Massively Critical: The October Critical Mass Ride

The Militant hasn't done a group bicycle ride in a looong-ass time, so he figured he'd check out this month's last-Friday-of-the-month Los Angeles Critical Mass ride on Friday night, having heard it's quite the shiznit these days, with upwards of over 1800 cyclists, and a police escort which followed this unfortunate incident last year.

This was the Militant's first CM ride in over three years. When he first rode in Spring 2007, about 60 riders started at Wilshire and Western, snaked through Koreatown, Hollywood, Silver Lake, Historic Filipinotown and finally ended unceremoniously in Downtown Los Angeles...with about six riders. The Militant thought it was teh lame and has avoided it since, in favor of these rides and this (now defunct) ride.

But now that CM has grown to the size and scope of its originator up north, the Militant wanted to check it out.

He rode over from the Militant Compound to Wilshire/Western, where some 1300 cyclists gathered (pictured right). And just at the ready, LAPD motorcycles were lined up around the corner, with a number of bike cops waiting at the base of the Solair Wilshire building.

The most interesting observation coming back from the Militant's two-year absence from group rides? The change in the group ride demographic. The majority of riders no longer comprises of white hipsters on fixies, but Latino teenagers...on fixies.

The 30-mile ride got underway at around 7:45 p.m., headed north on Western, west on 6th Street, north on Highland, west on Melrose, south on La Cienega...

...and then, well it sorta got iffy after that. The pack thinned out greatly. In fact, though the po-po were escorting us, they were also ticketing cyclists at every other lighted intersection for running red lights. It was sort of bizarre. One female cyclist openly wept as she tried to reason with the officer.

As we headed down La Cienega, there was some confusion as to where to go. Apparently, the pack turned west on Pico, but we continued south on La Brea and turned west on Venice Blvd. towards Culver City.

But Venice Blvd already has a bike lane, and the Militant was increasingly feeling the uselessness of this ride using a pre-existing bike lane when for the past five miles or so we took over the streets (which is the point of Critical Mass in the first place, no?).

At one point, after Mar Vista and into eastern Venice, the Militant was riding all alone. Hmm, this evening started out as Critical Mass and ended like...well, any other night the Militant rides his bike alone. He overheard people heading south on Lincoln, so he dismounted and hung out on Lincoln and Venice. There were other cyclists on each corner, either hanging out or waiting for others. He even saw some head north on Lincoln. At this point, he thought, "Critical Mass the Militant's Ass!" And contemplated either riding the 33 Metro Local bus or his bike back to his compound.

Suddenly, at around 9:25 p.m., a huge gaggle of riders came up to the street and stopped at the light (Pictured left). Here they are! They probably did go down Pico after all. Los Angeles, you never fail the Militant!

Now joining what now looks like a couple hundred riders, we descended south on Lincoln towards Marina Del Rey and Playa Vista, where we got ready to turn left on Jefferson. But since we were all bicycles and there were no cars stopped on top of the road sensors circles, the left turn green light never came. After over 5 minutes waiting at the left turn lane, two motorcycle officers went ahead on a red light and we all followed them.

There were whoops and hollers as we bolted east on Jefferson back towards Culver City. But then again, at every lighted intersection, cyclists were getting red light tickets. So basically, never bolt past a red light (when the police are present, unless they actually allow you to...).

We headed left on Sepulveda and hit Venice Blvd. Being All Hallow's Eve Eve Eve, a number of cyclists wore costumes, everything from the standard zombie and skeleton to some of the more creative ones - including an iPod and Elliot (a dude wearing a red-hooded sweatshirt with an E.T. doll in his bike's front basket - clever).

There were also some pretty tricked-out bikes, including one pulling a long trailer, and one extremely illuminated cycle owned by Dego from Downtown Los Angeles, who had built his over the past couple years and powers all his lights with a 38-volt battery mounted behind his saddle.

We headed east on Venice, using the bike lane again, and didn't turn north again until Western, where the Militant returned back to the Metro station at Wilshire, where he met up with an operative. What started out as roughly 1300 turned into...13.

In all it was a fun night, though the police presence was confusing. June's much-lauded Critical Mass was called a "love fest" between cyclists and LAPD, but the Militant overheard incidents of officers being unnecessarily rude to CM participants. There were riders who had great conversations with the police, mainly the younger officers on bikes (a number of them did look like they were having fun - they normally don't get to ride that far). Officers do have to uphold the law as they are sworn to do, but as the pack thins out dramatically, the purpose of Critical Mass is all for naught. It looked like there were enough tickets handed out to balance the City's budget woes. So thank a cyclist if that happens.

In the meantime, the Militant will look out for the other group rides. Or...he may or may not organize one of his own. Who's down for that?!

The Bike Path To Summer

Although Memorial Day weekend was over a month ago, and the Summer Solstice came and went last week, for this Militant, it's not Summer until I visit the beach. Having some work responsibilities wrapped up by early afternoon, I found a unique window of opportunity to hit the coast on Thursday.

Since 1993, I've inaugurated the arrival of Summer with a ride down the 22-mile South Bay Bike Path.

Despite the beach being outside my driving ban territory, I still decided to save some gas anyway by taking advantage of Metro's new Rapid Line 704, which supposedly gets me to Santa Monica in an hour. To my dismay, the bus wasn't on time (or maybe I missed the last one?) and it wasn't a fancy red-colored bus, but rather a regular poppy-orange Metro Local with a "704 Santa Monica" headsign. Nevertheless, the bike went on the front rack, the iPod went in my ears, and I was on my way.

