Emerson Dameron

Sylvan Goodman, owner of the Piggly Wiggly supermarket chain, introduced the modern shopping cart in 1937. At first, it didn't take off. Men found it emasculating; women found it evocative of a baby carriage. So Goodman hired "greeters" to pitch them to customers. A smart man, to be sure, but he probably didn't anticipate this.

STARTING POINT: Pontiac Cafe

"We've all been inside for a couple of months," says Devin, who describes himself as a "co-conspirator" in the inaugural Chiditarod, a three-mile shopping-cart race through Chicago's Wicker Park area. "You know, a little cabin fever setting in. This is an outlet for people. It's an outlet for creativity. It's an outlet for community. It's an outlet to have fun. And it's an outlet to help those less fortunate." As he speaks, Devin never breaks eye contact. He seems possessed of prankish intensity, like the sort of guy who appreciates the occasional outlet.

Chiditarod's skeletal web site (chiditarod.com) explains things thusly: "The Iditarod is the famous long-distance race in which yelping dogs tow a sled across Alaska. Our Chiditarod is pretty much the same thing, except that instead of dogs, it's people, instead of sleds, it's shopping carts, and instead of Alaska it's Chicago." Chiditarod is directly based on an annual Urban Iditarod in New York City (now three years old), which is directly based on one in San Francisco (now twelve). Similar events are reportedly planned in Los Angeles and Ann Arbor, Michigan.

The site counsels participants to prepare for inclement weather, but for March in Chicago, this Saturday isn't at all bad. There's no rain, snow or crucifying wind. The abrasive sunlight seems to weaken the vibrant colors, but the only person who complains about the weather is from a magazine.

Teams consist of five people--four "dogs" pulling the cart and one "musher" steering. "We stole [the race logistics] from New York," says Devin. "We emailed them in the beginning and asked permission. They said, `run with it.'" The San Francisco organizers, he says, "got in contact with us. They said, `run with it.' They said, `send us pictures.'"

By noon, a healthy crowd has assembled in and around the Pontiac Café at 1531 North Damen. The teams, most of them in heavy costume, stand around their carts, sharing a cigarette or a joke. Color schemes skew toward the blacklight-sensitive. As a general rule, the more hunter's orange you see in the teams' color schemes, the more eager they are to talk to you.

"With Satan on our side," boasts a member of Team AgriCropAlypse, "we can't lose." The team wears matching orange outfits. The cart is duded out with a pair of horns. "Satan asked to come to our party," says another, "and we said no. `Cause last time he got shitfaced and threw up all over everything."

Inside the Pontiac, late arrivals swarm the registration tables, and beer flows. Five people in lab outfits sit at the bar. "A number of us work in the department of microbiology," says Catherine, spokesperson for the Hazmat Rats, "so we're nerds to begin with." The team's preparatory work, says another member, consisted of "four beers." "Two of us have foot injuries," Catherine continues, "so we have no aspirations of winning. We've got the Bode Miller thing going. We've got lots of potential, but nothing's going to happen."

How does one procure a shopping cart? They can be bought online, for a robust fee. They can be borrowed or "found." A few teams claim they talked grocery stores into "sponsoring" them. Some are less than forthcoming about their carts' former lives.

Inside, the people at the registration table direct me to Jake, whom they seem to consider a big part of the Chiditarod brain trust. Compared with Devin, Jake is less easy to talk to. He fields questions with laconic uneasiness and a sly did-I-do-that? grin. He refuses to comment on Wicker Park's surging gentrification, saying only that the neighborhood "is known for being artistic. A lot of creative people live here." He insists that he is not an "organizer" vis-à-vis Chiditarod, but a mere "volunteer." Jake is either extremely suspicious of press attention, petrified with confusion or the anti-glory-hound.

In order to place, teams must finish with at least ten pounds of food in their carts. The food can be bought or hidden along the route, but must materialize over the course of the race, not beforehand. (Afterwards, the food goes to Vital Bridges, an organization that benefits HIV/AIDS patients living in poverty.) Registration costs five bucks per person, all of which becomes prize money. The team from Drinktown.com says its cart is "a shameless plug for our web business," blending self-interest and altruism. Others have more complex motives.

