Hypothetical Scenario-Bike as Vehicle for Escaping Disaster
Having gotten into the Zombie genre of late, I've been thinking that a bicycle would be a great escape vehicle to get away from the undead. So many stories focus on cars getting stuck in freeways and survivors becoming zombie fodder while trapped in the traffic or after running out of gas and being stranded as the ravenous hordes come closer.
A bike would likely be able to navigate around many traffic jams and the engine (rider) could utilize flexible fuel sources. Heck, as many of us know, you can even cary quite a bit of stuff with a properly loaded bike.
I was quite happy to see a bike used in the pilot of The Walking Dead, but haven't really seen them in other books or movies.
As long as the scourge doesn't involve the very fast or very smart Zombies, you could probably get by okay. Plus, the quiet nature of the bike could mean for stealthier travel than a motorcycle or scooter.
Any thoughts? Any other disasters where a bike would come in handy?
Views: 631
Replies to This Discussion
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Permalink Reply by Julie Aberman (Hochstadter) on
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To answer this question of yours "Any other disasters where a bike would come in handy?"
Well, bringing it down a level (or maybe 10), the creator of Curious George and his wife fled the Nazis partially by bike. Here is a book about their escape.
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Permalink Reply by igz on
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well, when we use up the last drop of gasoline, there will be a lot of metal in the form of abandoned cars that can be used in the making of bicycles. i suddenly envision a mad max kind of world, but instead of fighting over fuel, everyone fights over the metals so opposing factions can have the biggest and badest bicycle army.
picture tina turner on a bike coming at you at full bicycle speed
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wait a minute, did i miss the point Jami? Should this be entirely hypothetical?
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Permalink Reply by Lorena Cupcake on
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One night night I was lazily loping up Damen on my bike, making the two AM trek from Ukelele Village to Hans Christian Andersonville. A few too many hours since my last sleep and a few too many PBR tallboys had passed and my eyelids were slipping as I drifted up the dark silent street.
The pulsatating strobe of my headlight caught a glimpse of movement in the procession of parked cars ahead. Each flash illuminated a stooped figure in silhouette, lurching like an injured animal.
"This is awful far from Wrigleyville for a drunk bro to wander off from," and rolling my eyes, I started coasting so I'd have a bit more reaction time in case the mysterious stranger decided to lurch into the bike lane.
Coasting was my first mistake.
A burst of light from my headlight froze the face in front of me, more harshly lit than a photograph by Terry Richardson. Was it human or beast? The skin was grey and face muscles palsied, twisted into a grimace. Half of its jaw was torn away, exposing a vicious slavering maw, rotting tissue packed between the teeth. One eye socket was caved in itself and festering with twisting maggots; the other eye stared right through me, as if it saw nothing.
Too shocked to brake, my integrated front rack hit the monster like a battering ram, crumpling his midsection in on itself and knocking him to the ground. I ran over the body with an immense clatter, but I don't exactly ride a wicked sweet MTN bike and dainty little mixtes are unfortunately not meant for traversing obstacles as large as corpses.
I tumbled to the ground, my body suddenly a jumble of sharp awkward angles scraping against the concrete, my elbows and wrists and and chin burning and raw. Blood ran down from my flayed knees and soaked the tops of my rainbow knee socks. I staggered to my feet and started running away, hysterical, too terrified to cry or scream.
The street was silent but for my ragged gasping breaths and frantic footfalls. I've been smoking since I was 14, so to be perfectly honest I can't sprint very far even when I'm running from a zombie. I didn't make it long before I had to stop to catch my breath, and I glanced back to see where the monster was.
He was a twisted heap underneath my bike, motionless. I wondered if he was dead, and then caught myself. "Duh, obviously, undead anyway." I'm brushed up on my George Romero. I've read my Walking Dead. I knew I was faster and smarter than this fucker, and he SURE as hell wasn't getting my bike.
I tiptoed back, a tiny dark figure in the middle of the street, helmet perched on my head, stooped under the weight of my immense Seagull bag. I reached my bike silently and, praying to nonexistent deities and holding my breath, reached down for my bike.
The one bloodshot eye in the middle of the horrible face snapped open.
I screamed like the very wimpy little lady I am, the shriek of Hollywood starlets, of fifties housewives cowering from mice, of drunk bike kids fighting zombies in the middle of the night in the middle of Chicago.
Working purely on impulse, I yanked my larger U-lock out of the holster on the side of my messenger bag. I swung it over and over again into his face, crumpling the perhaps once handsome visage into hamburger, hammering his temples until the skull collapsed like a pinata at a birthday party.