It did take about an hour to reach the beach, not bad. I disembarked at Colorado and started pedaling, passing the throngs of digital camera-snapping summer tourists outside iconic Santa Monica Pier sign, crossing the curiously-named Moomat Ahiko Way -- which is native American Chumash for "Breath of the Ocean" and not after some Arab-Japanese fellow as I had previously thought. Within a few minutes, I was finally on The Path.

My destination, the end of the path at Torrance County Beach was a virtually-unseen point in the distance, past the slight haze created by coastal moisture. Riding on the path during the summer is a unique experience; the sum beats down on your back and arms yet your face is cooled by the moist sea air, rewarded frequently by the delicate coastal breezes. The experience is just not the same during the winter, where it's considerably colder, and the flat, spanning aesthetic of the beach is dramatically altered by storm berms bulldozed in the sand. Yes, I can always come here in the winter, but I don't like to.

Having breezed past the Venice Boardwalk on my summer bike rides on The Path, I decided to play "tourist" and simply walk my bike along the Boardwalk (a misnomer since it's simply pavement). It was my first time on the actual Boardwalk since helping a friend visiting from Philadelphia realize her dream of rollerblading in Venice Beach a decade ago (for my newbie rollerblading ass though, it was a muscle-aching nightmare). Sometimes I wonder what it's like to be a tourist. If all I saw of Angelenos were stoned-out smelly dudes strumming guitars while selling ersatz paintings or hawking henna designs, I might not like this town all that much. Although I must report that I spotted the Silver Lake Walking Dude of all people, in all his sunburned glory, here on the Venice Boardwalk, well outside his home environs.

After Venice Beach, I got back on the bike and rode through the "street" segment of The Path, crossing one of Abbot Kinney's few surviving canals and navigating the perimeter of Marina Del Rey, finally reaching a dedicated bike path again where it junctions with the Ballona Creek Path. I think I'll shut up for now and let the pictures speak for themselves:

Gigantic crane birds (center) hang out in the Ballona Wetlands --

the last piece of land untouched since the native Tongva tribe roamed the area.

The Del Rey Lagoon, just south of Ballona Creek,
is the last vestige of a large span of marshland
that would eventually be dredged to create The Marina.

Looking back north, The El Segundo Power Plant hums and churns
while surfers ride the waves just yards away.

The surfer's monument at Hermosa Beach Pier.

The path ends here, next to the fortress-like cliffs of the Palos Verdes Peninsula.

Looking back, to think I came all this way.
Santa Monica can hardly be seen in the distance.

The sand, the surf, the foam, the kelp, the easy feeling of a
summer evening in Southern California.

When the sun sets over the Pacific...

My Summer initiation ritual is not complete without baptizing myself in the waters of the Pacific (okay, just a knee-deep wade would suffice this time), reminding me that I've completed my journey, and forming a connection to my ancestors who have similarly waded the other side. As the sun set, some music provided by the iPod orchestra completed the mood, of a day finishing off its business in this part of the world.

Now time for the journey back.

With night approaching, the environment suddenly changes, and it's not necessarily for the worse. The moist sea air embraced me like an invisible blanket, keeping me relatively warm as I speed through the cold of night. Pier lights served as decorative strings jutting out into the dark, unknown expanse of the ocean. As I raced back towards Santa Monica and the receding layer of remaining post-dusk sunlight fades into bands of orange and purple, the bonfires of Doheny State Beach formed seemed to form their own runway perpendicular to the paths of jet planes roaring above.

Come 9 p.m., in the dark, unlit expanses of Playa Del Rey, I felt like a western Pioneer navigating towards unknown territory, with only a small bike light guiding my way. Daunting, yes, but really very exciting. The full moon also provided quite a sight with its light reflecting on the waters of Ballona Creek (photo right).

But once I reached Santa Monica, the quiet solace of the beach at night ended suddenly, with the lights of the Pacific Park blaring on the Pier and throngs of people walking around both on the Path and on the sand. The energy of this beach continued as if the sun had never set. A free valet service was set up to accommodate people's bikes next to the path, and the lot was mostly full.

Navigating the Santa Monica streets by the 3rd Street Promenade, I had long left the dark, silent solitude of the beach at night and was back in the city again, waiting for the 4 bus to take my bike and my tired Militant self back home.

Yes. Summer is finally here.

When Ya Gotta Go, Go Metro!

Looks like the automatic pay toilets have hit my hood. A brand new Metro Latrine is being installed at the Metro Rail Vermont/Santa Monica station. About time, I say. Maybe the Metro Bus stop across the street won't reek of urine anymore. A week ago, the news racks were removed from the site, a rectangular hole dug out of the pavement and a large concrete base installed. When a water main was spotted protruding from the base, I knew it was Potty Time. The toilet, an off-the-shelf model by international street advertising company JCDecaux is identical to ones seen in Downtown, as well as in Frisco, Chicago and Paris.
A closer look at the pay toilet gave way to a definite nod to Los Angeles' rich diversity. Instructions on how to use the toilets are also given in German and French (pictured left), because, we all know that Los Angeles is famous for its large Deutsch- and Français- speaking immigrant communities. Oh well, it doesn't matter what race, ethnicity or nationality you are. You might be an American outside the toilet, but inside... You're-A-Peein.'