacketed girlfriends close.
Cheers rippled through the crowds at the Tempest as I swerved to an fro like a muni bus at rush hour avoiding crushed cigarette butts in the street. The Kid and all the rest were there except for a few racers who had disappeared in the Haight, so at least I wasn't dead last. But then after a certain point in the race, as our ancestors would remark and in fact have inscribed on their graves, "I went to win, I rode as if it was the last...and in the end I'm quite surprised, all things considered, that I made it back alive!" Shanghai Pete: Iowa City, Iowa circa 1996.
Lambchop Monthly