Le Pista Resistance

I’ve always been the competitive type when it comes to sports; the kid at little athletics who would enter every event, no matter how much I sucked. I had a few wins, sure, but I was never a super star. I just liked the process of it all; whether it was polishing my Jordan 5s in preparation for a basketball match or that butterfly feeling the morning of an athletics carnival, the real thrill for me was in the journey. The final result never really interested me that much; not because I’m a particularly altruistic sportswoman, just because I’m a sucker for a good time.

I carried this ‘love of the game’ with me to the Mario Kart alley cat last night. Sure the context was different – an urban, Saturday night jungle instead of the local athletics field, post race drinks at the Cricketers instead of all-you-can-eat Pizza Hut with the under 12 girls basketball team – but the spirit of friendly competition and unbridled enthusiasm was the same. And I loved every minute of it; negotiating the bends down to Harry’s Cafe in a princess tutu, dodging drunk party goers over the footbridge to Darling Harbor, failing to find the brakes on a kids bike that flung my knees up around my ears, the journey was awesome to say the least.

At the finish line, it became obvious the race was more about the adventure than it was about the end result; competitors were more interested in re-telling stories of near misses and three car pile ups than there were fixated on comparing race times or point scores. The Mario Kart alley cat embodied all the exciting and electrifying elements of a school swimming carnival – the dressing up, the friendly competition, the pre-race diet of red frogs and gatorade – without all the formality and bullshit – the pushy parents, the playground hierarchy, the focus on the finish line.

Unfortunately, most people loose touch with the ‘love of the game’ when they graduate high school – that out-of-nowhere sprint that won them gold in the year 6 backstroke becomes a distant memory – and they end up living vicariously through their favorite footy player or tour de france competitor. Not necessarily because they are boring and lazy, but because there is no longer a PnC or dedicated PE teacher to make it happen. Thankfully we have Lewis. Sure, everyone deserves their fair share of credit for last night – us competitors for rocking up, dressing up, and occasionally messing up (where is wharf 10 again?), the checkpoint folk for keeping us all honest and providing a welcomed pit stop for tired punters, and the sponsors for coughing up some seriously awesome product – but it was Lewis who spent hours creating the route, who scoured the city for days on end sourcing checkpoints (did anyone not bump into him last week canvassing the city?), and who knocked on doors to rally up support. (insert round of applause here).

Sure I’ve had my fair share of good times at running races and basketball finals, but neither compare to the thrill of last night. So thank you Le Pista, and everyone who came, for re-invigorating my love of the game.

Greeting me on my doorstep this afternoon, among the leaves and surry hills dust, was a copy of Central, ‘the news magazine for metro life’. As I flicked through resident rants about proposed developments and council ads alerting me to the drilling that is due to take place just outside my bedroom window over the coming months, I saw a dude with a cheeky grin and a fixie in his hand. Curiosity lured my attention away from a Contours ad, promising to help me loose years off my ‘bioage’, and directed me to the article opposite, “Bike Riders in a Spin”. For the most part the article was pretty neutral, boring even. But there were pockets of anti-fixie sentiment that pricked my attention. As I read on, I soon learnt that I wasn’t just being paranoid when I interpreted the occasional furrowed brows of other riders on the road as a symbol disapproval at my choice of bicycle. Some people really don’t like fixies. Take Edward for example, he seems to think fixies are impractical “because you just can’t coast and it is pretty hilly around here”. I don’t know what routes Ed chooses, but most directions I travel in have both “hilly” and non hilly options. So here’s a tip: If you do find yourself at the bottom of Foveaux St., staring up into a sea of black tar, pedal the extra couple of minutes it takes to get to Devonshire St. and you will find yourself a much mellower climb.  As for not being able to coast – I see that as an asset, not an impracticality. It’s the rhythm of a fixie, the whir of the pedals and smoothness of the rotations, that makes it such an enjoyable ride; meditative even. But not according to Nick, who seems to think “people spin a lot of s… about it (fixie riding) like it is a Zen-like sensation”. I myself am partial to a bit of meditation – usually traditional style; feet firmly stationed on the ground, breath slow and even – so I am familiar with what it’s like to be transported from the everyday to a state of peace. Other than laying belly up in the ocean on a calm day, fixie riding is the closest thing I have experienced to “a Zen-like sensation”.

The general sentiment of the article is that fixies are just too impractical and too dangerous. Since when was bike riding simply about being practical and staying safe? Sure, bikes make for good transport, but since when was getting from A to B, with as little effort as possible, the be all and end all of cycling? Maybe I’m just a product of the ‘me generation’, but I demand more from my collection of two wheeled machines than just transport. I want adventure, community, and yes, even a little ‘Zen-like’ experience.

Anyways, I think I’m done; opinions expressed, thoughts vented. But before I depart, please take heed: This little piece isn’t meant to incite conflict or divide the bike scene, it’s just a chance for this fixie rider to exercise her right of reply.