DRUG-CRAZED KIDS

The Percocets had hijacked the wheel chair ride. At first, I doubted the necessity of the chair; the injury was only the tip of a nearly-severed thumb, not a leg. But those doctors are sharp; he must have noticed the Percies kicking in before I did. This was to be the fifth bike-related surgery in five years, most included Percies at some point, and those blue pills always sneak up on me. Every time I take them, I'm as overly friendly as a hornball at a rave rolling for the first time.

The doctor had been nurturing when he cleaned my wound, but behind the wheelchair, he was a crazed madman, addicted to going fast, a velocity junkie. But he was good. While pushing the physical limits of the wheelchair, there was never the slightest mishap in those narrow hospital hallways. The ride reminded me of my rush-hour commute through Manhattan on my fixed-gear bike. It was fast, dangerous and thrilling. The larger gurney beds clogging the hospital's arteries were like a cyclist's arch-nemesis-the taxi (at least this time I didn't have to worry about a door flying open). But the same fixie, I recalled, was the cause for this emergency room visit. Unlike previous bike injuries, I wasn't even riding the bike, and it could have been avoided if I had only listened to that bike punk's doubly ironic warning the previous day.

I have always been on the fringe in regards to subcultures. I love bikes and punk, but I'm not really a bike punk. It had been a while since I'd been to a show, so when I saw a posting for a DIY punk show in Greenpoint, I had to go-I was long overdue.

Littered everywhere outside the tavern were fixed-gear bicycles-you know, those stylish racing bikes that were once at home on an indoor, wooden track but now they're a favorite amongst hipsters and messengers. The bike's popularity stems from the single gear always being engaged. This means you're one with the bike and must pedal as fast as the bike is moving. There's no coasting, and braking can be achieved by resisting your pedaling. The momentum from the constant gear engagement makes these bikes fast but dangerous, which has come to mean hip. In a few years these bikes have gone from being a novelty for the coolest kids, to a trendy necessity. When I arrived at the show, they were locked up to every street sign. It looked like what happens when a gremlin gets wet (by that I mean they multiple exponentially).

Inside I was surprised to see how far the hipsters had infiltrated the DIY punk scene in New York. In the Midwest, DIY punks aren't hip or fashionable, but hippy-like and dowdy, opting to live in mid-sized towns known as punk-rock suburbs because they are tolerant of less-than-ambitious punks, and also because they have large public universities that are easy to mooch off. It's the good life. There's no need to be cool.

Despite my initial apprehensions, the show was enjoyable. The last band to play was Brooklyn's Matt and Kim. I don't know if I could ever listen to them recorded, (sinthy-pop dance stuff should only be played live), but each show I've seen them play has been fun. Even our own Press Eat and Drink columnist (well, he really just focuses more on the drink side) Josh Bernstein was there double-fisting cans of Schaefer while bumping into the teenage girls in attendance.

One of the bike punks infused with hipsterness was decked out in full bike-punk gear. He had one of those dorky road racing hats (the worst side effect of this movement), a dominatrix belt, and an enormous messenger bag that had a patch that read "one less fixie." The patch was a take on tothe bike activism sticker, "one less car," a movement predominantly filled with bike punks (that look just like him) who ride fixies. During the show, he always seemed to end up in front of me and I couldn't take my eyes of that "one less fixie" patch. It felt directed at me.

I might not be cool enough to have doubly ironic patches on the same bag all my friends have, but I deserve to ride a fixie. I like to sleep in late. With a fixie, I can do my 50-block diagonal assault across Manhattan in less than 15 minutes during rush hour. The same route by train takes 35 minutes.

Standing several sizes too tall, my fixie was a hand-me-down-a relic from the mid 90s. Originally it had 10 speeds, and it's fitting that it's black with no decals. The only mention of color is the bright metallic-red, oversized BMX pedals. In a culture that emphasizes light weight and sleekness, these pedals are defiant yet gaudy, a sign that while I'm close, I'm not one of them. Sort of a "fuck you" to the stylish bike punks.

The pedals are so red that they matched the blood from my shredded thumb that occurred the next day when cleaning the chain. The bike was suspended in a stand, and I pedaled with one hand while holding a rag to the chain to remove excess lubricant. The rag got caught in my lone rear gear and the momentum of the fixed-gear drivetrain sucked my thumb in between the chain and the spiky gear. My thumb looked like it had gone through a meat grinder. The fingernail was chopped in half all the way across the middle, and both halves were barely hanging on. There was so much blood I couldn't tell what was cut. I sunk to the floor, afraid of getting light headed and passing out.

Did the fixie know I wasn't a cool kid? Was this how the hipster-inspired bike punks got revenge? I should have paid heed to that ironic warning: one less fixie.