State Champs,
City Chaos

Madison's vibrant culture clashes with the chaos brought by out-of-town visitors, leaving behind a stark reminder of the contradictions that lurk beneath the surface.

4 min read

What can I say? Driving Uber late at night isn’t always magic and inspiration…

You’d have thought it was the world’s biggest bachelor party.

You’d have thought prohibition was about to start, like there’d never be another drop of alcohol served again.

You’d have thought it wasn’t 2025, like we hadn’t made any progress at all.

The streets of Madison were teeming with dads, coaches, and bros in town for the state high school tournament, alongside others who were just here to party. Most of my riders were visitors, and their behavior screamed it—doing whatever they wanted, bringing chaos. Not just any chaos—more than you'd expect from grown adults. Complete, reckless chaos. The kind where you could almost feel the hangovers settling in before the night even ended.

As I drove down Main Street, I approached Martin Luther King Jr. Boulevard, then King Street just beyond it. (Yes, we have two King Streets in a row...) Ahead, police lights flickered against the buildings. A handful of men lay flat on the pavement, wrists zip-tied behind them. Others staggered nearby, their breath visible in the cold night air. A few shouted at officers, voices slurred and defiant. Further down the street, more guys were jumping around, hyped up on booze and bravado, their hollers cutting through the night like sirens of their own making.

I exhaled sharply. Violence unfolding near MLK Boulevard. The contradiction was almost too much.

Madison prides itself on being an intelligent city—degrees, culture, progress. But some nights, it feels like none of that matters. The food scene is top-tier. The arts thrive. Health and wellness are part of our DNA—our gyms are full, runners train year-round, and the bike paths are always buzzing. Even our love of sports is more than just cheering on the Badgers; it’s woven into the city’s fabric.

Some visitors treat this place with respect. These guys? Not so much. They weren’t here for the city. They were here to take it over for the night. They were here to be loud, to take up space, to act like they owned the place.

There’s a quiet pride in being from here—a sense that we do things a little differently, that respect for this place runs deep. But in that moment, it felt out of place. These men weren’t from here, and it was obvious they didn’t carry that same reverence.

The homophobia was thick—slurs flying in a city that should be better than this. The misogyny wasn’t far behind. You’d have thought they didn’t have wives, girlfriends, or daughters at home. These weren’t just microaggressions; these were macroaggressions. Alcohol had unlocked something uglier in them.

They carried on, tossing out insults and disrespect like discarded beer cans, oblivious to the world beyond the mess they were making. It was ugly. Impossible to ignore.

I paused, just taking it all in. The irony hit me harder than I expected. Streets named for ideals that Madison supposedly holds dear—dignity, respect, progress—felt smothered under the weight of contradiction.

I shook my head and picked up my pace.

Earlier, a rider had asked how late I’d be driving. My answer? Until I get annoyed.

Tonight, annoyed didn’t even begin to cover it. Furious was more like it. I logged off and drove home.

The irony of the irony? These guys were excellent tippers. I guess money smooths over a lot—until it doesn’t.