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The Brooklyn Paper / Sarah Kramer

Bicyclists race around Prospect Park’s loop for fun and prizes.

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Once a week, Prospect Park plays host to an illicit scratch race for bicyclists, baring an edgier side of a park better known for its picnics, dog walks and ballgames.

The races go off without a permit and are not sanctioned by the Parks Department, so they are technically illegal. But they seem to be tolerated by police charged with enforcing the park’s rules. (During the hour-and-a-half span of a recent race, at least three cop cars drove by and let the race go on.)

One gathering took shape on a weekday evening, already well past sundown, as cyclists on fixed-gear bikes who’d heard of the event through word-of-mouth began sweeping into the Grand Army Plaza entrance of Prospect Park. They arrived in ones and threes, their faces lit by streetlamps making halos in the haze.

Congregating at the grassy triangle just past the entrance and leaning their track bikes into the grass, before they paid $3 to an organizer for the privilege of racing.

“Some people drink, some people do drugs, some people read books, some people run — I ride my bike,” said Jed Stewart, a Red Hook resident leaning on his Brass Knuckle bike, explaining why he came. “It’s a vice.”

Stewart looked like a serious cyclist, as did about a third of the 50-or-so competitors. They had garish Lycra skin-suits, muscle-bound legs, and a swagger.

The rest were bike punks, of the two-wheeled messenger and gearhead variety. Instead of Lycra, they wore hipster haircuts, silver chains and tattoos. Helmets were in abundance, though by no means universally worn.

As the race-hour approached, Heidi, the organizer, stood center-stage, in a black, orange and white one-piece, and announced the rules of the game. Fireflies flickered among the blinking safety lights.

“This is week four,” said Heidi. “This race is two laps. First through fifth place will get points. And, there are special sprinter points for the first person to pass me. I’ll give myself a minute’s head-start.”

After some discussion about what constituted “passing” and a warning from Heidi about staying out of the way of other park users, racers lined up. Volunteers positioned themselves on the finish line. Crickets sang in the background. Heidi sprinted off into the darkness of the 3.3-mile loop that, coincidentally, is closed to motor vehicles after 7 pm. A minute later, the rest followed.

This is the second year that this particular group has held under-the-radar races in the park. Reportedly, the originator of the race series, a cyclist named Tyler, ended his version early last year after a collision between a cyclist and a pedestrian left the cyclist with a broken bone, and the pedestrian with minor injuries.

Heidi, who has resurrected the races, wouldn’t comment on the record for this story. But she and one volunteer did warn cyclists to be careful and warned other park users to beware of the fast-moving racers coming around the bend.

“As racers we take a degree of responsibility for ourselves and others,” said one cyclist who wished to remain anonymous.

In an ideal world, the racers would get a permit, and maybe even some accident insurance, said Eugene Patron, spokesman for the Prospect Park Alliance, which operates the park.

“It’s a safety issue,” said Patron. “That said, friends and bike clubs probably have informal races that we don’t know about.”

About 15 minutes after this race began, the cyclists reemerged from the dark and began clearing the finish line, used the ensuing curve to slow down. Many sank onto the grassy triangle to catch their breath.

“I like the competition and the speed,” said Dave Trimble, a Red Hook resident who was leaning on his Cinelli, the light reflecting off the sweat on his face. “And, [unlike most races], this one is late at night on a weekday, and it’s less serious.”

After the ritual handing-out of the prizes — which included coffee vouchers and homebrew — the cyclists remounted their bikes. Some headed out for ice cream. Others headed home.

Until next week, that is. Same time. Same place.

©2007 The Brooklyn Paper

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