The Only Barrier between You and Anarchy: Reflections on Capitol Hill Bike Cops
June 30 2025
Like anyone fresh off Union Station in Washington D.C., I beelined to Congress. I, and every Asian dad with cargo pants and a selfie stick, stuck our necks out to get a picture in front of this pillar of American democracy. Unfortunately, Congress is not as accessible as it used to be.
Once the date January 6th shifted weight —from being the day on everybody’s calendar when they bail on their new year’s resolution—to a day of somber, tiki-torch and QAnon shamans, DC has been on high alert. Congress, for all their quick-footed efficiency, put two-foot metal gates around the Congressional steps since the 6th. Presumably, this will prevent six-foot 230 lb. MAGA rioters from leaping into the capitol. Political crisis solved. From my spot behind the gate, 50 feet from farther from my representative, I tried to imagine spear-carrying rioters with bare chests and face paint climbing up the Capital walls like zombies in World War Z. Then, I saw the dazzling guardians who stood between me and them: the dozen or so bike cops of Capitol Hill.
Now, seeing a cop on a bike is kinda like seeing the girl you hate from high school finally get fat. There is a satisfaction seeing most of them wear ankle length socks with black hookas, beer bellies buckled in a bullet proof jacket and the sun refracting off their lacquered, bald heads. A group of five of them laugh, gently swerving back and forth within the metal gates like an adult playpen.
Don’t worry, lay civilian. Petal to the metal if it gets serious. If any delinquent comes within 150 yards of Congress, the cops can peddle furiously on bike setting three. As everyone knows, crime only takes place under 15 mph. If these cops earn their stripes, they may even get promoted to unicycle. The ones with DUIs get put on mall segway duty. And the best part? They are armed!
Of course, crime moves lightyears in this city; it doesn’t need to slide and duck in the goose chase of a bike cop when corruption carries a clearance card; crime holds its pressed suit folded over his arm as he sweats in his white undershirt walking to the office in 85 degrees; crime has white marble offices with warm low-lighting and free coffee next to glass consumer awards; crime says it does engineering and neglects to mention it engineers bombs landing in a schoolyard in Gaza; crime moves so quickly in this city it actually looks like it stays still, the way underneath water you feel still, hearing muted waves crash on the surface while you suppress that burn in your cavity that says we need oxygen.
But say, you are an old-school crime doer and you steal candy from a baby on the national lawn. You look behind you and catch Frank the bike cop, recently promoted from protecting the peace in front of Auntie Ann’s at the Mall of America.
You have a few options:
Walk at a gentle but brisk pace. Being chased by a bike cop is a great way to hit 10k steps a day.
If cardio is a weak point, cross grass or run downstairs while the cop furiously takes the ADA compliant ramp.
When all else fails, take a lime bike. Yes, you may lose steam when you unsnap the lock; but once you hear the jingle, you have the most bike lanes in the country to make your leisurely escape.
Of course, pursuit implies another hilarious predicament of bike cops: the issue of arrest. Say, despite the myriads of options above, your office-seat melted butt gets caught by Frank the bike cop. He kicks his bike stand. As he stands, he pulls up his belt by the frayed loops that are discolored from the tug. Frank tells you through the caterpillar mustache your rights and his intention of take you to the precinct. How will he accomplish this? Will you sit on the handlebars and lean on his chest, or get plopped in the basket, or share the seat and hold his waist? Taxes are high enough in this country, the least they can do is get a tandem bike so we both can get this moving along. Another alternative would be a side carriage like a dog on a motorcycle, or a little cage like horses on tractor trailers on the highway.
Perhaps that is how QAnon shaman, Jacob Chansley, the horn-wearing rioter, will be arrested next time. Next time, when the ant colony of red-hat minions descend— a colony retired high school bullies, guys who wear bandanas to the gym, recent divorcees that blame fluoride for the fact their child went no contact—bike cops will be all that stands between us and anarchy. The daycare center gates of two feet of galvanized steel and aluminum will stand between the democratic establishment and the red hat mob; smoke bombs hissing and flash bang blips and the only thing standing between me and them is—
Frank, the bike cop.
I like to imagine Frank and I, and the asian Dads with selfie sticks, clinging to his bike like a clown car and him furiously peddling, the cop cycling us away as the bomb explodes Fast and Furious style.