There's nothing like the thrill of slicing through traffic, top speed, all senses focused on the everything around you, predicting the maneuverings of the jostling cars better than they. Or the thrills of life on the streets, random encounters with friends and strangers that can turn the day around faster than the wrong door being opened in front of you. There's nothing like the primitive, animal passions that rule a day of pedaling through this magnificently fucked up city.
There's nothing that compares with my first weeks and months at World Courier, 1015 15th St. #406, an outfit out of business since the boss developed a secret crack habit. My first day I learned how to use my lock and radio, and got a rough guide to the streets. ("You don't know where Independence is? God, why do you send me these rookies?!") But what I remember most is cars and people all around me, so much stuff going on that I had to slow down sometimes to take it all in; how to ride a bike in traffic and feeling vital in a new an unexplainable way that kept growing and growing. And sore legs.
There's nothing like the sick rush of cash that filled our messenger bags back in the late 80's. After a few months with the small-timers at World Courier I got wise and went across the street to Archer, 1522 K st, 1st floor. Today's messenger would find the opulence in 1989 hard to believe. We got $3.00 for every downtown run, $4.00 to Capitol Hill. Anything to southwest paid you $5.75, and each delivery above T street paid $6.25. Far better than today's rates, even before figuring inflation. But there was more. If you earned $375 you got a $25 bonus. Make $400 and they waive your radio fee. Top $425 and you got a $75 bonus, bringing you up to $500. Any hard-working messenger could take home $500 a week in four days; sometimes I made it in three. Once I got hooked up at Archer I never worked a full week; I remember my boss, Jim, calling me into his office time after time, practically begging me to show up all five days. Once I actually laughed at him. We were always short of couriers and I knew I had him. I also knew that I wanted to be a messenger for the rest of my life. We were kings and a few queens back then, enjoying enhanced respect in addition to our wealth. There was more pride on the streets when I came on the scene. Back then many office people seriously thought of us as talented professionals who were to be valued. Receptionists and middle managers understood that hard-working, intelligent individuals were usually in charge of their envelopes, and many of us felt that we were the elite of the city. Hell, my feelings haven't changed. I still think messengers rule! But the situation sure has changed. Every passing year makes it harder and harder to feel like a god on two wheels.
There is nothing like a noble tribe that would rather die in battle than give up its ways. Everybody says that the beginning of the end was the fax machine. But the unregulated nature of the business and the lack of unity among messengers has been more disastrous to us. We work in an outlaw industry, and the passage of time has shown the big guys (companies) bending the little ones (messengers) over and over again. Price wars have slashed rates. Companies overhire and, using complicated billing methods, exclude messengers from their cut of an ever increasing piece of the pie. Independent contractor status means they can really jerk you around, and without a union there's nobody to hold them accountable. In overhiring, many companies welcome the crackheads on Huffys who don't ask about how their commissions are calculated and don't mind spending half their day in the park waiting for a little work. So its little surprise that we have lost respect in the offices and increasingly run through the loading docks and alleyways of this stratified and class-conscious city.
There's nothing like the first week on the streets after a long time away. Old faces stop to say hi while new ones size you up, but the star, as always, is the primal rhythm of the streets, the dance in traffic, the lung-bursting sprints, all those close calls, and the unforgettable little snapshots of people going about their day. More gorgeous women than you could ever hope to talk to walking everywhere. And those slow-witted, gasoline powered dinosaurs it's so fun to zip around. After every trip I'd come home and remember that no matter what else I became or accomplished, I would always be a messenger first.
There is nothing as comfortable as slipping into your old skin and stomping on those pedals. And it took me a couple of years to realize, but every time I came back it seemed the world had shrunk a little more. Every year a few less couriers on the streets, a slight reduction in rates, a little more favoritism from the dispatchers, and a few more buildings with Jim Crow courier rules. More receptionists talking to you as if you are a moron and less chances to make good money. These simultaneous erosions are heartbreaking to everyone who loves the life.
There is nothing like watching a part of you turn black and die. I was a willful and spoiled messenger, a prima donna if there ever was one. I was used to riding my hardest 10 hours a day, making plenty of money and being top dog. I also used to believe that it meant sometimes feeling like an outlaw, like the job had a special integrity, how we were the roughest, coolest, hardest-working, most honest and physical profession that there was. But as my holidays got longer and my work periods shorter, it became tougher for me to get that top dog status. And going part-time to work on other projects was the kiss of death. I should have just looked at the job as a way to make money and not sweated the rest, but to me it is a lifestyle that demands your all. I couldn't understand why the rewards seemed to be so much less than they used to.
But that's not what made me get out. I blame that on the violence. For years I have been watching the slow decline of our profession. It makes me sick. And sometimes, when I'm in the wrong mood, one of those assholes-you know those assholes, the ones who honk at you for pedaling in "their" lane, or cut you off on purpose in traffic, or who give you the finger for calling them on their stupidity-one of those suit-wearing buttwipes who uses his car as a weapon against me goes too far. In years past I never got violent in the high dramas of traffic conflict, but now it is all too easy to follow the slow-witted mf to the next red light and smash his windshield while hardly slowing down. A few too many of these incidents convinced me it was time to retire, at least for now. One day one of those guys might catch me or I might be tempted to go farther if they didn't.
There's nothing like a new beginning to open your eyes. Santa Fe, New Mexico has no bike messengers, though a few starry-eyed activists stage anemic Critical Mass rides once a month in a futile demonstration against car culture. But it has been surprisingly easy to take the do it yourself and fuck authority spirit of messengering and make it work in other fields. There's a lot of satisfaction to be had in other kinds of work, in my case freelance photojournalism and mountain bike expeditions. And every once in a while it is fun to blast through downtown messenger-style, stopping traffic as the locals gape in amazement, unable to believe what a bicycle can do in their slow-paced world.
It's not the same. It's dull, sometimes. But damn it's peaceful. And there are consolations, like the snowy winters and beautiful landscapes. The riding around here is beyond epic. A singletrack climb to a 12,300' peak starts about a mile from my house; going the other way, you could ride the 200 miles to Chaco Canyon and cross only one paved road. It was hard to believe I can live in this world and still think, act, and feel like a messenger. But its easy, and if you're like me scenes from Farrugut Square and the Hart Building will flow through your head like dreams, and memories of making out under the Washington Monument or drinking too much at Madam's Organ will come back to you all the time.
There's nothing like life seen through a warrior's eye, nothing like the mutant subculture that is our common moniker. Good luck my brothers and sisters, ride hard, ride safe. This old rider thinks of you often. I may never return to life on the streets, but in my heart I will always be a DC bicycle messenger.