BICYCLE ACTION in TORONTO Toronto cyclists standing together. legal defence, direct action, lobbying, education

--- Requiem Critical Mass: A 1998 Bike Week Event ---

REQUIEM CRITICAL MASS

by Sarah Hood

"From 1988 to 1998, at least 36 cyclists have been killed in Toronto. The youngest known rider was six years old. The oldest was 80. When one of us is killed, we all grieve. Today, we ride to remember."

Thunder growls and the skies weep. Rivers run from the sky. At Grange Park a few cyclists staunchly gather under dripping trees. A bell rings, wetly. Others arrive.

Some of the waiting riders offer their faces up to the brushes of two artists who render them into death's heads. The still-falling rain adds a macabre final touch. I look down and see a great gout of red drop from my cheek to my raincoat. It splatters and spreads like blood.

Black armbands, flashing red lights, howling skull cutouts... the visual imagery slowly coalesces and more bicycles arrive; we are twenty, then thirty. Many have worn black - but the irony of the elements has cloaked their mourning in brilliant primaries and neons: the full rainbow of safety-conscious reflectives.

An hour later at least fifty cyclists launch under a clearing sky. Bells ring. Pedestrians turn to look. The first intersection is huge: six lanes crossing four. But some power is already with the group. Cyclists dismount, cars stop. Riders lie in the street, protected by appointed guardians. Two women whitewash a fallen cyclist on the road, with the words "A CYCLIST WAS KILLED HERE." One rider speaks the details of the death.

Police are arriving and drivers are honking. Two minutes have never seemed so long. Then it's up and we're on to another intersection, and a third, and a fourth. Each has its own quality. Each is deeply moving. Police treat the "illegal" event with some respect, and ride along - on their bikes - to offer their help with the cars.

At the last spot I lie down, eyes shut. The cars sound like animals roaring to be let loose. Vulnerable on the concrete, my thoughts are with the woman who died here alone nine years ago. Could this gesture, in this place, defy mortal limits to touch her consciousness? I hope so.

We end the ride at City Hall's Peace Garden, where we unwrap a ribbon bearing the names of the dead. A makeshift altar is created of handpainted cloth, candles, flowers. Shafts of dull golden sunlight glance from a calmer sky. The group stands with bowed heads. No one seems to want to leave the spot.

Bike bells break the reverie, and we return to the present, back to the mundane world. Time for the wake! Many of us ride to a nearby biker's bar and drink beer, happy to be with the living, with each other. But we won't forget the dead. ©Sarah Hood 1998

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