There was no candy inside, merely grey slime and clotted rotting blood, maggots and the scent of death. I vomited into my mouth, choked on it and spat it into his face compulsively. I heaved a half-digested mélange of four PBRs, two shots of Jameson, a slice of pizza, and a Portland 75 onto what had once been a human being and now was simply the worst thing that had ever happened to me.
The worst thing, that is, until I straightened up, wiped my mouth, and saw a circle of zombies closing in on me. Their glazed eyes stared sickeningly at the blood running down my legs from my skinned knees and their slack jaws drooled with hunger for my flesh.
This is about the time I went into melée mode.
Over and over the U-Lock swung, crushing skulls like egg shells, knocking ragged claws away as they scraped against my body leaving streaks of filth and gore on my skin, splattering brain and blood across the asphalt like a morbid Jackson Pollock.
I was facing off the last two, two horrible stinking abominations closing in on me from either direction. I couldn't fight them both at once. My heart was beating hummerbird quick, my dry mouth tasted like puke, and I was covered in blood, not all my own.
Almost resigned to my death-or undeath-I went swinging for the zombie closest to me, whimpering and crying as I battered her to death as I could feel the last zombie closing in on me, praying she'd be incapacitated soon so I could take care of Undead Asshole #2.
As the zombie I was beating sunk and staggered to the ground, skull caved open to expose a a quivering brain like so much greyscale Jello, I felt hands grip me from behind and a cloud of rotting breath wash over me as the last zombie went for my sweet, sweet brains.
His teeth scraped helplessly against my helmet. I kicked him in the balls, smashed in both eye sockets with my U-Lock, and ran for my bike, racing up Damen like I was competing in my own personal Alleycat.
And that, children, is why you should always wear a helmet.
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Permalink Reply by BalloonBiker on
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No, your comment is great! Definitely good to know that bikes were used to escape dangerous scenarios before!
Lorena- I LOVE it!!!
ULocks would certainly make a good skull crushing weapon!
Julie Hochstadter said:wait a minute, did i miss the point Jami? Should this be entirely hypothetical?
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Permalink Reply by h' Zerocats on
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Lorena for mayor, president, queen of the universe!
Lorena Cupcake said:One night night I was lazily loping up Damen on my bike, making the two AM trek from Ukelele Village to Hans Christian Andersonville. A few too many hours since my last sleep and a few too many PBR tallboys had passed and my eyelids were slipping as I drifted up the dark silent street.
The pulsatating strobe of my headlight caught a glimpse of movement in the procession of parked cars ahead. Each flash illuminated a stooped figure in silhouette, lurching like an injured animal.
"This is awful far from Wrigleyville for a drunk bro to wander off from," and rolling my eyes, I started coasting so I'd have a bit more reaction time in case the mysterious stranger decided to lurch into the bike lane.
Coasting was my first mistake.
A burst of light from my headlight froze the face in front of me, more harshly lit than a photograph by Terry Richardson. Was it human or beast? The skin was grey and face muscles palsied, twisted into a grimace. Half of its jaw was torn away, exposing a vicious slavering maw, rotting tissue packed between the teeth. One eye socket was caved in itself and festering with twisting maggots; the other eye stared right through me, as if it saw nothing.
Too shocked to brake, my integrated front rack hit the monster like a battering ram, crumpling his midsection in on itself and knocking him to the ground. I ran over the body with an immense clatter, but I don't exactly ride a wicked sweet MTN bike and dainty little mixtes are unfortunately not meant for traversing obstacles as large as corpses.
I tumbled to the ground, my body suddenly a jumble of sharp awkward angles scraping against the concrete, my elbows and wrists and and chin burning and raw. Blood ran down from my flayed knees and soaked the tops of my rainbow knee socks. I staggered to my feet and started running away, hysterical, too terrified to cry or scream.
The street was silent but for my ragged gasping breaths and frantic footfalls. I've been smoking since I was 14, so to be perfectly honest I can't sprint very far even when I'm running from a zombie. I didn't make it long before I had to stop to catch my breath, and I glanced back to see where the monster was.
He was a twisted heap underneath my bike, motionless. I wondered if he was dead, and then caught myself. "Duh, obviously, undead anyway." I'm brushed up on my George Romero. I've read my Walking Dead. I knew I was faster and smarter than this fucker, and he SURE as hell wasn't getting my bike.
I tiptoed back, a tiny dark figure in the middle of the street, helmet perched on my head, stooped under the weight of my immense Seagull bag. I reached my bike silently and, praying to nonexistent deities and holding my breath, reached down for my bike.
The one bloodshot eye in the middle of the horrible face snapped open.
I screamed like the very wimpy little lady I am, the shriek of Hollywood starlets, of fifties housewives cowering from mice, of drunk bike kids fighting zombies in the middle of the night in the middle of Chicago.
