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A31: FREE GRIMY!

Loosie gets knocked

by B.D. | 2004.08.31

It was bound to happen. We’d been running snake feeders under Officer O’Malley’s robust mustache for two days straight. Now, with the arrival of A31 – the designated day for direct action – a run-in with Jonathon Law was in the Iraqi Most Wanted novelty playing cards. With the streets full of anarchic anarchists and frenzied NYPD, Manhattan was like a keg of powder -- a powder keg, if you will.

Since Friday’s Critical Mass ride, in which 250 dangerous cyclists were hemmed up by greasy flatfoots, the relationship between bikers and constables has turned sour. Where once officers used to allow bicyclers to throw rappel-hooks on the back of their cruisers and windjam down the avenue like John Kerry on a day off, now the po-po just project surly and/or beady glares in the direction of their two-wheeling friends. Conversely, cyclists have become the firemen of the left – fuckworthy symbols of freedom. Bushy-pitted lesbians are said to be waiting at the 57th St. Pier in hopes of nursing recently-released bikers back to health with vegan goulash and forbidden affections.

The Loosie One-Man Feeder, feeling the fingertips of the law’s long arm groping at its hindquarters, was doubled in both population and relative strength. Where once there was one, there became two. Our power was incredible.

When we arrived at Union Square to join up with the Bike Bloc (an offshoot of the Critical Mass jumpoff), we were told by a fellow we had seen earlier at the Times Up! office that we would reconvene at 30th St. and 3rd Avenue due to the population of authorities currently swarming the park. Away we rode. Our group was small; we were but a meager 15 in number when we made it to our backup destination. As we waited for stragglers, our leaders scrawled the number of the New York Lawyers Guild on their arms. Grimy and I telepathically exchanged the phrase “and thus it begins”.

We had around twenty Ride or Die bitches by the time we headed back to Union Square. Although festering with piglets, it was our chance to unify with the rest of the riders. One of our chieftains, an individual who wore some sort of walkie-talking device on which he identified himself as “Raven”, busily called in reports of police vehicular movement (e.g. “ten police scooters headed west on 17th street”). As we headed down third avenue, we attracted a little unwelcome attention. A few pork cans and porkcycles started to give chase as we neared Union Square. Your enterprising young thunnies, stroking those pedals with a passion, bust a searing right down a wrong-way street and then a quick left which got us en masse to the park sans black-and-whites.

We decided to take a victory lap. Although the Loosie Feeder did not partake in Friday’s Critical Massacre, we gladly accepted the cheers and waves from the protesters in the park. It was a true hero’s welcome – we returned the love with a series of “whoo-hoos!” and peace signs. It was a lefty barter system for the ages.

Escaping unaccosted and having siphoned in a few of Union Square’s meandering riders, our unit now numbered close to thirty. The executive decision was made to take over Park Avenue. We hit the wide avenue and fanned out, completely spanning the street. Slyly, we carefully obeyed all traffic laws so that even the most rabid raccoon-bit sheriff would have trouble pinning any moving violations on the group. Our only companionship from the boys in blue was a hefty fucker aboard an NYPD-issued Fuji (not American-made, cocksuckers?) who bailed around 40th street, clasping his sizable gut as he veered to the curb.

We went through the big ass tunnel in the Fifties and roared down 57th St. We were in the thickets of Midtown, an area no true Loosie ever sees (as we are vassals for the feudal territories beneath 14th St). We continued to pull up to a halt at each red light; traffic cops frequently waved us through. Due to the mayhem of the convention, few civilian vehicles were on the street. Those that braved the threats of Qaeda were trapped behind our phalanx and forced to turn off onto side channels. Any time an automobile turned aggressive, we would simply slow down and amass more riders in front of it. Oh yes, it was empowering to cruise through Midtown dictating traffic in a completely legal way.

The love for cyclists was hardly limited to the downtown domain. At each intersection we were greeted with waves and cheers from pedestrians that sent us into loud celebratory wails and chants. On the rare exceptions where support from the crackers on the corner was nonexistent, there was inevitably a Black dude who would throw his fist in the air and shout something revolutionary. All bullshit aside, this happened plenty of times. This is further proof that Black people are cooler than all White people except the ones who ride their bikes through Midtown and shut that shit down. Any time we saw a GOP delegate (identifiable by their red satchels), we would heap abuse upon the sap in the form of chants such as “four more months” and “go back to Iowa, you cornfed fuck.” The militarized state of Manhattan was incredible – there were police on every block, police cars on every street and police traffic guards at every intersection. PLO style, buddah monks from the isle.

Reversing direction and sojourning down Broadway through the labyrinth of Times Square, we headed for Union Square, intent on merging with another Bike Bloc who lay in wait. A couple of boxy little police vehicles were following us. Although they’re hard to describe, they sort of look like phone booths placed on the front half of a skateboard. “They’re just an escort,” our leader proclaimed, the first mention of an escort of the non-back-of-the-Village-Voice-variety that we’d heard in some time. Indeed, the douchebags just seemed content to nip at our heels.

At around 40th St., a horde of pigs on motorcycles came sailing down behind us. We were instructed via loudspeaker to pull to the right, and, since we had broken no traffic laws, we complied. The motorcycles rushed past us, only to pop u-ies and head us off at the pass like a proper ambush. One half of the Loosie Feeder spotted a few riders wheeling off to the left and followed suit before the unrushing hogs could completely close off the street.

Grimy was not so lucky.

After locking my bike down the street and throwing a white-T over my Erik Colburn “Stay Hungry” jammy, I returned to the scene of the crime to see Grimy cuffed on the sidewalk, surrounded by the beast and the members of the Bike Bloc not fortunate enough to escape the dragnet. He seemed in good spirits. He managed a smile when I threw up the loosie “L” gang sign for him as they loaded him into the patty wagon. After 24-36 hours in a holding cell, I bet he’ll be overjoyed to see those lesbos at the 57th Pier awaiting him.

FREE GRIMY!

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