The Story of Doom as Told by His Friends

1993 was a strange year for photographers. At least, it was for Steve Fassbinder, studying at the Colorado Institute of Art in Denver. The long, slow hours sealed away in a lightless, chemical-infused darkroom were dust on the boot compared to passing a required Photoshop class. Failing Photoshop meant refusing to embrace the digital age, which was fine with Fassbinder; he dropped out of college and scored a job as a bike messenger for three bucks an hour.

Although he couldn’t afford brake pads for his bike, the job was legit enough to score eligibility for charity sandwiches at a local church. Fueled daily by white bread, yellow mustard, American cheese, and a single slice of ham, this formative phase of urban cycling paved the way for a four-year stint tearing through ground zero on the busy streets of Portland, Oregon, delivering urgent messages on time. Then, just as his bike-messenger career was cresting, Fassbinder hung up his courier bags and got serious about racing in