It was August 27, 2004, the Friday night before the Republican National Convention was coming to New York City. I was dating Danny and he liked bikes, so I joined him on the monthly Critical Mass bike ride around Manhattan.

Later, as the officer put on the plastic-flexi cuffs, I shouted, “What are you doing? This is ridiculous!”

After about two hours the cops loaded us onto buses. I sat on the bus for hours, the cuffs digging into my wrists. It was hot and sweaty. The windows barely provided air.

A guy in the back vomited. Another complained, “I can’t feel my hands!”

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