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In the past year, several new bike groups have emerged — including not one but two Critical Mass rides. Tonight's is an offshoot of another ride, started by Emerge Miami, an activist group that gathers every second Saturday and draws about 50 cyclists to each outing. Adam Schachner, one of the organizers, concedes the ride might not resemble Critical Mass events elsewhere — "There's no copyright on the name," he points out — but says it has succeeded in bringing together a wide range of people interested in making a change. The ride has changed him as well: A Kendall native, he says that before last year, he had never thought of bikes as serious transportation. "It's funny, because I remember being that jerk honking at people who were on the street, saying, 'What are you doing? Get on the sidewalk!'"
Antonio Morales sits on his bike, staring vacantly in the early-morning light. He gazes past the South Miami Avenue Bridge at the enormous unfinished condo tower, alive with dozens of workers. He holds his hard hat against his chest and idly spins one of the pedals with his foot. Morales, like the others, rose at 5 a.m. and rode his bike downtown from his home in Little Havana. Unlike the men he's watching, he has yet to find work today.
"It's been a bad month," he says quietly. "They turned off the electricity in my house. Estan malas las cosas. Things are bad."
Morales is one of Miami's class of invisible bikers — laborers, the elderly, the working poor, immigrants who come from countries where two wheels are still the dominant mode of transportation. The city's bike activists tend to be affluent and middle-class, easy to peg as any other latte-fueled crusaders. But head across the tracks — anywhere west of Biscayne Boulevard — and it's obvious the people to whom bikes matter most aren't Miami's upper crust at all.
Morales, in his sixties, is short and thick, with jet-black hair that is just beginning to gray. He came here from Nicaragua 20 years ago and has worked construction ever since. He has never owned a car — "It costs three or four thousand dollars for a good one, plus there's gas," he says dismissively — but perks right up at the mention of his bike. "I use it for everything, everything!" he says, proudly pounding his palm on the crossbar. "Come on, let's ride together!"
At the next construction site, Morales points at a small mountain of bicycles past the gate before parking his against the fence and wandering inside. He emerges a few minutes later, shaking his head. The same thing happens at the next site, and the next. By 9 a.m., Morales figures he has been to every work site downtown.
He quietly sticks his hard hat into his backpack and pulls out a baseball cap — a silent sign of defeat. He suggests breakfast and leads the way through downtown and back to the bridge. Riding the sidewalk the entire way, he threads precariously between obstacles, human and otherwise. When I hop the curb onto the street to avoid hitting a slew of pedestrians, he looks startled.
"Careful!" he says, inching his way forward in tiny, almost stationary maneuvers. "It's dangerous in the street!"
Neighborhoods like Little Havana, Allapattah, Overtown, and Liberty City abound with bikes, and as Morales heads west on Flagler, he passes scores of them — elderly men and women pedaling heavy-framed adult tricycles loaded with groceries, lumber, fishing equipment.
Ricardo Ochoa, who owns the Cuba Bike Shop at 2930 NW Seventh Ave., arrived two decades ago from Colombia. He worked for most of that time as an accountant before taking over the shop five years ago. Working with bikes, he says, showed him a different America.

