In the summer of '95 I made the decision to return to school in an attempt to accomplish tasks other than delivering packages in the nation's capital. Little did I realize how difficult the transition would be. Washington D.C. had welcomed me with its richness, its vulgarity, and its opportunity to make a quick buck by way of bicycle. I nestled down and carved a nice niche for many years with a healthy commission at an excellent company. The monuments and the avenues never ceased to impress and delight me. Mastery of such a place is reserved for few. Amongst my discoveries was the realization that there is nothing better than riding hard for a solid ten hours on a Friday and being rewarded with a handsome check and many beers at the Black Cat Friday night. Nothing better indeed.

My decision to return to school was hastened by a six-month stint as the bike-side dispatcher at Metro. Life on the other side of the mike wasn't grand. All the hassle and frustration of delivery work without the satisfaction and pleasure of sprinting to beat lights, spitting on cabs and being properly rewarded for your victories in the line of fire. After a bad day of dispatching a few hundred jobs, it was time to go.

"There's no place like D.C." I would expound when telling all of my decision to leave. In truth, there really isn't - but for me this declaration was made more out of fear and trepidation of what the future held. Once used to providing for yourself via two wheeled freedom, the alternatives don't always look so hot. What the hell was I going to do for money, wait tables? You can't spit on the patrons the way you can spit cabbies.

I left DC for my new home in Richmond, Virginia - 100 miles due south by way of Interstate 95. The opulent south was calling. The land of Lee, the Capitol of the Confederacy, D.C.'s southern cousin - was to be my new home. After touring battlefields, tobacco factories and the many tributaries of the mighty James River, I settled in. "The Old South" - you said it brother.

Someone told me they used bicycle messengers down here. "Pshaw" was all I could muster in response. My Washingtonian arrogance scoffed the idea that such a phenomenon could exist in any place other than a few select urban areas. If you're not trucking up to Capitol Hill for a copy of the Pentagon's Budget, it's just not the same.

This annoying fidelity would last a year. I just could not give up my connection to Washington and even drove up once a week to work as a courier. I'd make enough money in one day to justify the laborious commute. On my "off day" from school I would get up at 4 a.m., throw the bike in my back seat, drive to DC. and go to work. Ahh, home again. Slinking into town at such an ungodly hour never failed to resent itself with Washington's finest bums and hookers. While waiting for the office to open, sometimes I'd just ride around and watch the city open its eyes and creep to life. At 8:30 I'd grab a radio and start pounding out deliveries. Hearing the "fellas" over the air always made me feel good. I loved it. For at least one day a week I could bring back the past.

The fateful day came when I was offered a part time messenger position here in Richmond. "Uh, let me think about it" - even with a schedule tailored to my classes, I found it hard to let go of my northern affair. The decision was made to try Richmond and that sad call was placed. "I won't be coming in anymore", was all I could say to my old company. I felt guilty and cheap as a dissatisfied lover severing ties to start anew with a passing fancy. After a slow break up, it was time to date again.

Richmond is smaller than Washington. This uninsightful observation was the first distinguishing characteristic my first day riding. Hell, it looked tiny on the map. After warming up to the idea of proclaiming myself as a "Richmond courier" I began to open my narrow eyes and look around a bit. To begin with, I was the second bike messenger working for the company. Any work was to be given to either the full time guy or me. How refreshing to not have to fight for air time with fifteen others all eager for work. My attitude improved immediately knowing that some rookie hack wasn't stealing my deservedly sweet runs.

Where the hell are the cabs? Everyone drives themselves about in Richmond, you're lucky to see one cab a day. The strange thing is, I think I prefer cabs to your everyday "citizen" driver. At least cabbies know the rules of getting across town. You both know what the options are at a particular intersection, legal or illegal, and its every man for himself. I just don't trust a Honda Accord.

What, no potholes? The streets here are amazingly well cared for. Whereas, at times, D.C. seems to be falling apart at the seams, Richmond is well tailored and fashionable. Traffic moves briskly, including rush hour, and I have yet to suffer a pothole induced flat. Beautiful. This place is looking better every day.

There are a total of fifteen bike messengers in the entire city. Count 'em, fifteen. This intimate number affords quite a bond to be formed between these southern gents. Smiles abound when passing one another going up and down the many, many hills of Richmond. The vehicle of choice is a fixed gear track bike. Gear selection is crucial due to the steepness of the hills (going down hill = sketchy, man). I've sat and watched my colleagues fly down the 8th St. hill and delightfully witnessed the grace of the "controlled slide". This occurs when you throw your weight forward, lift the rear wheel and lock up the cranks so that when our wheel touches back to earth - you're skidding your ass off. This "slide" is done incrementally so as not to wear out just one long section of rear tire. These guys can jump their track bikes and in mid-air get a tattoo, a piercing and even roll a joint. Impressive.

Good-bye Marion Barry, Hello Boss Hog. Where as the fire of Washington delivery is fanned by the workings of the Feds and a delinquent mayor, Richmond is dependent upon the State government. The General Assembly is the hotbed of state issues and a favorite spot to deliver to. One day I stood in amazement as a Boss Hog character grudged his way to the front door of the Assembly, into a small gathering. A trenchcoat, a full brimmed hat and a smoldering cigar all spelled kick ass. You could be sure that his county's views were going to be heard today.

The hassle factor is minimal. Very few places have registries where you have to sign in. No concierges or security guards greet me with a "hey courier boy - take your worthless self to the rear of the building and come in with the rest of the trash" or anything like that. No, now it's a friendly smile, a polite nod, and a sweet southern "howdy". It's nice to use the front door. People hold the elevator when they hear you coming, ask about the weather, and inquire with fascination about such an odd occupation. This freaked me out. I've grown accustomed to the meanness of Washington, the rude snubbings, the transactions that occur with receptionists without any contact what so ever. It's obvious this town hasn't gotten sick of couriers yet.

Well, it's been a few months and I must say, I'm more than pleased with this fine place. That's not the newness of the relationship talking either. I love not having to worry about my bike getting stolen - I lean lock it everywhere (sometimes) I just lean it without locking - shhh.... I love blasting up and down these hills in a frenetic effort to keep up with my barking pager. Richmond is so small that there's no need for the dispatcher to bother with routing. If you can't get across town in five minutes you'd be best to consider other employment. I'm already spoiled with the pleasantness of this warm place and indeed I'm in love all over again.