Welcome to the Dead Baby Bike Downhill, a celebration of bicycle subculture founded by a small group of bike messengers, bartenders and bouncers, where bicyclists race and show off a quirky variety of bikes - some made double-tall by welding two frames atop each other.

This is not your average spandex-wearing bicycle race.

Helmets are optional. Injuries are expected. Booze is all but mandatory. It's legal status is questionable. And the piInata at the post-race party is shaped like a police cruiser.

The Dead Babies' motto: "We want to be free, free to ride our machines without being harassed by the man," recites David "DJ" Johnson, one of the club's original members. "And we want to get loaded."

Members of bicycle clubs from Portland, San Francisco, and New York, among others came to Friday's race, said Dave Ranstrom, the club's founder.

Despite wearing her "colors" - a patch on a suede vest with a gory illustration of a baby skewered through its neck and stomach - Brandy Wiggins said she was nervous before the race started.

But the nerves didn't stop her from plummeting down a hill with about 150 people at a speed so fast that her bike maxed out - her gears wouldn't go any higher and her pedals just spun, she said.

"If you crash at that speed... you know it's going to hurt really bad," Wiggins said.

"I was praying to God I don't pop a tire," said Chris Gleason, who was attending his third race.

He did pop his rear tire on train tracks after running several red lights, he said.

But this year's race, held earlier this month, didn't feature the concussions and broken bones of past versions.

And it's become more organized since the first race nine years ago. Back then, racers crossed paths with the annual family Seafair parade, Ranstrom said.

But instead of stopping, they just grabbed their bikes and walked through the marching bands and the rest of the parade, bringing about 20 police officers to Ranstrom's back door.

The thought that was going through Ranstrom's head: "I am so going to jail for this."

The annual race is the culminating yearly event for the Dead Baby Bike Club, a group of bike enthusiasts with about 40 full members. They're a mix of blue collar workers such as machinists and bike messengers and some professionals such as legal assistants. Each month, they pub crawl, taking over the streets on their bikes, Wiggins said.

Chalo Colina, with an explosion of black curls on his head and his upper teeth scalloped with gold, has been in the club for four years.

"I consider us a drinking club with a bicycle problem," Colina said.

They also make off-the-wall, artistic bikes - "crazy bikes," as they like to call them.

Among one that Colina brought to the race: a bike pulling a cart with chairs on top to carry the injured. Its passengers made their way to the afterparty at the club's warehouse headquarters in the shadow of an overpass. More "crazy bikes" were shown off on a bicycle runway next to such attractions as a pedal-powered mini ferris wheel.

Inside the warehouse, partygoers hopped onto a bike and took turns striking a police cruiser-shaped pinnate with a black bike lock.

But amid the beer and the bike riding, there are rules. Becoming a full member requires such things as building a bike and riding a double-decker bike.

"We don't want tweakers or dopers or abusers," said Johnson, the club's "road captain."

As for the name, Ranstrom said it was inspired by a doll nailed through the head above the door by the previous occupants of the bike shop he owned.

"We just thought it was hilarious," he said.

But for Jeremy Blake, a longtime member, Dead Baby is more than just an attention-getter.

"Dead Babies and the name represents the discarded few. The lost children, so to speak," said Blake, a former bicycle messenger. "The Dead Babies were my family."

Some of the Dead Babies now even have their own babies. Blake, now 31, has two sons with his wife, also a Dead Baby.

The Dead Babies have even done community service, teaching kids how to build bikes, Johnson said.

"A lot of us are getting older and doing more legitimate things with our lives," Johnson said. "Can't be the reckless drunks we used to be," he said.