The Brutal Knights of Blågårds Plads
It’s June 2018 and what you see in this cozy afternoon in Blågårds Plads is a mix of Mad Max upon two wheels and punk (counter)culture. The place, which has already been considered one of the most dangerous neighborhoods in Copenhagen (whatever that means), is filled with punks in all of their diversity of haircuts and colors, vests, and bicycles!?
When Karl Von Drais, in 1817, assembled the first bike thinking in exchange horses for more popular and accessible transportation by joining two wheels with a wooden frame, I’m certain that he wouldn’t have imagined that 200 years later a group of punks in this corner of northern Europe would be making derbys with his invention.
In this part of the world, the dream of having them as an accessible means of transportation certainly was fulfilled, even I couldn’t have gotten here if it wasn’t for the old pink bike that was borrowed to me by some old friends. But what we see around here is something beyond, it’s like if I was transported to the nineteenth century, where the two-wheelers could be two meters tall, wheels in different sizes, with the only exception that here they are built to destroy one another by old and young punks that wants to have fun in a summer festival.
Every bike here is unique and has short existence, until the end of the day most (or none) of them will be standing in a wonderful demonstration of wreck and creation. An annual tradition of the K-Town Hardcore Fest, the Bike Wars consist of a derby between the strangest bikes and their “knights” that fight their opponents until they’re down or their bikes cannot move anymore.
I ended up here following the indication of an old friend that didn’t give me any details of what I would see: “go, you’ll see what it’s about”. The whole place contrasts with their occupants: to the north of the old square the church is what you see, in the center, surrounded by 22 granite statues of children and workers, is a football court that turns into an ice rink during the winter, but now it’s surrounded by punks. In one of its corners, there is a stage where hardcore bands are presented along with the “gladiators” that will turn the place into a temple doom.
The rules are simple, between a concert and another each knight tries to take down their opponent or turn their bike useless. In the first category, each duelist fights themselves up in normal bicycles, probably for those who couldn’t have time or means to build a metal monster. The two-meter sized wheelers come next and each opponent has to take down their opponent three times to win. The whole thing goes like an old medieval clash between knights, but without horses (for the likes of old Karl), that honor thing, blood, and pointy stuff, that last forbidden because of the one that preceded it.
But besides all that, the apex of destruction is wisely kept to the end. Obligated to have at least three wheels, the Monster Bikes have the only goal to destroy the others. They no longer have one pilot, they’re like big parade cars where each crew member is obliged not only to destroy their contestants but their own. In all phases of the derby, the crowd cheers and feels each stroke as if to them, waiting anxiously to the end when it’s their turn to play.
The crowd invasion signals the end of the derby, when there are no longer monster bikes that can stand upon their three or more wheels, it’s the fair share of those responsible for the spectacle. One by one they contribute to the pile of bent wheels, fire, smoke, and twisted steel that was always the goal of the whole thing. In fact, after this experience, I think that should be the main goal of every event in our lives.
In the most cycling-friendly city of the world, not only horses have been substituted as war and transportation machines, only 9% of its population uses a car in their everyday lives and there are more bikes than people in the Danish capital. The punk showdown of Blågårds Plads, in the end, is nothing else than a big celebration of the wheeler’s culture. If he was around these days, the old Karl would be no more surprised than proud.
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