For many reasons, Portland, Oregon is a remarkable place
to live, but perhaps it’s greatest asset is a community that encourages you to
do whatever it is you truly want to do—to be whatever you want to be. It doesn’t
matter, your age, your race, your gender. If you want to make art, you’re an
artist. If you want to compete, you’re an athlete. If you want to tell stories,
you’re a storyteller. And if you want to drag a chariot behind a bicycle and go
to battle with other like-minded individuals, well, then, you’re a chariot
warrior. This is a story about chariot warriors.
First,
we watched. On an abandoned bridge in North Portland, drinking tallboys of PBR,
we watched grown men and women fight each other upon hand-crafted monstrosities
on wheels. The rules were simple: 1) If either person is removed from the
chariot or bicycle, you lose. 2) If the chariot becomes detached from the bicycle,
you lose. 3) If the bicycle or chariot becomes immovable, you lose. 4) There is
only one winner.
As the warriors fought,
the spectators drank and smoked and yelled and threw things—food, beer, fire-crackers,
smoke bombs—and sometimes even got into scuffles of their own. There were bumps
and bruises, scratches and scrapes, brush-burns and blood—even a quick trip to
the ER for a few stitches. The entire scene was utter chaos. A fight, a battle,
a brawl, a scrap—call it what you will—it was little more than a demolition
derby on bicycles. And we couldn’t wait to be a part of it.
So, myself, and my
partner in battle—a man known as “Guardrail,”—began to collect. We found our
steed at a swap meet—an old British folding bicycle. We went dumpster diving
for scraps of steel. I was trying to get a girl out of my apartment, so I threw
my mattress in the garbage. She didn’t get the hint, but the bed frame, combined
with an adult-sized tricycle, made an excellent chariot. And once we were done
collecting, we began to build. In a cluttered garage in Oregon City, we chopped
and cut and grinded and welded. Then we reinforced everything. And once we were
done building, we began drinking, because, if you’re going do something stupid,
you’d best be drunk. We called ourselves Team “Danger Zone,” and a year after
being mere spectators, we were now ready for battle.
If it seemed like utter
chaos while watching it, then participating in the mess was absolute
pandemonium. On a Friday night, in a construction zone underneath an elevated
highway, we went to war. I powered the steed, steering us in circles, as
Guardrail fought off our competition in the rear. I escaped a headlock from an
ex-marine. Guardrail dumped a team of girls onto their side. I got a giant man dressed
as a panda bear into a full nelson. The giant shook me off like I was a ragdoll.
We rode in circles. A cargo net landed on my front wheel. The more I rode, the
more it tangled, until the wheel wouldn’t move. Damn It!!! We were screwed.
Rule #3) If your bicycle becomes immovable, you lose. All of that work, only to
be done in by a fucking cargo net. But then…
We were saved! The police
showed up in full force. Perhaps it was the crowd of 400 strong, or the
fireworks exploding in the night sky, but it didn’t matter, we had been saved
by the cops. (I never thought I’d ever say those words.) We were trespassing,
they said, so we simply moved, down the road, to a “public” parking lot. I was
able to cut the net out of the wheel before we started up again—the five teams
who remained alive—but it wasn’t long before my lower leg got pinned between my
bike and another chariot. Another warrior pulled me from behind and I could
feel the pressure on my shin bone—like it was about to snap in two. I tapped
out. I waved my arms in the air. “We’re out!” I yelled. “We’re out!” The
pressure subsided. The battle raged on and eventually the giant panda was
declared the winner.
We waited another year.
Guardrail repaired the chariot, while I came up with a new strategy. On a
Saturday afternoon, in a rail yard on the eastside of the Willamette River,
with a picture-perfect view of the city skyline as our backdrop, again we
battled. Our plan was a simple one—attack and run—stay away from the action,
unless we could knock a team out unexpectedly. And it was working perfectly,
until…
We were blindsided—sideswiped
out of nowhere. The chariot crashed over on its side but Guardrail was able to
hang on. We righted ourselves but the damage was already done—the left wheel
was detached. Unfixable. We continued on, playing keep-away. I pedaled hard as
Guardrail balanced the chariot on one wheel, pushing off the pavement with his
right foot. We were able to keep away from most of the action until there was
only one chariot left besides our own—an experienced team who had won twice
before. I bent down and grabbed the bottom of their chariot and quickly flipped
it over. Their warrior was able to hang on, but it was too late, the damage was
done, their hitch snapped—their chariot was detached. Rule #2—they lose. We win.
Danger Zone wins!!!
Our arms were raised. The
trophy was filled with beer. We drank from it. Somehow, the associated press
had caught wind of the event. A reporter wanted to interview me afterwards. I
had never been interviewed before. He kept asking me about Portlandia, the cable television show. I acted like I didn’t know
what he was talking about. He wanted to know what we did for work, how we
earned our living. It was clear that he had already built a story in his head
and he only needed me to reassure him that it was true. He wanted to make us
out to be bums, street kids, adult delinquents. What he didn’t know, was that I
studied journalism in college—that I was a storyteller myself. We’re mostly teachers
and lawyers, I told him, but some of us are doctors, too. He cut that part from
his story. He ended up calling us “punks,” which, whatever, fuck-it, I’ve been
called worse. Because, in the end, when all is said and done, it doesn’t really
matter what you label anyone. Because this is Portland, Oregon, where you can
be a mother fuckin’ chariot warrior!
No comments:
Post a Comment