Tuesday, Late Morning

Running of the Bulls

Portland, OR
Route #19, North on 4th Avenue

Don't ask how, but I knew he was suicidal before he indicated as such. Worn black pants, rolled up to just below the knees. Fixed gear bike, no brakes. He's clipped in. His bare calves sport tattoo's. Ragged black t-shirt and waterproof messenger bag on his back.

He stopped to greet another rider on the sidewalk; the two, still on their bikes, nearly bumped front wheels the way dogs bump each other - part of the ritual, but somehow accidental.

It's always difficult to tell the bicycle messengers from the hipsters. Usually the hand radio cliped near one shoulder is the key - neither of these dudes had radios.

They finished their pleasantries as my bus pulled away from the stop. The first rider sprints into the lane, aside the massive transporter. He outraces it, momentarily, swerving at the last minute to avoid the parked car ahead. My bus is merging left, as is the rider, right off our front nose.

This looks incredibly dangerous, as most public buses fill the lanes around us. The cyclists leans back to the right, splitting the near and parking lanes with another bus.

The other bus slows to make a turn as my bus shifts back right for another stop. The rider gently raises his left hand, placed on the door of the bus, and changes lanes with us. It's behaviour that's expected out of would-be bicycle couriers - to ride the traffic as if it were a great bull stampeding down the streets of Pamplona - to tempt mortal danger but remain unscathed.

Meanwhile, a third rider gently coasts along the sidewalk, listening intently to the small radio clipped to his side.