COVID-19 cancels one of Tulsa’s biggest annual parties — Cry Baby Hill at Saint Francis Tulsa Tough
Ask almost any Tulsan about Cry Baby Hill and, oh, the stories they could tell.
If you drive down Tulsa's Riverside Drive 364 days a year, you wouldn't notice it. But if you hit it on the right day — the second Sunday in June — you won't forget it.
The beer. The costumes. The jean shorts. The blaring music. The literal baby dolls and pacifiers. The stench of sweat and vomit. The ugly grey apartments surrounded by partygoers.
And, of course, the hundreds of cyclists pedaling up the 203-meter climb.
The hill, infamous for being the final leg of the Saint Francis Tulsa Tough three-day cycling race, is home to Tulsa's most raucous party where thousands of locals, tourists and bike enthusiasts partake in an experience unlike any other.
"It's very much like Mardi Gras and a rave and a peace fest with this intense, action-packed, NASCAR-like atmosphere," said Edward Snow, a Cry Baby Hill "referee" one day a year and a federal prosecutor the rest. "You can just fill in all the blanks you could expect to see at an event like that. We've had people that have had sex up there. So, yeah. It's a little crazy."
But this year, there will be no party at the top of the hill.
With COVID-19 playing the role of party pooper, Tulsa Tough, scheduled for June 12-14, was canceled in April. For those that have seen the event grow over the last 14 years, devastation has filled the days leading up to the weekend that usually showcases the unique flair of Oklahoma's second-largest city.
"The emotional wreckoning has definitely been hard," said Malcolm McCollam, executive director of the event. "It's been a labor of love for us for so long. Not only do we look forward to it from a production standpoint, but we also know the community has embraced it, adopted it and claimed it as their own.
"To know we won't be able to deliver that to our community has been gut-wrenching."
Local hotels, restaurants, bars and concert venues across Tulsa will lose out on a few million dollars, McCollam added.
"People count on that weekend," said Tiffany Turner, director of catering at McNellie's Restaurant Group, which serves Tulsa Tough. "It's a lot of incredible exposure not just for a lot of businesses downtown, but just for the city itself."
And while the race has an obvious financial impact on the city, Tulsa Tough has become much more than a money maker.
In 2006, when the event was first created, Tulsa didn't have much of an image. McCollam says the city wanted to show why Tulsa was "one of the cool kids" at the same level as places like Austin, Nashville, Portland and Boulder. Downtown revitalization was at the top of the city's to-do list, and an event that consistently drew a large crowd would also be a welcome addition.
For city officials and Tulsa Tough organizers, the race was crafted to highlight three locations: The Blue Dome District on Friday, the Tulsa Arts District on Saturday and Riverside Drive on Sunday. Today, Downtown Tulsa and Riverside Drive feature an award-winning park, the state's largest arena, a stunning minor league ballpark and a hill made famous once a year.
Tulsa Tough is the one event that puts it all on display.
"Somebody once said that the weekend of Tulsa Tough is what we could show everybody not in Tulsa what Tulsa really is," said Andy Wheeler, volunteer director of Cry Baby Hill and a Tulsa native. "That's the weekend we get to show everybody what we're capable of."
The growth of the downtown area has made Tulsa Tough a must-ride for professional cyclists.
When registration opens each year, it's filled within hours, McCollam says.
"Even at all the big, prestigious races around the country, they don't attract the same sort of crowds," said Marissa Axell, a professional cyclist from the Bay Area in San Francisco. "It's such a unique spectacle in the U.S. I think the only thing you can compare it to are some of the big bike races in Europe where they attract a ton of people and they're drinking and screaming. That just doesn't happen in the U.S. That's why it's legendary."
But Tulsa Tough, and specifically Cry Baby Hill, hasn't always been a phenomenon. In 2006, a local group of bike enthusiasts were inspired by "tifosi" — a word often used in Europe to describe diehard cycling fans — and hoped to gradually replicate European races at Tulsa Tough.
Among those fans is Josh Gifford, co-owner of Soundpony, a cycling-themed bar and one of Downtown Tulsa's most popular pubs.
Gifford opened Soundpony in May 2006, a month before Tulsa Tough's inaugural race. Similar to the city, Soundpony has become a favorite destination for cyclists, which also means his business will lose "tens of thousands of dollars" due to the race's cancellation.
"It was our biggest sales weekend of the year, bigger than some of our months," Gifford said. "But I'm way more concerned with public safety than the almighty dollar."
Along with starting his own bar, Gifford also helped create the aura around Cry Baby Hill. The story goes that in the first couple years of the race, Gifford would run up and down the hill heckling riders and screaming "What's the matter, cry baby? You can't get up this little cry baby hill?"
And thus, the legend was born.
The hill has since grown into the city's most chaotic gathering of the year. Thousands come to witness the spectacle, often dressed in little clothing and drinking too much to function. There's also a theme, which brings out the most wild costumes — this year's was supposed to be based on Netflix's "Tiger King," a perfect fit for the outlandish crowd.
The party has gotten so out of control that designated "referees" help "mind the gap" to keep spectators off the road.
"On Cry Baby Hill, Republicans and Democrats are getting along. African Americans and whites and Asians and the Dutch are getting along," said Snow, who has been a hill referee for years. "People that don't know a damn about biking are cheering on these people who live biking. It just showcases the best of what our city is and can be."
For riders, it's an experience that can't be replicated and a challenge that's hard to forget.
"You turn the corner and you hit this wall of sound. It's noisy and crazy and smelly. It's just a big cacophony of attention," said Axell, who has never finished the course in her six years racing it.
"It's a lot of external input. When you do kind of make it through that wall, it kind of takes your mind off the pain in your legs, the pumping of your heart and you're just overwhelmed with that sensory overload, in a good way."
Those who have spent the last 14 years partying on or riding up Cry Baby Hill are unsure how they'll spend their second Sunday in June next weekend. Cry Baby Hill isn't exactly the best place to be during a pandemic, they all admit. But some, like Snow, plan to ride the hill with a small group. Others, like Gifford, plan to share a toast to the hill and the weekend that never fails to bring joy and pride to their city.
Though Cry Baby Hill won't be home to a party in 2020, tears will still be shed.
"It's so bizarre to even think of the weekend coming and going and that party not happening," McCollam said. "I'll be crying in real life."
Watch the sights from Saint Francis Tulsa Tough's Cry Baby Hill in 2018
Cry Baby Hill is the annual highlight of Tulsa Tough bike races
June 2018: Sights and sounds from the Saint Francis Tulsa Tough's Cry Baby Hill competion HIDE VERTICAL GALLERY ASSET TITLES
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