Jessica Herman

"This is Rob's bike," says Bob Burns, better known as "Big Bob," pointing to the scooter beside him, his bouncer's body stuffed into black coveralls, a red plaid flannel and a leather jacket. "Rob gets it. Rob, where'd you get that bike?" Rob answers something about a swap meet somewhere. "What'd it cost you?" Big Bob knows the answer, but he's proving his point. Rob paid something like two hundred dollars for his wheels.

"The whole idea is using ingenuity rather than a fat wallet. That Derby that just passed us cost $4,000," Big Bob smirks. "It's like killing a mouse with a sledgehammer."

Fuzzy gradations of orange, pink, purple and blue hanging above a lumpy horizon of dirt piles provides the backdrop for this year's annual Isle of Goose TT, or "Wuss Bikes Race." The participating guys and girl, who largely consist of "non-members" of the "non-club" ChiVinMoto, point out that this morning's race is not technically illegal; the vehicles cannot exceed thirty miles per hour.

A parade of motorcycles and scooters are lined up in front of the brick warehouse, sandwiched between trucks and vans that the owners purchased in order to transport their prized two-wheelers. In the middle sits a hulking Ram stocked with shiny multi-colored trophies, but "unfortunately not everyone will get a one."

The group--an art teacher, a science teacher, a furniture maker and a photographer among others--huddling and dispersing, resembles a pack of greasers watching their competition pull into the lot. "Don't worry, he's not racing," one guy assures another, referring to the newest arrival, a fancy shmancy motorcycle. While they scoff at the riders "who don't quite get it," they appreciate these hunks of old metal scrap by laughing at them; today the favorite seems to be the smallest bike on the block, standing about two feet tall but packing an engine that's equally, if not more powerful than the bigger wusses there. The owner squats onto the seat and spits off into his third ride.

"You can't have an ego and do this," Big Bob explains the obvious. Behind him, his buddy admits that he stole his roommate's leftover lawnmower gas as he pours the fuel into his tank.

At half past 7am, the group of about a dozen riders finally gathers to hear the rules of the game. They ride in a pack to become oriented with the course, but after, they ride solo and have their times recorded. An event focused more on socializing rather than winning, Paul Hahn offers, "Where else can you hang around with a bunch of guys wearing leather and not get grief?" By the time the race ends, a minor spill on the road has distracted the riders from tallying the times and awarding trophies. But it's no big deal; everyone's a winner.

(2004-10-13)

Also by Jessica Herman

Material girls
Julie Laffin shuffles through a deck of photographs that evolve from a pure ivory wedding-type gown draped over her body into tarnished rags that seep off her skin, giving her the look of Ophelia, if not a sea creature
(2004-10-06)

Custom couture
Nestled in industrial flatlands between an auto-repair shop and the Goose Island Brewery, Dame Couture , a custom dressmakers' studio, is an anomaly in her neighborhood
(2004-09-29)

Ziggy lives
Acres of really happy people sell products and productivity at The Motivation Show at McCormick Place
(2004-09-29)

Dialogue by design
Two headless torsos cloaked in black apparel dangling from the ceiling are not what you might expect for a boutique's window display. Then again, hejfina is not your typical boutique.
(2004-09-23)

Spin Control
(2004-09-14)

To the Gill
(2004-09-08)

The art of the discount
(2004-08-31)

Boutiqueville
(2004-08-31)

Unabashedly cheesy
(2004-08-25)

Bird watching
(2004-08-25)

Pretty in pink
(2004-08-17)

Shopping around
(2004-08-10)

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