"We like costumes," says a member of Team Go Ninja Go which, for those who've forgotten, refers to Vanilla Ice's 1991 hit "Ninja Rap," from the "Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles" soundtrack. "It seemed like a loony event with loony people.... We're doing it for Savannah," she adds, in reference to a thong-clad blow-up doll crammed into the front of the cart. Decorated like a school bus, Go Ninja Go's buggy also holds a peewee boombox, which blasts Bob Marley. "It's just a bunch of ideas put together."

As promised, Chiditarod starts right at 12:30. Most teams zip down Damen toward Division, the obvious route to the first checkpoint. A few tear through the park, which turns out to be a lousy idea. A spectator with a squeegee and a battered suitcase makes disbelieving remarks.

CHECKPOINT ONE: Phyllis' Musical Inn

"I didn't know what to expect," says Devin, as a member of Team Double Dare sprays him with Silly String. "I expected at least ten teams." Twenty-two showed up. That's 110 racers and a good number of hangers-on, most of whom now pack the divey confines of 1800 West Division.

The team behind The Spirit Of St. Fuckshitup, an orange and blue cart with wooden wings on hinges, traveled from St. Louis to race. "We're burners," explains Gabriel, the leader. They discovered Chiditarod via a "burner list." A "burner," by the way, is someone who attends or identifies with Burning Man, an annual festival held in Nevada's Black Rock Desert near the town of Gurlach. Founded in 1986, Burning Man now attracts in excess of 37,000 people. The fest champions "radical self-expression" and "radical self-reliance." Its regulations are largely common sense. With a few exceptions, its attendees effectively police themselves.

As I talk to the Chiditarod folks, Burning Man comes up a lot. When I ask Devin if he's ever done anything like this before, he says "Burning Man." And outside the obligatory cautions and advisements, the Chiditarod web copy (which bears the diffident humor of Jake) expects teams to take care of themselves and "Leave No Trace," a phrase punched up and highlighted. "Leave No Trace" is an "ecological concept" that doubles as burner shorthand and means exactly what it sounds like.

On the burner list, Gabriel says, "FSU" often abbreviates "fuck shit up," much as LOL abbreviates "laugh out loud" on the Internet at large. Is he familiar with Florida State University? "Yes," he says, "but these are Gator colors. If you're a burner, you'll figure it out."

"Our strategy," adds Lana, "is to fuck shit up."

There's some concern about law enforcement getting involved, which might explain some of Jake's furtiveness. Last year, the people behind the New York race ate $5,000 in fines when participants failed to account for their carts. It's also hard to predict the actions of a mobile mob this large. According to the social philosopher Gustave Le Bon, author of the 1897 treatise "The Crowd," a gathering can provoke behavior that would not erupt from any one member alone. That's particularly true when booze appears, which it certainly does at Phyllis'. On its site, the San Francisco race explicitly discourages frat-boy shenanigans. Did they learn the hard way?

The rules require teams to hover at the checkpoints for at least twenty minutes. Dogs and mushers slake quickly.

The second leg of Chiditarod is by far its most confusing. The checkpoints have been scattered out to prevent teams from using the city's congested main drags, particularly North Avenue, and there is no good way to get from Phyllis' to Club Lucky without using a few side streets or alleys. As I follow Team AgriCropAlypse on foot, I find a felt snake on the sidewalk, which I stash in my bag. I notice the Hazmat Rats approach from the rear.

CHECKPOINT TWO: Club Lucky

The snake belongs to Team Snakes On A Plane, named for a forthcoming Samuel L. Jackson flick that, owing to the badness of its title (which Jackson balked at changing), doubles as a readymade koan among the net-savvy. At Club Lucky (1824 West Wabansia), I return it.

"Our strategy," says SOAP's spokesman, "has been to save all of our physical energy for the last six months." As they order their beers, another member refers to a teammate as "love."

The barkeeps treat everyone well, but Club Lucky seems too small and unprepared for the influx of Chiditarodders. Its cheapest beers go for four bucks. On a wall-mounted TV, four people in lab scrubs carry a box of chicks--according to the text, the baby birds have avian flu.

