I hadn't been to mass in a long time.

Back in Vancouver, I had more of a reason to attend the Critical Mass bike rides -- I was cycling to work every day, so the monthly demonstrations of pedal power were a good place to purge backed-up psychic bile. But as I had been writing a novel this year in Toronto, I had been living the life of a Parisian flaneur. I had the time and inclination to walk everywhere, becoming an amused observer of the speedy dramas that took place on the streets.

My novel completed, I decided to help spread the English virus abroad under the guise of teaching. Having to rush to prepare myself, I started riding my bike again, and realized that my days of leisure were over -- cycling marked, for me, life acceleration. In addition to this feeling was a desire to check out the Critical Mass in my hometown before I left.

"Follow that guy!" someone yelled, and we were off. I and rode into the hundreds-strong stream, remembering what a kick it was to hear the confused honking of the car-bound, outnumbered for once. Our cheerful bells seemed to be a pleasantly youthful and smart-ass reply to their blaring noises.

A few blocks in, a car who had got a little pushy was surrounded by six calm cyclists, all facing in at him like the spokes to a hub. He had a sour look on his face, both hands on the wheel.

I heard two people discussing the merits of running red lights. "I just think it gives cyclists a bad name," a guy with a red helmet was saying. I missed the long-haired guy's response because Irene started singing.

"You're not punk and I'm telling everyone," she sung.

Eliot replied, "Save your breath I never was one."

(We don't have booming bass stereos, but we don't have to go without music.)

"You don't know what I'm all about,

Like killing cops and reading Kerouac."

On cue, we passed by a cop who was ticketing someone. I asked what for, and another cyclist told me that he was getting it for disobeying the traffic directions or something. As usual, I had no idea how to protest or prevent it, and I left hoping the guy has the good sense to give a nom du pedal.

Any demo has its share of ah fuck...s and all right!s, and this was no exception. When we stopped at the University and Dundas intersection, however, the ride bloomed into beauty.

"Two minutes of silence!" someone yelled, raising his hand. All four lanes of traffic were totally stopped, and I waited for the honking avalanche to begin. But then a banner was raised for all to see:

A CYCLIST WAS KILLED HERE LAST WEEK

There was no honking.

Some people were handing out leaflets to the drivers, which explained that a man was doored, knocked into the street, then hit by a bus. The silence continued, and some people lifted their bikes above their heads and held them there. I didn't want to do it -- I'm a little uncomfortable with herd behaviour -- but as more and more bikes were lifted, I was impressed with this gesture. It said Bike Power, it said to the motorists bet you can't do this with your vehicle, and it was a tribute to a dead cyclist, a person who could have been any of us.

Because he chose to ride a bike in a society that coddles cars, his death was more than a random incident -- the chance of it happening was increased by the lack of sane traffic alternatives. I felt angry, and sad, and I was moved by it.

The guy who was keeping time dropped his hand. People whooped and hollered and rang, and beneath it I heard the melancholic notes of the bagpipes. It connected for me, then -- of course, it matters because he was one of us. One of our tribe has died.

After mass, I partook of the sacred roti and reflected on the responsibilities of the warrior-bard in the urban highlands. And wrote this story.

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This was originally published in TransMission, Winter 1998.