Courier life was the best of life for me. My goal at one time was to be a courier in every major city of the world. I knew that to be impossible, but that made it more of a reason to try.

I've seen the couriers in Seattle (yes, they all wear flannel plaid) pushing those ancient one speed coaster brake handlebar grocery basketed behomoths up and down slippery rain-soaked streets. They never locked their bikes, I noticed, just flippled the kickstand down and wander, whistling Nirvana, into another building. No hustle. No panache. What self respecting DC courier would ride a bike: A. With a kickstand or B. not worth stealing. I could never be a courier in Seattle. Too much pride.

And, of course, I've seen the couriers in New York City. Some look like (and are) world class athletes (witness Nelson Vails). Others look like crack-heads. I imagine that in New York, more time is spent riding the elevators (100 stories?!) than riding the bike. I always hated riding elevators. The worst part of a good job. And the thought of riding a fixed gear in traffic scares me. Why else would they call it a "track bike". All the true cowboys in Manhattan ride a fixed gear. I give up. New York City might just be over my head.

San Francisco? The couriers there all look as if they are on the way home from a very late night at a thrasher bar. They all wear so many earrings and nose rings that they could never clear the metal detectors on Capitol Hill. And San Francisco is such a wonderful city that I wouldn't want to ruin it by trying to live as a courier there. Not to mention, the green bud there is much too expensive.

So how about Sydney, Australia? Where their summer is our winter and a flushing toilet swirls the opposite way? Almost by government decree, I became a courier there. "Raging" is the word that the Aussies use. And raging it was. I suggest giving it a ride someday if you can.

Way back in 1984, the IRS was after me. I owed $2,000 income taxes for money earned at Metro and Action Courier. I had $2,000 in the bank. So, to play it safe, I withdrew the money and spent it, as a birthday present to myself (May 13). I spent all the money before noon.

I bought a Bianchi touring bike for $500 at the Pro Shop in Georgetown. Cannondale panniers for another $100. A walkman for about the same. An ounce of weed for $100 and then a plane ticket for $1,000. A plane ticket from Los Angeles to Tahiti to New Zealand to Australia to Fiji to Hawaii and back again to LA. I still had $100 for a cheapskate flight to LA from DC and $100 spending money. The IRS never caught me until I turned myself in five years later.

On my way West, I stopped in California to work on an oil drilling rig (84 hours a week) and saved $3,500 for 2 months work and continued on my way west, west, west over the blue Pacific.

I spent a week in Tahiti, practicing my high school French, and sitting on a white sandy beach, staring out to sea. When I got over the thrill of being there I got bored as hell. I mean a wave is a wave and a beach is a beach. I continued west to New Zealand.

New Zealand at this time had a very favorable exchange rate, $.20 NZ for $1 US. I stayed at a decent hotel in Auckland for a week for only $50. I spent time there in the bar being generous. A big pint of Tooey's Beer cost only 40 cents US. I felt like a big shot, on the cheap.

"Let me shout you a beer there mate." As the words go there.

On to Sydney. Found a room in a boarding hotel for $50 a week. Across the street was a large public (Olympic sized) swimming pool. After a good long swim (90 degrees in October) I went downtown and looked for a job.

I saw a courier on the corner and asked him about a job, where the office was etc. He did his best to reply.

"Way mate, Uy dught that ye may fin the erffichut ah be in a bit of a skiddaddle now and G'day to ya mate" and then he was gone on bike into traffic. I think he was speaking some sort of English that I couldn't decipher but I found the office anyway. "Braggs Bicycles. The City's Best." The sign said. Actually the city's only too from what I could see. It was the only courier company in town, quasi public, state owned, privately run.

I would love to tell you more about courier life in Sydney, and I wish there were some tales to tell, but once I got over the initial confusion of riding on the "wrong" side of the street, courier life there was pretty mundane. Much the same as Washington. Ride all day till the dispatcher calls the cows home. Get some beer, find a shady spot in the park, out of sight, and get the bong cooking with a few mates.

Sydney though, is a magnificent city. I would volunteer daily to do a run to North Sydney, over the Sydney Harbor Bridge with its glorious view of the city's skyline and the huge ocean going ships passing underneath on their way out to sea. On the weekends, some of the world's best beaches are only a short train ride away.

Often, after a courier day was done, we'd all go to a downtown beer garden, a rambling big place with lots of women from the local offices. The sun stayed up late in the heart of summertime, December down there. The best part of Sydney was the ease of meeting people, especially women, all by mouthing a few words. I would spew a few words with my Yankee accent and some fertile young lass would want to adopt me.

Back in Washington, often, I couldn't get a date to save my life. In Sydney I was still "just another dumb courier" but with my Yankee accent I enjoyed a wee bit of exotic allure. It was raging. Go sometime if you can. And until then, keep perfecting your Yankee accent. It'll pay big dividends down under.