I’ll never compete in the Tour de France, but I did compete in “Cranksgiving,” a Thanksgiving tradition, an outlaw bike race with a philanthropic edge.
Cranksgiving doesn’t have a set race course. Race organizers provide each rider with a manifest: a 4-by-4 grid of supermarkets to purchase food items, plus two checkpoints. All food items go to charity.
Competitors map out their own routes, selecting four stops. No two markets may be in the grid’s same row. Making things even trickier: the addresses do not include cross streets, and some of the stores are in the outer boroughs, which feels like a hike since we’re starting in Tompkins Square Park in the East Village and finishing on the Lower East Side.
With about a half-hour to go before the race’s start, the competitors, some in tandem, get to work in earnest on finding routes. My route might not have been the quickest, but it’s the most familiar, and it has no bridge crossings.
I might finish last, but at least I won’t get lost. Maybe.
With 200 plus other riders, I wait impatiently for the 3 pm start. Every year, Cranksgiving, which has been going on for more than two decades, attracts more riders. Now, the race has spread to cities across the country, everywhere from Des Moines, Iowa, to York, Pennsylvania.
Photo courtesy Eventbrite
Minutes after 3 pm, someone yells: “Ready… Set…Go!” Everyone runs to their bikes and mounts. I pedal hard out of Tompkins. A moment later, though, my bike seems off. Inexplicably, one of my brakes has broken down.
I still have one. Good enough.
Behind a wave of riders, some howling battle cries, I find an empty bus lane and pedal up the broad avenue. I’m feeling good, but I’m not fast at all. The other riders leave me in the dust, ah, traffic.
Without incident, I hit the first market in the East 30s, where a herd of cyclists was already there. I pick up some yams and two containers of baby food, but there’s a wait at the register. Fortunately, I find one off to the side with no line and charge towards it.
After paying, I stuff the items in my bag, run up the market’s escalator, and head north three miles towards the next market. It’s basically a straight shot. Somewhere on Third Avenue, I recognize a fellow competitor from the starting line. Most of the riders are indistinguishable because we don’t have bibs. This one’s hard to miss, though. She has black lines under her eyes, a bushel of feathers sprouting from her helmet, and pink tights. I try to keep pace with Pink Pants. I treat red lights like green lights, keeping my head on a swivel. Yes, I’m being very stupid.
In Midtown, we hit a wall of traffic, and I’m forced to slalom around cars. But I’m still with Pink Pants. Finally, I’m forced to an absolute halt at 57th Street, and I lose Pink Pants.
When I got to the second stop, the market was expecting us, and one of the workers came out with a carriage full of items from our manifests. Our race made their day. I promptly pay for some stuffing, ride about a mile to my first check spot, where I drop off one of my baby food containers and get a signature, which is actually a straight line.
Photo courtesy Eventbrite
Then I head west towards Fairway on the Upper West Side. I ride down Fifth Avenue and cut into Central Park on 85th, right near the Museum of Modern Art. On the Great Lawn’s promenade, I bike around pedestrians – one of whom shouts at me to get off my bike.
I’m in the wrong, but I’m a philanthropist!
No harm, no foul, and I keep riding. By far, Fairway is the busiest market. Fortunately, they have an extremely effective express check-out line, and I’m able to pay for my rice in record time.
I trek down Eleventh Avenue towards the Meat Packing District in search of a Dagastino’s, a supermarket on Greenwich Street. My plan is to head down Ninth Avenue and bump into it. For some inexplicable reason, though, as I got closer, I started to second-guess myself. I improvise and, of course, I get lost and wind up asking strangers for directions. No, I don’t want to be that guy, and worse, it doesn’t work anyway. But after a few frantic moments, by pure luck, I find, or rather I bump into, Dagastino’s. Trying to make up time, I leave my bike unlocked in the store’s corridor and storm the store, almost knocking into an exiting male customer.
Once I get my elbow macaroni, I calm down. By some small miracle, my bike wasn’t stolen. With just one stop left, a checkpoint on East 2nd Street, which is just across town, I’m practically home free. By now, it’s dark, and vision is a concern, specifically on the side streets. Now, after 90 minutes on the bike, I’m not as focused as I was at the race’s start.
I cruise into the second and final checkpoint on East 2nd Street without incident, dropping off my second and last glass of baby food. In the dark, about an hour and forty minutes after the start, after no wipeouts, I locate the Grand Street finish, where there is already a mob of riders assembled in an open lot. I drop off my yams, stuffing, rice, and macaroni, and find the race organizer, who gives me my finish number: 87. Before dropping off my groceries, I probably should’ve found the organizer.
I might have had a better finish. But it doesn’t really matter. The race is for a good cause. Thank you, Cranksgiving!
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Jon Hart is the author of Unfortunately, I was available illustrated by Coverkitchen
