Feature

50 Blocks at 12 O'Clock (or Die Trying)

G/Block’s shows up with a posse of Brooklyn riders in tow. He raises the front wheel of his modified dirt bike to twelve o’clock as easily as he might lean back in a recliner, and rides the length of the parking lot without a helmet, his dime-size earring reflecting the sun. A moment later he turns and wheelies in the other direction, this time standing with one foot on the scrape bar and his free leg extended behind him as if he is figure skating.

Roly, the ambitious young rider I met at Oiste!!’s El Garajin, is in the crowd, too, but he is not content to be a spectator. This is a chance to wheelie with G/Block’s, and he is determined to do so even if—or perhaps precisely because—he’s out of his league. He yanks a few wheelies on his Banshee, trying to win a glance of approval from G/Block’s, or maybe just a couple of pointers. Of course, he pushes himself a little too far and tumbles to the asphalt. Yayi yells, but Roly bounces up. He inspects his bike before searching for bruises.

I must be within the Banshee’s radius of attraction, or maybe its gasoline fumes, because after watching two experienced bikers hit the pavement I decide it’s time for my first ride. It doesn’t look too difficult. Yayi and Roly must not have “respected the bike,” which is rule No. 1. I won’t have that problem. I throw a leg over the Banshee’s saddle seat and settle into the guest spotlight. Back at El Garajin, Oiste!! said my street name should be “Five-oh” because I look more like a cop than a biker, and indeed there is an air of jovial cultural diplomacy about the way Roly imparts the operating instructions. Over the buzz of the engine, he tells me that I’ll be addicted after one ride. I will think of nothing but the bike from now on, as if the Banshee carries a curse. The clutch lever is curled from one of the two crashes, but it still works. My right thumb rests on the throttle lever, which is about the size and shape of a firearm trigger. Roly tells me to give it “a little gas, a little gas.”

I ride out over the parking lot, acutely aware that the Ruff Ryders are watching me use only about a tenth of the bike’s power. The Banshee accommodates no passengers, but the driver is never alone and so feels obliged to give spectators a reason to pay attention. To ride a bike is to say, “Watch this!” Or “Oiste!!” There is no choice: I hit the gas. The wind is in my face, and as the front of the bike grows lighter it’s tempting to sit back and give the handlebars a tug. To pop my first wheelie. Instead, I lean forward to make sure those wheels don’t leave the pavement. Five-oh’s got no blocks.