Working purely on impulse, I yanked my larger U-lock out of the holster on the side of my messenger bag. I swung it over and over again into his face, crumpling the perhaps once handsome visage into hamburger, hammering his temples until the skull collapsed like a pinata at a birthday party.
There was no candy inside, merely grey slime and clotted rotting blood, maggots and the scent of death. I vomited into my mouth, choked on it and spat it into his face compulsively. I heaved a half-digested mélange of four PBRs, two shots of Jameson, a slice of pizza, and a Portland 75 onto what had once been a human being and now was simply the worst thing that had ever happened to me.
The worst thing, that is, until I straightened up, wiped my mouth, and saw a circle of zombies closing in on me. Their glazed eyes stared sickeningly at the blood running down my legs from my skinned knees and their slack jaws drooled with hunger for my flesh.
This is about the time I went into melée mode.
Over and over the U-Lock swung, crushing skulls like egg shells, knocking ragged claws away as they scraped against my body leaving streaks of filth and gore on my skin, splattering brain and blood across the asphalt like a morbid Jackson Pollock.
I was facing off the last two, two horrible stinking abominations closing in on me from either direction. I couldn't fight them both at once. My heart was beating hummerbird quick, my dry mouth tasted like puke, and I was covered in blood, not all my own.
Almost resigned to my death-or undeath-I went swinging for the zombie closest to me, whimpering and crying as I battered her to death as I could feel the last zombie closing in on me, praying she'd be incapacitated soon so I could take care of Undead Asshole #2.
As the zombie I was beating sunk and staggered to the ground, skull caved open to expose a a quivering brain like so much greyscale Jello, I felt hands grip me from behind and a cloud of rotting breath wash over me as the last zombie went for my sweet, sweet brains.
His teeth scraped helplessly against my helmet. I kicked him in the balls, smashed in both eye sockets with my U-Lock, and ran for my bike, racing up Damen like I was competing in my own personal Alleycat.
And that, children, is why you should always wear a helmet.
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Permalink Reply by Ken Gray on
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The survivalist in me has sometimes daydreamed about escaping a ruined city by bike. Yes, the Mad Max scenario. Hope it never comes to that....but if it does, I'm fleeing by bike!
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Permalink Reply by LarryN on
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A while back I saw a movie called 'The Road', about a post-apocalypse world where bands of cannibals stalk the earth while the main characters, a father and his son, are trying to get to the south. Most people are on foot. During the entire movie, I couldn't help but wonder, where are the bikes? Riding a fat tired bike would certainly be better than hoofing it.
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I read that book!
LarryN said:A while back I saw a movie called 'The Road', about a post-apocalypse world where bands of cannibals stalk the earth while the main characters, a father and his son, are trying to get to the south. Most people are on foot. During the entire movie, I couldn't help but wonder, where are the bikes? Riding a fat tired bike would certainly be better than hoofing it.
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Permalink Reply by S on
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LarryN said:A while back I saw a movie called 'The Road', about a post-apocalypse world where bands of cannibals stalk the earth while the main characters, a father and his son, are trying to get to the south. Most people are on foot. During the entire movie, I couldn't help but wonder, where are the bikes? Riding a fat tired bike would certainly be better than hoofing it.The screenwriters probably never thought of bikes at all. But I'd figure after a year or so, the lack of tubes would render the bike somewhat no-operable. I guess you can always stuff the tires with rubber or something else to prevent your rims from getting damaged but the ride wouldn't be very comfortable.
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That's certainly a valid point. There would certainly be a lot of glass and metal debris scattered around a distyopian area. However, couldn't spare bike parts be scavenged like any other resource? Certainly one could loot a bike shop or REI just like one could loot a grocery store?
Plus, patch kits are lightweight and can patch a lot of punctures. Though, of course, you wouldn't want to be patching a flat while the hordes are approaching, but you wouldn't want to be in that position when your car runs out of gas or breaks down either.
S said:
LarryN said:A while back I saw a movie called 'The Road', about a post-apocalypse world where bands of cannibals stalk the earth while the main characters, a father and his son, are trying to get to the south. Most people are on foot. During the entire movie, I couldn't help but wonder, where are the bikes? Riding a fat tired bike would certainly be better than hoofing it.The screenwriters probably never thought of bikes at all. But I'd figure after a year or so, the lack of tubes would render the bike somewhat no-operable. I guess you can always stuff the tires with rubber or something else to prevent your rims from getting damaged but the ride wouldn't be very comfortable.
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Permalink Reply by Chris B on
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I thought these panniers would make a good addition to a bike, if you could just mount a machine gun:
http://www.bikeforums.net/showthread.php?457884-New-Hard-Sided-Pann...
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