“It must be some kind of animal rights statement.”— KATU-2 News Team
On Sunday nights, while most of Portland retreats to their cozy apartments, a scrappy crew gathers at Rocco’s Pizza, just across from Powell’s Books. They come to honor the chaotic trinity of mini-bikes, beer, and public transit—otherwise known as Zoobomb.
My Easter followed that tradition of shared meals and warm kitchens—reminiscent of Ashley’s old Sunday dinners. The counter filled with strawberry scones, two cakes, and even a homemade Baked Alaska. After finishing an Oly and watching the sun dip below the rooftops with Ani, I set off into violet skies on my Bianchi, the Sonic Reducer slung across my back.
Every “library bike” was already borrowed, patched with duct tape and optimism. Bells rang and squeakers chirped as we boarded the MAX. My 12-inch wheels spun madly, my legs compacted, struggling to keep up—but that was part of the charm.
We spilled out at Washington Park, climbing the hill above the zoo with Slayer roaring from a pink boombox. Rain was forecasted but hadn’t dared arrive, and the warm spring air hinted at trouble and joy.
Tiny, ridiculous, fearless.
Though I didn’t know the group personally, word of my bike—tiny, ridiculous, fearless—had already spread. As the second and third waves rolled in, beer cans emptied, cheers grew louder, and by virtue of riding the smallest beast of the bunch, I earned the pole position.
After the countdown—“Zoobomb!”—the hill erupted in motion. LEDs flashed; laughter echoed. The kid with the pink boombox stayed behind me, my unofficial soundtrack and medic-in-waiting should my coaster brake betray me.
The next fifteen minutes were pure chaos—an 800-foot drop through the dark on a bike no bigger than a toddler’s. It was glorious.
Miraculously, the Reducer and I returned to Rocco’s without a scrape, just rubber shaved off my shoes. It would’ve been madness not to go again.
Back atop the west hills, the drizzle had matured to rain. Holiday sweets—Christian and otherwise—were passed around. The beer count had long outpaced our hours of sleep, and still, we bombed once more.
I fishtailed a few times (coaster brakes plus rain equals certain disaster), but somehow rolled back to my full-sized bike alive. Soaked, half-drunk, and totally hooked.