Tomy Lipka's got a live one.

He's sure of it - so sure, in fact, that he doesn't mind cutting off the gang's thesis-level discussion of his favorite tattoo: Hunter S. Thompson, naked, firing a rifle, on Lipka's left calf.

"Modeled my whole life after that naked dude," he says.

But this is serious. Stationed at their unofficial headquarters on Rittenhouse Square, the 23-year-old Lipka and his fellow sweat-soaked bike messengers turn toward the sidewalk about 30 yards away and glower, as if peering into a funhouse mirror.

"There's one," Lipka says in a low voice.

And in all its glory - tight jean shorts, single-strap courier bag slung over the left shoulder, black ski hat in 80-degree heat, and, most telling of all, a spiffy fixed-gear bike being walked, not ridden.

Behold the bike messenger wannabe, latest urban archetype of the 21st century.

Labeled "fakengers" or "FAMs" (for "fake-ass messengers") by their detractors, the burgeoning ranks of courier-emulators make up a peculiar breed. Though often employed in another field - or, as the oft-true stereotype goes, enrolled in art school - members of this band of twentysomethings have taken to messengers' garb, gear, and wheels in tremendous numbers.

As with other fashion statements before it - the tie-dyed shirt, the trucker hat, the Che Guevara apparel - the line between style and lifestyle tends to blur easily.

"In the past five years, it's increased almost exponentially," said Jeff Appeltans, who helped usher in the messenger age with the founding of TimeCycle Couriers in 1989. "It's very much an independent lifestyle, and I think a lot of younger people are drawn to that."

This logic seems sensible enough. Darting daringly between cars, unbound by the tyranny of traffic lights, eschewing a life tethered to an office desk, messengers might be said to achieve the consummate, romantic blend of urban velocity and rugged individualism.

Lipka's take is less analytical.

"It's because we look so damn cool," he said.

Many within the fakenger community admit as much. Art student Ed Brady, 22, concedes that he wouldn't invest in courier attire if he "didn't think it was cool in some way." At the same time, Brady cites economic and environmental considerations as catalysts in the decision to ride - at least for him.

"People will move here and instantly spend their school loan money to buy a pimped-out bike," he said. "They're doing it because everyone else is."

Businesses, of course, have nothing against a follower's mentality. Michael McGettigan, co-owner of Trophy Bikes at 31st and Walnut Streets, estimates that "every bike shop in town is up" on the strength of the emulator demographic. Some shops, he says, have even sprouted new locations with an eye toward filling the growing market niche. Certain models of R.E.Load custom courier's bags, for instance, fetch more than $300. And some of the bikes themselves - brakeless, fixed-gear, and complete with all the finest trimmings - can set a buyer back several thousand dollars.

"I don't totally understand it," McGettigan said. "There's definitely some people riding bikes that I would never buy and that I feel awkward selling. But if it makes them happy, they're safe, and they don't hurt anybody. . . . They're not polluting."

Both McGettigan and Appeltans credit the fakenger population, in part, with driving the recent expansion of Philadelphia cycling culture (though gas prices, environmental concerns, and the city's recent addition of bike lanes seem to factor in as well). According to the Bicycle Coalition of Greater Philadelphia, the number of cyclists in the city has doubled over the last three years. On June 4, for the first time in its history, the city was awarded a Bronze Bicycle Friendly Community Award from the League of American Bicyclists. ("We're aiming for platinum," Mayor Nutter said in a news release.)

"You may see some wannabes, but a year later they're not wannabes," McGettigan said. "It doesn't go unless you pedal it, and if you don't maintain it, it falls apart."

The real couriers seem reluctant to embrace this new class of biker. Some blame fakengers for perpetuating negative stereotypes of cyclist recklessness - dashing around the city on a courier-style brakeless bike, despite lacking the experience and skill to do so safely.

Others accuse the imitators of more direct thrill-seeking at the messengers' peril.

"Sometimes kids will come out and try to race you on the street, [which] kind of makes a hazardous situation for us," said Jon Citron, 23, of Legal Beagle couriers. "We're just trying to work and get our jobs done efficiently."

To date, there exists only one known antidote to the messenger-fakenger acrimony: the Philadelphia soft pretzel.

In the winter of 2004, then-Temple University student and Trophy Bikes employee Laura Csira assembled a small group of friends for what came to be known as the "pretzel ride." Every Tuesday night, a handful of cyclists would meet at the steps of the Philadelphia Museum of Art about 11:30 and pedal down to Center City Soft Pretzel Co. at Eighth Street and Washington Avenue for the shop's midnight opening.

Now, less than five years later, the gathering attracts well over 50 people if the weather is nice enough - and features participants ranging from current and former messengers and shop workers to city employees and college undergraduates. The total number of messengers employed in the city, by Appeltans' estimation, is less than 40.

Though the couriers and their look-alikes tend not to intermingle much before the rides, the disparate camps blend into one when the pack zips toward South Philadelphia at about a quarter to midnight.

"It's definitely part of the movement," said Tony Zollo, 20, a labor representative for the United Food and Commercial Workers Union.

Mindful that every good movement requires a soundtrack, Zollo has taken the task upon himself.

"I learned recently that I could ride without using my hands, and I also simultaneously learned how to play the banjo," he said. "So I just put two and two together."

Huddled along the sidewalk outside the pretzel company, bike enthusiasts of all kinds tear gleefully into warm pretzels (three for a dollar); drinks in brown paper bags circulate like a juicy rumor; intermittent banjo-strumming sets the mood.

For one night, at least, messenger and fakenger have more in common than wheels and accessories.

For one night, they ride and dine together, as friend and faux.

Contact staff writer Matt Flegenheimer at 215-854-4193 or mflegenheimer@phillynews.com.