moonlog

D.C. Critical Mass

I tagged along with some folks to ride with Critical Mass. We raced from Vienna, Va., along the venerable Washington and Old Dominion Trail and the Martha Custis Memorial Trail to D.C., crossed the Potomac at the Francis Scott Key Bridge, weaved through traffic in Georgetown on our way to Dupont Circle, where the ride began.

First things first, I rode into circle a little concerned by any event that might further animosity between car drivers and cyclists. But actually doing the ride really doesn’t feel anything like civil disobedience or group scofflawism.

Some drivers are really pissed off and vocal at times, and riders respond by ringing their bells and calling out friendly greetings, which is the same response given to any awestruck spectators along the way. Ad hoc organizers responsibly make sure an intersection is secure before cyclists “blow through it” — as if the entire mass of bicyclists is one vehicle, so cars have to wait for it to clear. The irritation factor to motorists, I would estimate, is on the level with the guy in front of you who isn’t moving even though the light is green. (And some motorists do get really mad about that too.)

More often, the mass of cyclists just has a Beijing effect — taking over the street, sometimes capturing a Smartcar or Hybrid surrounded by the fleet. Most cars, police included, just idle and watch the parade.

But the ride is more fun than any kind of statement and I would consider trying it in other cities just for sight seeing. It helps that the streets of D.C. were designed with grand diagonals aligned with monumental architecture to impress us anyway, and the ride meanders through the city’s major neighborhoods — which scale thematically from local to national and back to local.

One of the rare treats of the ride is when the cyclists take over some of the high-speed streets that swoop underground. As cars are blocked off by the mass, the cyclists race down the tunnel — their cries echoing into a coalescence not unlike a rebel yell.