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Madison
cyclers pass up State Street
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by Joe Hasler
The Daily Cardinal, October 29, 2006
Oh what sweet surprises the Sunday after Halloween in Madison always
holds. My desk reads like a scrapbook commemorating the often-hazy
memories of the weekend passed. Left over from my Richie "The Baumer"
Tenenbaum costume, a sweaty headband and pair of oversized sunglasses
lay next to a crumpled-up ball of dollar bills. The usual fare, to be
certain, but next to them are other, more peculiar contents. There's a
solitary rubber glove and no more than 12 playing cards-all jacks of
spades-strewn about the desktop. An empty condom wrapper, with its
contents nowhere to be found, begs the question, "What the hell
happened last night?"
The answer comes in the form of seven tiny sheets of paper. None larger
than your average Post-It note, each sheet bears a Madison address. On
Sunday, the morning after, these addresses mean little. But Saturday,
when they served as the seven checkpoints of Scaredy Cat bicycle race
in downtown Madison, they were my raison d'être.
I first found out about the Halloween-themed Scaredy Cat race-its name
derived from the unsanctioned bike messenger races known as "alley
cats"-from my friend Michael. A veteran of two Madison alley cats, my
mustachioed amigo asked me if I wanted to do the Halloween race with
him. Faced with a viable alternative to the State Street mayhem that
makes the Halloween weekend in Madison tragically insufferable, I
quickly agreed to it.
So Saturday night, just as the Madison Police Department sealed off the
downtown corridor from car traffic, Michael and I departed for Picnic
Point on the far west end of campus for the start of what would end up
being nearly three hours of biking back and forth across the Madison
isthmus.
At the starting point, about 70 racers-many in Halloween costumes-paid
the $5 entry fee and awaited further instructions. The race planners
set the Scaredy Cat up like a cross-town scavenger hunt. Completion of
a challenge and one checkpoint earned competitors a destination or clue
for the next checkpoint, which was always in the exact opposite
direction we'd just gone.
Take our first checkpoint, for example. After posing for a group
picture, we set out from Picnic Point for an address on East Main
Street. According to Mapquest, it's about a six-mile trip. We sprinted
the whole way. Michael, a former collegiate rower and current
bicycle-riding sandwich deliveryman for Jimmy John's, is in
considerably better shape than me, a former high school tennis flunky
and current sandwich connoisseur. In any case, my goal for the evening
was just to keep up with him, and with little exception I was fairly
successful.
Overall, the two of us actually fared pretty well. We managed to cover
the 26-mile course in two hours and 57 minutes and time wise, we
finished somewhere in the top 30. But the race standings were really
decided by completing challenges at each of the checkpoints. That's
where the aforementioned rubber glove, playing cards and condom wrapper
come in. At one stop we scavenged for dog poop and candy bars in a
darkened backyard. At another we received the prophylactics, which were
subsequently unrolled onto our respective bike seats. Safety first, I
guess.
Speaking of safety, it's worth noting the relative ambivalence shown by
the MPD during the race. Generally speaking, a mass of costumed bikers
blatantly disregarding the rules of the road and recklessly careening
through oncoming traffic would be cause for alarm. Saturday, it hardly
raised an eyebrow. Occasionally, the well-armed regiments of police,
sheriffs and troopers would wave us through streets closed to traffic,
but for the most part, they didn't seem too concerned with us.
At the post-race party, a few racers seemed genuinely disappointed
about the police's reaction, as if a little pepper spray or a
nightstick through the spokes would have enhanced the experience. But
other than that, the post-race sentiment was pretty positive. At the
final checkpoint, a well-stocked spread of food and a keg of beer
awaited our arrival. The set-up of the room and the indie rock playlist
hinted at the possibility of a dance party, but it seemed most racers'
immediate concern involved moving as little as possible.
As I immobilized my entire body on an empty couch, I briefly considered
throwing out all the things I'd collected along the way. But three
hours of constant physical exertion had left me completely unable to
move-even just to walk to the nearest garbage can. I'm glad too,
because there are few more powerful reminders of a successful night
than an empty condom wrapper and a very sore set of knees.
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