The Resistance Force Rogue Contingent

Crowbar has decided that Bike Courier parties are her new favourite form of entertainment. This past weekend she had the great pleasure of wandering around one such bash while drunken urban warriors stumbled past her, asking cryptic questions like "what's the ratio?" and talking about wind resistance.

For the uninitiated, Bike Couriers are - unbeknownst to them - default Resistance Force members, simply because they do not function in any world but their own. The Dark Side(TM) doesn't stand a chance against 'em 'cause, like as not, they'll whip it out and take a piss on a PURE EVIL operative as soon as look at them. Couriers know no fear and have no concept of rules - their daily life consists of achieving ridiculous speeds while weaving in and out of killer traffic and trying not to get doored (the unwelcome experience of having the driver in a parked car open their door just in time for you to hurtle into it at top speed). They make their living by how much they can deliver, how fast, and how far. Couriers are a curious mixture of total independence and pack animal - interacting all day with only a bike, a dispatcher and hurtling projectiles seemingly intent only on killing them; and then gathering together at the end of it all to raucously celebrate the fact that they all survived to do it again tomorrow. When off-road, they can usually be found in large, somewhat impenetrable groups marked by low tolerance for anyone who doesn't appreciate the thrill of near-death experiences. Despite their exclusivity (I hear if the couriers accept you, you can make it anywhere - kinda like New York) they are easily located by the inevitable stacked pile of metal outside any place they happen to be drinking. 'Cause this is what they do - risk their lives, push their bodies to intolerable physical limits, gaze blankly at anyone who tries to tell them what to do, and drink. Hard.

Oh yes, and they party better than anyone else. At your average party a bunch of people sit around and get hammered, and only stave off boredom by being more and more entertained by their own inebriation. At a bike courier party, they do all the same stuff, but then they do Gold Sprints. If you're lucky, you'll manage to get the secret password to one of these events, and you can witness the phenomenon first hand.

A Gold Sprint consists of climbing on a bike that's been raised on blocks and trying to do 500 metres at the fastest possible speed. If you are a bike courier, you are likely to have a bike up on blocks conveniently located in the middle of your living room. You also likely have a huge board nailed to the living room wall where you can write up the top times as they are achieved. This past Saturday I learned:

• the average time for a Gold Sprint is approximately 35 seconds (although 28.41 won the night),
• that it's all about "how fast you can spin it" because there's no road, wind or friction,
• bike couriers take this activity very, very seriously.

The sprinter climbs on the bike, someone instantly adjusts the seat for their height, someone else straps their feet to the pedals and several people position themselves at the head and back of the bike. This is so they can hold the bike in place and steady while the sprinter goes for all they're worth (even with the back wheel raised, that thing's gonna move at those speeds). The sprint is timed to the millisecond and is probably more fun to observe than it is to do. Much to my surprise, I noted that no matter how poorly the rider is doing (even if they are drunkenly sliding off the side of the bike), the onlookers yell only encouragements, like "doing good! go, go, go! only 100 metres left!" I have to confess that my experience with crowds of drunken punk types is that they tend to insult one another for fun. Not, apparently, when it comes to serious things like Gold Sprint performance; it couldn't be more clear that an insulting shout would be totally bad form. Further, when the sprinters were trying to convince the women in the room to give it a shot, there wasn't a single sexist taunt to be heard. As there are very few female bike couriers (being predominantly a male phenomenon and definitely a testosterone crowd) predictability would seem to suggest that the obvious shots about 'being a girl' and not being 'tough enough' would be slung, but again, far from it. There was only encouragement as the guys in the room reinforced how fast the various female couriers are (all three of them present), and how well they figured they'd do if they tried it. Looks like the unspoken courier code in this crowd states that anything is fair game and no statement too inappropriate except trash-talking someone's cycling. Instead the rule seems to be: 'If you're willing to get out there and try, you get respect. Period." Too bad the rest of the world can't function that way.

Just in case you're unconvinced that a bike courier life is one of the most hardcore you can choose, confirmation came during one particularly entertaining Gold Sprint, by a guy who could still bike even though he could barely stand. Everyone was helping him onto the bike, strapping him in and telling him he could do it when someone said, "Dude, take out your teeth! Better intake." That's about when I realized that a lot of the guys had been removing dental work, and front teeth were literally disappearing before our eyes, thus allowing them to get more air for the sprint. I'm not sure I've ever been in a room with so many young guys in dentures - a final testament to the dangers involved in achieving speed for a living.

Our man on the bike grunted, "oh, yeah, good idea" and popped out an upper plate, while listing sideways on the bike. Then he held it up and slurred drunkenly, "Who wants the teeth?" Couriers are hardcore, but even they have limits and, in the absence of someone grabbing for them, drunk boy had to set 'em on top of the t.v.

He did pretty well. Beat his previous sprint by 6 seconds. He got tons of shouted support throughout his sprint and everyone was coaching him on, but they forgot to pay attention while they were putting his score up on the board at the end. Abandoned, he fell sideways off the bike and only a quick save by Crowbar stopped him from going through the aforementioned television. She doesn't do Gold Sprints, but catching toppling drunk people is a specialty.