ride my bike to work almost every day, and every day, for some reason, I feel compelled to get to work as fast as I can. Other cyclists wait patiently while car after car runs red lights in front of them or a bus cuts them off, forcing the cyclists to swerve dangerously close to parked cars.

I can't ride like that. And I've tried to ride cautiously and patiently, but I notice that slowly but surely I return to my usual speed. I feel the tension grow. I'm on the lookout for any car that might challenge me to my part of the road. I think for the most part I'm safe, but I know that I am, well, aggressive.

Despite my attitudes about cars and considering that I know that I am aggressive, I don't really consider myself a bicycle activist, at least in the sense of being part of a movement. The bicyclist movement has recently received at lot of press here in San Francisco because of a monthly event called Critical Mass. Scheduled on the last Friday of each month during the evening commute, the event is an anarchistic gathering of cyclists who roam the city street en masse, running red lights and causing a traffic headache. Critical Mass turned into a melee in July when our esteemed mayor, Willie Brown, threatened the cyclists with arrest and torture if they didn't cease and desist (okay, maybe not torture). The result of his inflammatory statements was an event filled with normally peaceable bicyclists turned into maniacs, spitting at cars and getting arrested by the hundreds (honest).

I had never attended a Critical Mass and did not go in July because, in a way, it seems to me a bit too anarchistic and self-indulgent. The monthly outing originally started as a fun way for friends to ride bikes home together. The event has never had a leader nor, in my mind, a clear mission. Now that it has grown, it surely accomplishes a lot. It disrupts rush hour traffic as thousands of bikes compete with other vehicles for already crowded downtown streets. It raises awareness that some bicyclists have needs and issues that they do not feel are being addressed. And it makes a lot of motorists mad, which brings me to my next story.

Joining In

In August, a month after the melee, I decided to finally give Critical Mass a chance. Riding with my friend David, we biked in a very orderly fashion, due in part to the hundreds of motorcycle cops on the scene to watch our every move. At one point, though, when there were no cops, I found myself at the back of a small pack of bikes. I heard the roar of an engine and turned around in time to see a gold Mercedes bearing down on me, then slamming on its brakes, stopping short of me by less than a foot.

A little shook up, I switched to the other lane, only to have a motorcycle cop reappear and tell me to pull into the slow lane or risk arrest. I pointed out that a Mercedes, which was still behind me, had just tried to hit me, but the cop wasn't impressed, and we all rode on.

About 20 minutes later, our pack of bikes met up with hundreds of others, and we rode into the Broadway tunnel. There wasn't a car in sight, only masses of cyclists, ringing their bells and hollering down the long, narrow tunnel cut through Russian Hill. I felt a chill go down my spine and a rush of emotion. The scene was surreal as the noise echoed off the tiled walls of the winding passage.

Then I had a thought, "Why is this affecting me? Why is this important to me?" It wasn't like other protests that I've attended in which I had a personal stake. Critical Mass was more like anarchy for anarchy's sake, and I felt like part of a mob. At that moment I decided to turn around through the streams of bicycles and head home.

Run Over

After returning home, I chatted with Linc and Vince on our front steps, telling them about my Critical Mass experience as Linc repaired the front gate. Our new neighbor, Bob, stuck his head out the door just as a parade of police vehicles passed in front of our house. "What's going on?" he asked. "Critical Mass" I responded. "Oh. They all deserve to get run over," he said with a huff as he headed back indoors.

Bob obviously was unaware that my life had been threatened just 30 minutes earlier by someone trying to do just that--run me over. He's probably also unaware that I face that danger every day on the way to work. In fact, in June I was "doored"--a truck opened its door just as I slowed down for a stop light and fraction of a second later I was sprawled on the pavement, my back wheel broken from the impact.