Five Days as a Rough Rider in The Big Apple's Hard Corps
Bicycling Magazine, March 1990
By Don Cuerdon
Wednesday, September 27, 8:52 a.m. - It's nearly October but the temperature this morning is already close to 80 degrees (with 100% humidity) as New York City suffers the atmospheric anomalies created by the passing of Hurricane Hugo. My shoes have been wet for 2 days. Little geysers squirt from the vent holes with each pedal stroke. As I crest the 59th Street Bridge on my daily commute to Manhattan from my sister's place in Queens, I see the city sprawled below me. It seethes like a dragon in repose - mist enshrouded, dirty, wheezing with acrid, sulphuric breath.
There comes a day in many a life when the dragon must be faced. Slay or be slain.
For a New York City bike messenger, that day is every day.
9:03 a.m. - "Yo, man. It's Dondo. I'm 59th and 2nd and I'm empty." I shoot into the telephone in a machine gun staccato. The adrenaline is already flowing and I want to get on the road. You don't make any money in this business by standing still.
"Well, well. You're picking up the lingo pretty fast for a rookie," says Wayne the dispatcher. But that's it for the morning greetings. Time is money. "Okay, I've got two for you."
Wayne gives me the addresses of the pickups and their destinations. Both are uptowns headed downtown. My nose is already dripping sweat as I write the slips.
"Talk to me before you go below 42nd." says Wayne. The line's dead before I can say, "Okay."
This is my third day on the job, and I'm fortunate in a lot of ways. I'm not dead. I still have my bike. and I'm working for Rough Riders Messengers, Inc., a top-notch delivery service that doesn't normally hire rookies.
If I'd come to New York without press credentials in pursuit of the classic yuppie cyclist's dream "chucking it all" and becoming a bike messenger I'd most likely be working for some sweat shop delivery service with lots of sleazy clients in the garment district. But Rough Riders's clientele is at the other end of the business spectrum doctors, travel agents, stockbrokers...nice. respectable folks.
If, like most other journalists, I'd only ridden for a day and then written a first-person account of the messenger's life, it would be a much lighter tale of frolicking in traffic and playing outlaw than the story you're about to read.
It's a quick trip down 2nd to 55th but more happens in these 4 blocks than during an entire week in the sleepy Vermont town where I live.
Trucks, buses, taxis, pushcarts, and cars are vying for space and tying the traffic in knots. I weave an intricate pattern around them on my trusty cyclocross bike while dodging car doors, jaywalkers, and the innumerable steel plates that act as "temporary pothole patches. These plates are slicker than ice when wet, and this morning they're still glazed from yesterday's monsoon. I'd almost rather take my chances with the potholes.
Lower Manhattan (below Houston Street) is a convoluted, unpredictable tangle of narrow streets established long before New York was a united state. Some streets are so short they can be circumnavigated in a matter of blocks. I know. I circled Orchard Street 3 times on Monday and got caught in a street fair before I figured out where it was.
Upper Manhattan (above Houston) is laid out in a well planned easy-to-follow grid. The avenues increase from east to west (with the exception of a few that bear names) and the numbered cross streets increase from south to north. With practice, you can nearly pinpoint avenue and cross-street coordinates from address numbers. Fortunately, Wayne's taken pity on me and is doing his best to keep me busy with uptown work.
I spot the address on 55th; look for a good parking place. Street signs are best. They're cemented to the sidewalk and too tall to lift a locked bike over. Parking meters are easily beheaded by thieves who then lift the bike off the post, toss it in a van, and drive away to compromise the lock at their leisure
I lock up and dig into my black Manhattan Portage shoulder bag for the slip, I've written "C D- man." This means seethe door man. an easy pickup. I don't have to sign in, get a building pass, hustle an elevator, banter with a receptionist, track down an executive, or parry other such delays.
The D-man gives me an envelope, calls me "sir" (you called a lot of things in this biz, but rarely "sir"), and I'm back on my bike in less than a minute, headed crosstown for my next pickup.
Bike messengering is a straight commission job. Messengers get paid by the delivery, not by the hour, so speed is of the essence. Commissions vary among companies and are sometimes commensurate with experience. The range is typically 40 to 60% of all the business you do. Rough Riders is paying me 55%.
So the name of the game is volume. But you don't get volume with brute force and ignorance. Fast bike riding is only half of the success equation. You need to be quick with your locking procedure and know the best ways in and out of buildings. You need to know which elevators are fast and how many floors to send one up when you step off (so you can grab it again on the way down). And you don't do volume by picking up a single package, delivering it, then getting another, It's best to pick up a bunch of items at one end of town, deliver them to the other side of the city, get a bunch of pickups there, and so on.
This is where a good dispatcher can make or break you. It's a 2-way street. You do good work get things where they're going on time and in good condition and he'll make sure you've got plenty of it. Screw up or cop a bad attitude and you won’t be getting those sweet pickups anymore like the big office buildings where you might score 12 at once.