At some point, The Spirit Of St. Fuckshitup got hopelessly lost. "I think we're dead last," says Gabriel.

Outside, Go Ninja Go's boombox sounds as though it blew out its speakers some time ago. Savannah lies in the cart, deflated. "We sort of took a spill," explains the musher. The accident perforated the doll's hand, but she remains Go Ninja Go's mascot.

One fellow, clad in hunter's orange, juggles. A woman riding on a man's shoulders exclaims, "Time for a skit! Please turn the music off!"

"I'm drunk," a woman in a hat tells someone on the other end of her cell phone conversation. "That's all I know."

Inside, Devin, who has spent much of the afternoon on his phone, announces that the stay at checkpoint two will be ten minutes longer than expected. I ask how things are going. "Perfect. We just need a little more time."

Team Snakes On A Plane hoists its four-dollar beers as one. "Snakes on a plane." Clink.

SAFETY CROSSING: Under the bridge at Cortland

To make sure no one takes North Avenue, all carts are required to cross the Chicago River at Cortland Street.

Burning Man, with which so many prominent Chiditarodders claim an affinity, bills itself as a "spectator-free" event. According to its ethos, if you're the sort of person who enjoys gawking at, say, a bunch of people in costume racing shopping carts, there's no solid reason you shouldn't dress up and race one yourself. That said, Chiditarod obviously courts some attention from passersby.

"This is hysterical," notes one woman.

"It's like an urban scavenger hunt," says another. "I hear the one in San Francisco is awesome."

"Hell naw," remarks a teenager.

Carts pass a man carrying an enormous broom and mumbling to himself. Carts pass a man jogging and pushing a stroller. Spend enough time with these people, and everyone starts to look like a burner.

As Team Go Ninja Go mushes up Elston Avenue, a police truck honks. The team waves. The truck keeps driving. Over the course of today's race, nothing particularly bad happens to anyone.

FINISH LINE: The Hideout

So many teams arrive in so little time that no one I ask knows who won. Math must be done. Food must be weighed. The performance-art outfit Environmental Encroachment must woo the enormous crowd with elegantly shabby marching-band music.

Inside the Hideout, at 1354 West Wabansia, a member of Team AgriCropAlypse gets a tarot reading. Slowly, other racers gather. A bleary-eyed gent at my right informs a member of Go Ninja Go that her gold spandex britches have fallen to an unacceptably low level. "You should go outside," he tells me, "and talk to the teams. As your lawyer, I advise you to get home phone numbers for some of the teams."

By all accounts, the event has been an unmitigated success. Everyone mushed with surprising speed, which probably accounts for the protracted stopover at Club Lucky. The teams collected 938 pounds of food. (The Hazmat Rats gathered the most.) The comparatively low-key Capt. Slam And The Four Hodags take first prize. Team Runaway Bride wins second, performs "Going to the Chapel," and throws a bouquet. Team Pony Up, with its gratuitously exaggerated cowboy shtick, snags best in show and announces it's donating its cash winnings to the 826 Foundation. The Spirt of St. Fuckshitup gets "Longest Distance Traveled to Participate," but "Dead Fucking Last" goes to Pixie Revolt.

The Palmer Park Freedom Funk 5 win an honorable mention for "Best Use of `Eye of the Tiger,'" an award Jake describes as "particularly important to me." After their acceptance speech, they perform Survivor's big hit on a flute, a trumpet and a few noisemakers.

(2006-03-14)

Also by Emerson Dameron

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King for a Minute
As the vice president of the Elvis Entertainers Network, Cass is the sort of Elvis impersonator who prefers to be termed an "Elvis tribute artist"
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Pour Showing
Steve Walker traveled from Manassas, Virginia to pour mixers at T.G.I. Friday's on Erie
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Arts Attack
"Jazz is a good metaphor for democracy," says Tom Tresser, lead organizer for the Creative America Project
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The Last Howl
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Getting Personal
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Soul Vegetarian
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Moto
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Chick unlit
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Subterranean sport
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