Human Powered Rollercoaster

The Human-Powered Rollercoaster, an enormous figure-8 plywood bike track, is the brainchild of Johnny Jetfuel, who this year sprained his collarbone on it. I've never seen busier EMTs in my life. Halloween was the last HPR to be sponsored by Dunhill Cigarettes. Momentum can carry you around the steep slopes of the track to speeds easily in excess of 40mph, so I guess Dunhill's message is: "Hey, smoking our cigarettes can't be as dangerous as racing on this track." But is it as fun?

Well, HPR was dramatic enough to lure me behind enemy lines - into the dark heart of Canadia itself! And can I just say right now, Canadian beer sucks. One word to Canadian brewers: hops. Try 'em, ya might just like 'em.

Thanks to the Blackouts for schooling SF's young Cracker King on manners. Y'all cut fine figures in the pink bunny shirts, I got to say. Did the "dressing to pick fights" tactic work?

The first night's after party apparently entailed crashing a bachelor party at a strip joint, doing everyone's favorite vitamin A, then fleeing from the Canadian police like a bevy of quail. To our boys' credit, they discovered police had Canadian Brian, so they valiantly returned to the scene to confuse the cops and make them leave in disgust.

Racing crashing racing crashing was the order of the day Friday. The folks sporting full-face helmet seemed doomed to crash. Laura Hopcraft organized a courier fashion show. Two truly horrible bands tortured us - Kenda asked me to kill him and end his misery; I did my best to comply. I think SF's Clive Lightwood earned the most style points that evening. During his qualifying heat, all the power in the warehouse went out, yet Clive kept racing in the pitch black and won by many lengths. Pete Lords (any relation to Traci?) and Erik Zo emceed. I loved how Zo would begrudgingly discuss the racers then immediately switch back to the subject he actually cared about: the antique bikes on the display!

Friday, after the races, found us at Courier Cavern. Finally, two blocks that warranted my mountain bike - I felt so vindicated! Met Halley and Keith - fine folks, but I split before the nipple and butt feeling activities began. Lisa Ramsey was supposed to pick the best butt present but she tactfully declared it a draw.

On Saturday more splinters to eat! Chrissima Pearce was so far ahead of her competitors it wasn't even funny. Unfortunately one woman vying for second place took a ten-foot drop off the track. Her head miraculously landed on top of a pile of messenger bags, so she survived without major injury. Run DMC entertained some folks. My SF posse decided we'd rather sweep the track. Following Pete Lords' lead, I slid down the track several times and spent the rest of the evening plucking splinters out of my back side. Finally the men's finals: the two guys in lead, Dirk and Joe, spilled and the third place guy won. Slow and steady apparently does win the race. Who would've thunk it? More yeasty Canadian beer please.

For the alleycat, I worked a checkpoint with Kenda at Casa Loma - what are the odds? Casa Loma aka Lamo used to be the name of a notoriously sleazy SF pick-up bar frequented by many a messenger. The Canadian Casa Loma is the only turreted castle in North America, on top of an enormous hill. At each manned stop riders were given a playing card - whoever had the best poker hand got points. Well, DFL rider Kevin from Boston got a full house with two 10s and three Aces of Spades - Motörhead would be proud. Folks milled around the Standby Café for much of the day - thanks for the free coffee, guys!

A curse upon those physically fit, even-keeled, mentally stable people who can talk intelligibly and don't spend all their vacation money on bad Canadian beer! Fate had me sharing a hotel room with three teetotalers. But if you can't beat 'em join 'em, right? My fat ass - if you can't beat 'em, LOSE. I went out the Team Glue way - got tangled up lost in the streets of Toronto, surfaced in time to start drinking with the Scots. Did I mention I love the Scots? Stationed at Dee's as we were, we outdrank our Toronto guides and entertained various waves of messengers stopping by.

Later that evening a boy - let's just call him "Moron Boy" from, let's just say Copenhagen, passed out in the bar - we continued our drinking, figuring we'd deal with him at closing time, whenever the heck that was, but the bar staff demanded his immediate ejection. Dang! Coffee and water failed to revive him, couldn't find out where the hell he was staying so I took it upon myself to drag him, his Zo - I mean whatever they have in Copenhagen - his bike and him in a taxi back to the hotel where I installed him in the closet of the Trans-Atlantic Room. Went out, returned to find Moron Boy had crawled out of the room like some sea creature, relieved himself on the wall, then passed out again. Dragged him back into the room, shoved him back in the closet, passed out. When we awoke (two hours later!) he had disappeared, leaving all his material possessions with us. I dunno what kind of impact he made on the Torontonians with no shoes, soaked pants, and "I love Welsh people!" scrawled all over his face, but that boy was determined to come out of the closet!

All's well that end's well-except for that Canadian menace. I was lulled into thinking that our Dark Overlords weren't all that bad, until Canadia got my left toe-clip. How petty of them! "I left my toe clip/in Toronto/I don't know how I got there/I only know I drank LaBatt's there."-A