Friday Follies ~~ Parade!

A long time ago, in a distant city, a group of cyclists where invited to join in a 4^th of July Parade.  I won’t name any of them, as the statute may not have run out yet.

Let me preface the events I’m about to recount with a bit of lore.

Cyclists, especially road cyclists are an odd lot.  It’s safe to say that they are a collection of eccentric individualists.  Anyone who has ever attempted to “lead” a group on a ride knows this.  Some are climbers.  Some are diesels.  There are those who always ride as fast as possible, and those who are more relaxed.  Getting such a mixed group to cooperate, in any significant way, is difficult, to say the least.

And yet, a large group of experienced cyclists seems to possess something akin to the starling’s “flocking instinct.  Starlings don’t have mid-air collisions.  They all seem to decide to take to the air at the same time, and in generally the same direction.  Under the right conditions, cyclists will behave similarly.  A county line sign, or a city limits sign appears, and the group breaks into a sprint.  No words are exchanged.  It just happens.

Just a bit more background.  It won’t come as a surprise that cities and towns celebrate the Independence Day holiday.  Humans seem to love a parade.  We’ll do one on just about any excuse.  Pretty much any town, of any size, will put on a parade on the fourth.

How are these two bits of information related?  Read on.

The scene was a small southern town.  The place was large enough to be considered a “city,” but still small enough that most people not of that state would not be familiar with it.  Every year the town put on a parade.  The parade was typical. There were marching bands, the Fire Department shined up the engines for it.  There were pretty girls in shiny cars.  There would be some local politicians.  The horsey folks would have a bunch of oat burners all decked out in fancy tack.  And more, there were usually some rather odd entrants.  In short, it was a kind of typical, do-it-yourself sort of amusement.

For whatever reason, a group of the local racing cyclists decided to enter the parade.  It seemed like a good idea at the time.  They sought permission, and someone thought that would be okay, so permission was granted.

Spring had come early that year, and warm.  The beginning of Summer notched the heat up farther.  It was a drought year, hot and dry.  The parade was schedule to start at 11:00, late for these things.

The cycling crew showed up (mostly) early.  Their bikes were shined up, and they were wearing their best and flashiest kits.  By ten o’clock the temperature was already in the upper eighties and climbing.

The parade did not start off with the highest of organization, and it did not start on time.  (They never do.)

The cyclists were positioned in front of a marching band, and immediately behind a contingent of hot-rod folks.  The band seemed to know only one number, Sousa’s “Double Eagle,” and they played it over and over…  badly, and LOUD.  The hot-rodders were finding their own ways to make noise.  They were revving engines and blasting claxon horns.  So the cyclists stood, astride bikes, sweating, being assaulted by noise and very oily exhaust gasses.

Eventually (finally!) the parade started to move.  It was closer to noon than eleven.  The temperature on the street was somewhere around the melting point of lead.  No sooner did the whole thing seem to get started than…  It stopped.

The politicians (up front) where jumping out of their cars and working the crowd.  (It was an election year.)  The horses (immediately behind the pols) were getting skittish and notional, and the twirlers (behind the horses, but in front of the fire engines, had to stop and perform their routine every half block.

Just as the thing actually seemed to be about to start to consider getting somewhere, the hot-rods started having trouble.  One of them stalled, and another overheated.  These cars did not like parade pace.

The cyclists were not happy either.  These young men had trained themselves to move on the road, to be fast and fluid.  Here, they would start, and then have to drop to a slow walking pace, one that was barely able to keep them upright.  Then, inexplicably the thing would move and open up a large gap, followed by a sudden stop.  For some reason, the band behind the cyclists never seemed to notice the stopping, and they were over-running the bikes with their flags and banners.

As the whole thing was making the turn onto Main Street, the hot-rods developed another case of the colly-wobbles.  It was enough.  No word was spoken among the cycling team.  Flocking instinct took over.  As if a being with many legs and one mind, they moved.  They mounted and accelerated.  The formed an arrow and slashed right through the hot-rods, then split into two single file columns and went around the fire department on right and left.

The twirlers were spread all the way across the street, as the two columns of riders rejoined into one, in the center of the road.  They went through the baton tossers in much the way that a bullet in flight would deal with a sheet of newsprint.  The bikes were gaining speed by then, and speed, to a racing cyclist, is mobility and maneuverability.  Unfortunately, horses don’t understand this.

To a horse, something that is large, and that moves rapidly and silently, is a predator.  Horses are prey animals.  Deep down, in what little passes for thought in a horse, is the genetically ingrained urge to get away from predator behavior.  It wasn’t pretty.

The three floats presented no difficulties to the riders, they just flew by.  Then they were among the pols, the shiny showroom cars, and the pretty girls.  And as quickly, the riders were past that obstacle too.  They broke into the clear, and were presented with a glorious sight.  An open, and unobstructed road lay before them.  Half of the parade route was ahead.  They did what any breakaway does under those circumstances.  They accelerated.

That was the year that the cyclists won the parade.  It was the first, and last year that they were invited to join the parade.  For that matter, it did not occur to the riders to ask to be included again.

The fact that no arrests were made can be attributed to two things.  The riders did not stop at the end of the parade route, and everyone had a good alibi.