A rookie can average about 15 deliveries a day and gross roughly $350 for a 5-day work week. That’s serious poverty by New York standards, where a converted broom closet in a crack house rents for $550 a month you survive the first 2 years you'll be doing about 25 deliveries a day for $500 to $600 a week. The best messengers are rumored to make $800 to $1000 with the weekly record some where around $1,400.
Rumor also has it that surviving the first 2 years isn't as hard as surviving the first 2 weeks. Messengering is a lot like combat. If you're going to "get it will probably happen in the first couple of weeks. Unfortunately I'm both a rookie and a short timer. Two days down. 3 to go.
By noon I've made 7 deliveries. I'm on pace for a good week. But on my next call Wayne says, "Come on down to the office and meet some of the gang. I've been so enthraled with making runs that I forgot I was writing a story. But at that point I'll welcome any excuse to get off the street, reduce my exposure. and increase my chances for survival.
I'm cruising south on Park Avenue with limos and taxis that are carting their precious yuppie cargo (safely insulated from the mean streets) into the financial district for a day of pillage and plunder.
That's when I spot him. The real McCoy.
From out of nowhere, this African-American dude on a fixed-gear bike replete with cowhorn handlebar and no brakes cruises into my peripheral vision. When I turn my head to look at him. I see lots of jangley chains around his neck, a black beret on his head, a few dreadlocks peeking from underneath, and a brass whistle poised in his lips.
The look he gives me says, "What you doin' on my road, you dime store honky cowboy? Then he cuts left around a braking taxi and dodges the opening rear door. (Park Avenue yuppies are really into flinging their doors open.) I avoid it, too, and take up the pursuit.
There's a funkiness to his style. We're riding the lane marker in midtraffic, yet he seems completely at ease, swooping side-to-side to scrub off little bits of speed, and jumping the rear wheel every so often, backpedaling slightly in a skip-skip-skip motion when more braking is needed.
I'm severely outclassed and he drops me easily. I watch as he swoops onto a side street and disappears several blocks ahead.
Like rock musicians, truck drivers and cowboys, bike messengers enjoy a certain outlaw mystique. A lot of it comes from the early days of bike messengering, back in the late 70s when guys like the one I chased were the norm and not the exception. That’s when bikers established their "turf " in New York’s traffic.
In those days, so the story goes, if a cabbie or trucker cut off a messenger or acted in some other aggressive fashion, the biker was likely to haul the offensive driver out of his vehicle and beat him within an inch of his life.
Things are better now, and I've noticed more respect from other road users than I'd anticipated. Even jaywalkers, who'll challenge a motor vehicle of any size with nary a blink, step back on the curb when they see a bike messenger bearing down on them. I'm enjoying this mystique-bi- association. I'm not a city kind of guy. Actually, I hate cities. And of all the cities I hate, New York tops my fear-and-loathing list. But not on a bike. On a bike dressed like a messenger. I'm part of the menace. I'm my own worst nightmare. And it's a blast!
At Grand Central Station. I take 45th to 2nd Avenue and continue south. On my first trip down 2nd on Monday. I noticed how dirty the street was. Besides the common garden variety litter, dirt and oil, there's animal (and maybe human?) feces and empty crack vials. When it rains like it did all day Tuesday, you're immersed in this filth. It trickles down your brow and into your mouth. It permanently turns any clothing a dismal gray. And don't make the mistake of riding behind a garbage truck. Exposure to the plume of trash water will make you smell like a fish cannery and alter the genetic structure of your unborn children.
Left on 4th, then over 2 and 1/2 blocks past Avenue A. and I'm there 207 East 4th Street the home of Rough Riders.
This Lower East Side neighborhood is more than just a little scary. Two blocks north is Tompkins Square Park, where a demonstration by homeless people a couple of summers ago turned into a horror show of violence. A controversial videotape allegedly shows policemen beating allegedly innocent bystanders. A Rough Rider is one of the alleged victims on the tape. That's probably how he got that alleged limp.
On Monday of this week, the New York Post's lead story told of a formerly homeless man who had cannibalized his girlfriend, then hid her bones in a bus station. She lived (and died) 5 blocks from here. The article described her as a foreign exchange student who liked to take chances.
But behind the silver door at 207 East 4th is a sanctuary for the Rough Riders. Besides, who would want an outlaw hideout in a neighborhood where respectable folks might drop in?
Inside Wayne and "Bluesy" Susie are behind the desk handling the phones. Wayne is company co- owner and president and has a bachelor's degree in small delivery services from Boston College and spent several years "on the road" - as messengers describe their active service time - before starting Rough Riders with a friend.
Wayne is a blur of caffeine and nicotine induced frenzy, punching buttons, barking orders, writing notes, puffing, slurping, puffing, slurping. He's very good at keeping the chaos at bay. He's also the only person I've ever met who wears out telephones. The remains of his latest victim are piled on the couch behind the desk.
