Bombs Away

Individually, they are bike messengers, laborers, accountants, and salesmen. They are straight and gay, men and women, young and old. One thing binds them in unison: Their greed for the thrill of speed. Astride their 15 and 16 inch kids’ bikes, this group known as “Zoobomb” rides down the paved roads that intersect Portland’s Washington Park on a four mile trek that descends nearly 1000 feet in elevation and has riders reaching speeds of over 40 miles per hour. On a standard road bicycle, it’s an electrifying trip. Sitting on a pink Barbie bike inches from the pavement with white streamers blowing behind the handlebar grips, it’s a journey that at best, leaves you white knuckled, and at worst, requires a face-to-face meeting with an orthopedic surgeon.

Bike clubs don’t normally lube up with beer and weed before their group rides, but thanks to the danger of the ride and sheer terror of the descent, those ingredients are almost mandatory for the pre-ride gathering. Threats to the ride have appeared in a variety of forms; the anti-establishment nature of the group is intimidating to many, including the residents of the neighborhood who live near the base of the park, and the Portland Police Bureau, who have hassled the riders with promises of tickets and jail time. But a truce, if an uneasy one, has beset the warring factions for the time being, letting the Zoobombers fly their freak flags as they please.

“We’re not as much of a bike gang as we are a ‘thrills gang’,” cites 25 year old Ryan Miller, affectionately known as “Chopper” to his bombing brethren. “The social aspect is the appeal for me,” says Chopper. “We’re a very welcoming crowd, and we even offer a stable of extra kids’ bikes for those in need.” Chopper refers to a heaping mass of bikes, chained and locked together on a street sign adjacent to Rocco’s Pizza, a popular Portland bike messenger hangout. Zoobomb culture even has assigned the key to the pile of frames and wheels to the group’s “librarian”, a post once held by Chopper himself.


As the riders fly down to the bottom of their thrilling run, they approach the city’s light rail line, known locally as MAX, to board the train for the three minute ride back up to the peak of Portland’s West Hills, exiting at the Oregon Zoo and finding their courage for another trip down. Occasionally, instead of speeding through the quiet roads of Washington Park, riders brave the heft of automobiles as they travel en masse down the more direct route into the city: U.S. Highway 26, or as it’s better know to the riders, “The Hellway”. Amidst the horrified stares of motorists heading home on a Sunday evening, bracing themselves for the coming work week, the Zoobombers flirt with further disaster on the straight-line drop.

Injuries for the Zoobombers are inevitable. Solid Gold remembers his worst crash, a high-speed tumble where he was struck by another oncoming rider, resulting in the loss of short-term memory for two days. “It was scary, but I was lucky,” he now recalls.

Others aren’t as fortunate. Teeth are lost forever in roadside gravel. Bones are snapped. Leah, a waifish twenty-something, pulls down her candy-striped stockings to reveal the scars of a ride gone wrong. “This one took seven stitches,” she says.” A cavalcade of war wounds ensues, as sleeves get rolled up and pants get dropped in a mass exhibition of Zoobomb injuries. The most shocking is an elbow, grossly inflated — permanently, claims its owner — as if a tennis ball sized chunk of flesh had been grown in a lab and transported to the rider’s arm. But the man with the obscene elbow just smiles, a twinkle in his eye as he displays his deformation with pride.

Solid Gold acknowledges that the social aspect is the biggest appeal of Zoobomb for the majority of the riders, but he feels that this is just the “outer layer” of the group. “We’re the entry-level drug into the bike culture,” he notes. “People forget how much fun it is to ride a bike. We remind them of that fact, and I love that we’re helping to keep bikes ‘cool’. Sure, we all brush up against the black rings of death every night that we Zoobomb, but so far, we’re all alive. Knowing that we’re inches away from death every Sunday night — and escaping it’s grip — that’s about as thrilling as life can get.”