This article originally appeared as "Critical Mass Rides Together: C-Springs Bikers Insist on Their Right to the Road" in The CiPher, March 2006.

Not Your Average Biker Gang: C-Springs cyclists insist on their right to the road

story and photograph by Melissa Barton, staff writer

Jeffrey D.'s girlfriend was run over by a Dodge Ram pickup while cycling. Fortunately, she survived and is still riding today, but most regular cyclists have at least one scary story about a run-in with an unwary driver. Some are minor incidents. Others end less happily than the story of Jeffrey D.'s girlfriend.

Cyclists can be careful, wearing reflective clothing and installing lights on their bicycles. Many believe, however, that making the roads safer requires an attitude shift on the part of drivers. So Jeffrey D. and other cyclists join together once a month to form Critical Mass, reminding Colorado Springs that cyclists have a right to the road, too.

Critical Mass riders don't fit into a tidy category. Most of them are young, but a few older men join them. They are students, blue-collar workers, and store owners. They are anarchists, Goths, punks, evangelical Christians, liberal peace activists, and occasionally pro-war Republicans. Some have tattoos, body piercings, and colorfully dyed hair. Fashion is eclectic. They ride street bikes, mountain bikes, reclining bikes, junkers, hand-painted antiques, and bikes with milk crates bolted on the back. Some ride as a hobby, some for the environment, and others for lack of money.

They have one thing in common: "We aren't blocking traffic," they tell people who ask what they're doing. "We are traffic."

The last Friday of every month, Critical Mass meets in front of Wooglin's Deli on Tejon St., around 5:00 to 5:30 p.m. According to one rider, who asked to be identified as Jeffrey D., Critical Mass in Colorado Springs really took off last summer.

The movement began in San Francisco in 1992, under the name "Commute Clot." It has since become a widely recognized movement with rides in many cities and countries.

Before the February ride, several Massers hand out crudely copied fliers on red and white paper for a special bike ride in conjunction with the upcoming peace rally. There's a tense moment when one young rider hands a bushy-haired middle-aged man with grease-stained hands, a flier for the March 17th peace ride. The man frowns and launches into a lecture on how "Iraq is a dirty job, but someone has to do it." Japan thanked us for defeating them, he continues. The peace activists bite their tongues and roll their eyes and the moment passes.

Nearby, a few other young peace activists discuss publicity and fliering methods with the white-haired, bearded owner of The Liberal Store on Weber St., which sells liberal-themed political buttons, Darwin fish, and other staples of liberal life in Colorado Springs.

Around 5:40 p.m., Critical Mass gets going. They ride down Tejon and past Acacia Park, into downtown. One driver honks and gives them a thumbs-up through the open window. Other drivers and motorcyclists honk and wave. Despite what one might expect from reading the recent anti-cyclist tirades in the Independent's letters page, most people are supportive. "There's been more positive feedback than negative when we're all out riding together," says Melissa Bays, who runs the Colorado Springs Critical Mass website on MySpace.com. "There are a lot of smiles and friendly waves."

"We have had a few pedestrians ask us jokingly if we were starting a biker gang," Jeffrey D. adds.

In January, Critical Mass had about 40 riders. February's group is smaller, about 20. People drift in and out over the course of the evening. Riders pull out their cell phones to call friends: "We're heading south on Platte. Come and join us!"

Around 6:00 p.m., Critical Mass pauses in the American Legion parking lot. "Ten people stopped to fix a flat," says a young man with glasses and a blinking red light fixed to his backpack. "How many Critical Massers does it take to change a tire? Now we know!"

There isn't much talking while they ride, other than shouts of

"Slow up!"

"Car back!"

"One lane!"

"Come ride with us!" they shout. "Critical Mass!"

The leaders choose the route by whim, looping around Acacia Park, by Colorado College, and through the south end of downtown. Riding in a group is a very different experience from riding alone; even the most distracted SUV driver on a cell phone has trouble missing twenty cyclists crammed into one lane.

The police are tolerant of cyclists struggling to get through an intersection before the light changes, letting them off with a couple honks. Critical Mass's critics contend that cyclists move too slowly, blocking traffic, and are dangerous en masse. Jeffrey D. says they haven't really had any problems with the police: "I had a cop ask me a few months ago while the Mass was waiting to make left turn onto Nevada, 'What are you doing?' I replied, 'Riding bikes.' 'What for?' he asked back. 'For fun.'"

Bays heard that there have been problems with some rides in the past, but Colorado Springs Critical Mass hasn't had any problems since it restarted last summer. Bays chooses not to own a car, and would like to see more awareness and acceptance of bicycling as a form of transportation, not just a hobby. "Of course, we'd also just like to have fun and bring all different kinds of cyclists together," she adds.

Jeffrey D. would like to see something done about the "less than stellar trail system, unfriendly urban sprawl, and [arbitrary] bike 'lanes' and 'routes'" in Colorado Springs. "I would like to see Critical Mass ... help bring about a culture change through education of the public that teaches that bikes are traffic too," he says.

As it gets darker and colder, people start peeling off from Critical Mass to go home. The core group ends at a house in Old Colorado City. A few people head out to pick up beer and Mexican food.

On their bikes, of course.

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