Five... four... three... two... ZOOBOMB! The countdown finished and the 80-some zoobombers I had joined for the night took off down the hill.

I had lost Benjamin, my unofficial guide-slash-cigarette-supplier for the night, and things were starting to go very fast. One thing must be made clear; there is a lot of hill in between the top and bottom. As my new buddy Benjamin described, pretty eloquently, “It’s 700 vertical feet of pure bliss.” It’s always funny to me that bliss and bodily harm are securely linked in the realm of experience. I’d like to say I wasn’t scared shitless but I’m not a liar¹. It didn’t help that I came unprepared. In my stupidity, I’d neglected to bring a light. I was going to go down a hill I’d never once ridden before, on a bike I don’t really ride that much, in the dark, at 35 miles an hour without a helmet²—and I didn’t have a bike light. Luckily, the zoobombers were very helpful and contributed such solid advice as, “Oh fuck, you don’t have a light?” and, “Don’t ride your brakes too much or they’ll overheat.” Yeah. Don’t use my brakes. Awesome. A guy named Clint told me about a part where it was important to follow the bomber in front of me slalom fashion up on the sides of a drainage ditch so as to avoid the grates (I would end up avoiding this section entirely).Overall, they told me to take it easy and pay attention to the group. They have a vested interest in people not wiping out and dying, in order to avoid scrutiny by the powers that be.

According to a 2005 article in Willy Week, the event started around 2002 when a young Texan named Zach Archibald met up with some BMX kids outside of Rocco’s Pizza and rode the hill with them. It has been growing ever since. New riders seem to be encouraged by the group, although it’s hard to tell. With that is a serious emphasis on safety. Needless to say, I felt like a pretty big dick for showing up sans bike light. The organization of the group seems to be fairly organic, and the values seem to revolve around bike advocacy and, most importantly, riding bikes down hills.

As I went down the hill, I rode the shit out of my brakes. They made noises. They felt weird.. For a moment I thought I could smell them. But I rode them hard. Many of the “real” zoobombers ride the mini-bikes. This seems more dangerous but I don’t know. I don’t think they have the top speed of a road bike. I could be wrong, but every time I let off the brakes for a second, Pepe, my trusty 30-year-old Peugeot, rocketed up to 500 million miles an hour. Aside from seeming like a very dangerous speed, it also caused me to pass people I was using for reference in the dark. But after a bit, I started to get the hang of it. Speed is a weird thing. It only takes a few moments to get used to it, then a little bit faster starts to seem like a good idea. I started to cut turns faster using the left lane. The group shouts “CAR!” if there’s a car, and “SALT” if there’s a cop. So the whole road is fair game if you trust the people in front of you. I trusted them, and I started to have some fun.

Eventually, we came to the first fork in the road. At that point, the “leader,” Solid Gold, would give the crowd a choice between routes, with one being less difficult than the other. I always took the easy route. My life had been going exceedingly well over the last couple of weeks and I wasn’t about to screw it up with serious head injury. After negotiating some simple, but completely pitch black swichbacks³, I met up with the group again. Again, Solid Gold advised the group as to where those of us who didn’t have balls made of heavy metal could go. That was the last time I saw him.

1. You'll have to take my word for it.
2. I do not recommend doing this without a helmet. I don't use one myself—not because I want to make some sort of statement or are fearless, but because I'm generally irresponsible.
3. The Pitchback Switchbacks would be an excellent name for a rockabilly band. 

The first time I saw him was the Friday before at the Filmed by Bike movie festival over on 25th and Clinton. Over the years, the films have been eclipsed by the block party that inevitably develops. Bikes pile on top of bikes in massive metal sculptures as the SE neighborhood transforms into a pretty decent party for a Friday night. I had heard that this would be an excellent place to spot some zoobombers in the wild. To be honest, it was difficult to tell an actual zoobomber from a regular bicycle enthusiast in the hip-hop- and beer infused scene. Luckily, Solid Gold rolled up on a double stack bike name “Frankencycle” and had very noticeable “Zoo Bomb” patch on the back of his jacket. This is why I’m such an excellent journalist. I notice the most subtle details. Of course, I had to sound like an ass by asking him, “So are, you a, ahem, zoobomber?” He said yes and I asked him a few questions.

Now I have to say a few things about Solid Gold. This guy is the quintessential Super Alpha Hipster. I know that calling someone a hipster is tantamount to calling them a douchebag nowadays, but I don’t mean it in a pejorative sense at all. This is the guy all the other hipsters are trying to be. He’s like Paul Newman back in his heyday, except taller and with stronger features. He’s got a sort of relaxed air about him that could probably chill people out on a crashing plane and the kind of charisma that can get people to drink poison Kool-Aid in South America. I asked him about the size of the group; he told me, “Thousands. Not ten thousand, but probably more than two.” I told him I was doing an article on the club and had browsed the website a little bit. That’s when I found out that the “website isn’t really an official zoobomber site; it’s more of a fan page.” This makes sense, because I had seen on the calendar that there was supposed to be a protest of the new 75-lane Vancouverite Funnel and no none showed. This is a shame because while I hate to sound like a pretentious asshole¹, I am firmly opposed to anything that makes it easier for people from Portland to go to Vancouver, and more importantly, vice-versa². So the website’s not the real deal and there’s a lot of zoobombers. I tell him I’m going to bomb the hill on Sunday and he seems pleased, but tells me that they aren’t real fond of pictures being taken.

This is understandable, since the activity technically qualifies as trespassing and there is some light pot and alcohol use. You’d think a group of bike kids wouldn’t be particularly concerned, but after spending a little time partying on top of the hill it became clear that it was an older crowd, and mixed. Benjamin and I got there early, and as our own light drug and alcohol use started to kick in, the field started to fill up to about 80 or 90 people. There was no need to worry about taking pictures as the entire scene was happening in total darkness. The only light was the firefly-like bobbing of cigarettes on butts that would be packed out in accordance with the fairly strict “leave no trace” policy. I overheard conversation as I hung around; the content ranged from dead baby jokes such as, “Yeah, I’ve had kids, they were delicious,” to musings on political ambitions— “Well if it’s Saltzman, I’m definitely going to run.” I wandered around a bit but mostly stuck with Benjamin. At a certain point, I got that feeling that slightly awkward feeling that I get at parties where I don’t really know anyone and after several false starts we got on our way. Once we pulled up to the beginning of the hill, the chant started: Ten... nine... eight... seven... six...

1. Okay, now I'm just lying.
2. It's okay if I say this; Some of my bet friends are from Vancouver.