PORTLAND, Ore. (AP) — Looking like punk gladiators, young adults on junk bikes dragged junk chariots around a makeshift arena in this northwestern U.S. city, slamming into each other and swinging away with foam clubs.
Spectators tossed beer cans, flour and smoke grenades. Firecrackers popped and obscenities flew during the battle called the "Ben Hurt Chariot Wars."
And then, toward sundown, the grown-ups arrived. Seven police cars pulled up and told the 400 or so people they had to leave because they were trespassing on railroad property. They complied — but the contest was over anyway.
Unusually for an American city, Portland has an obsession with bikes. Thousands of people use them to commute to each work each day and thousands of others use fancy road bikes to stay in shape.
But it's not commuting or fitness that motivates the 20-somethings at the annual Ben Hurt Chariot Wars. They do it for the adrenaline rush, for the liberation that comes with acting like a kid, and for the parties.
Jon Penfold and his teammate Nick Schlabach won the latest chariot war after falls, collisions and smashed wheels eliminated the other teams. Their chariot, armored with a bubble-shaped metallic cage, was the last one still able to maneuver.
"You attack, and then run. Attack, and then run," said Penfold, 29. "It's a war of attrition."
Asked later on how he felt after winning, the 26-year-old Schlabach said: "I wanted to puke."
The Chariot Wars are the headline event in a weekend of Portland bike craziness called "Mini-Bike Winter."
The term "mini-bike" derives from the origins of the games. They were started by a group who call themselves the "Zoobombers" and who get their kicks by riding pint-sized kids' bikes at breakneck speed down the steep streets in Portland's posh West Hills, to the chagrin of many residents.
Another event in the weekend games is called "bike bowling." Instead of tossing a ball at nine pins, you hurl yourself and your bike against plastic traffic drums — the tall orange and white ones used by road construction crews. The goal is the same as in bowling: knock them all over. But the outcome can be painful — one man dislocated his shoulder.
In another event, participants ride their bikes off a ramp and into the Willamette River, where water temperature at this time of year is in the 40s (5 to 10 degrees Celsius).
Safety isn't thrown completely to the wind during the "Mini-Bike Winter" games, though it may seem that way. There are rules. Weapons in the chariot wars have to be well-padded. Competitors wear helmets and other forms of protection.
Many of the competitors have bike repair skills, a handy asset for this kind of mayhem.
Efforts are made not to upset the authorities, at least too much. But run-ins do occur.
This year's Chariot Wars were held on concrete on land owned by Union Pacific Corp. Ten minutes after Penfold and Schlabach won, police and a railroad official showed up and told 28-year-old Jon Dutch, last year's Chariot Wars champion, that a train was coming and the crowd had to leave.
"What's it gonna be, Dutch?" said the official, who declined to be identified. "Do you want one of your brothers or sisters pinned under a train?"
Dutch looked at the crowd of mismatched, overgrown kids in red hoodies and purple leggings.
They all got on their kiddie bikes and into their chariots, heading for a post-Chariot Wars party that went late into the night.
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Nigel Duara can be reached on Twitter at http://www.twitter.com/nigelduara
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