Susie spent 5 years on the road before burnout landed her behind the desk. She's a mean lead guitar player ina progressive rock band, and like most messengers, sees her life in the delivery biz as temporary detour on the road to bigger and better things. But she still has that aloof outlaw air about her. Although the office interior is dimly lit by a few weak bulbs and a neon wall sculpture, she wears sunglasses so dark you can't see her eyes. I imagine if I could, I'd see the same thousand mile stare I'd noticed in other messengers - the kind of distant, unfocused, look you get from too much stimulation over too long a time. It's the stare that Green Beret's get from too many tours of duty.
Bike messengers, like homeless people, live on the fringe of society - always present but somehow invisible to humanity's mainstream. The office is their safe house. It's a place where they can use the bathroom without getting chased away, drink coffee, or have a few beers.
The Rough Riders are a hard crowd. Rick's been a messenger for 10 years. He's 45 but could easily pass for 55. He smokes a cigarette while he rides. He also likes to smoke crack once in a while.
"Isn't crack instantly addicting?" I ask him.
"Nah, I can take it or leave it." Rick claims. Somehow, I believe him.
The cramped office is strewn with bike parts, oddball bulletins, obscene magazines, newspaper clippings, maps, dead cockroaches, and bicycles. Like Pony Express riders, messengers are proud of their mounts, but they know better than to get attached. Some riders have lost as many as 10 bikes in 5 years to theft and damage.
The standard messenger bike is a road machine (mountain bikes are too popular with thieves) with either a fixed gear or single free wheel (derailleurs malfunction and get stolen), narrow clincher tires, 2 brakes, and not much else. Bolt-on wheels are popular because you don't have to remove the front one when locking up. Another option is to keep the rear wheel's quick release locked to the chainstay with a small padlock. Then you secure the front wheel and frame with a U- lock.)
Murdoch's Bike Shop (around 45th & 9th) caters to messengers. You can get a serviceable ride for about $175. The left and right crankarms may not match, and the frame may look like it saw duty in Vietnam, but it works. Ask for "Rambo." He'll set you up.
The messenger world is rife with nicknames and pseudonyms. 'Repo' never went to college, but he's witty and has a penchant for comic book collecting. His long-haired visage is one of the still images in the early moments of Quicksilver, a movie that never comes close to depicting the real lives of messengers."
"Blaze" plays electric bass and wants to start a new band with Bluesy Susie. When I tell him I'd like to sing vocals. he says,"We need a girl.""I can sing like a girl" I jest.
"Not until we make some adjustments", says Blaze. His hand disappears into a shoulder bag, there's a whirring sound of steel and I'm suddenly on the business end of a butterfly knife pointed at my genitals. The pause before we all laugh is agonizingly long.
By tomorrow night, Jan, one of the few female Rough Riders will be hospitalized with a spiral fracture of her tibia. The driver of the car that hit her stopped and even drove Jan and her bike to the hospital but she won't be able to collect damages because she checked in under an assumed name to beat the bill. Most messengers don't have health insurance.
Jan will get by during the next 2 months in her ankle-to-hip cast by doing some odd jobs and accounting around the office. Fortunately for her, Wayne takes care of his own.
Thursday, September 28, 8:45 a.m. - "Yo, YO! It's DonDo! I'm at 59th and 2nd and emptier than the mayor's head"
"Hey, hey," says Wayne. "Me and Repo were just laying odds that since you'd worked a couple days, gotten the photos done and got you interviews, you'd be on your way home by now."
"No. I said I'd do 5 days. -Okay. Grab your pen. I've got 3 for you."
Friday, September 29, - 7:15 a.m. This is my fourth breakfast of coffee and ibupfofen this week. My swollen knees can barely support my weight as I stagger down flights of stairs to the street. I've got about 10 minutes of easy spinning along Roosevelt Avenue before I'm back in the heavy traffic on Queens Boulevard.
Sprint and recover. Sprint and recover. Working as a messenger is harder than any stage race I've ever done. Although I'd guess I'm only riding 30 to 40 miles a day, it's all sprinting. You never get a chance to shake the crud out of your legs. And at 7 p,m., after 10 or 11 hours on the road. I'm not in the mood for more bike riding, even if it would help my recovery.
There s hardly any time in the day to eat or drink, I just go. Then I drag myself home, shower, eat, and drink as much as I can, trying to beat back the overexertion insomnia with lethal doses of Ballantine Ale. It's not a health-and-fitness lifestyle. We do it for the money. We do it for the lack of structure. We're outlaws.
I look in my bag. I'm out of slips. Perhaps an omen. Something's not right with the traffic, too. The escape holes and common courtesies I'd found earlier in the week have given way to some sort of pressure cooker anxiety. I m gonna get it today, I know I am.
Yo, man. I'm out of slips and headed for the office," I tell Wayne from the coinbox.
After a careful cruise down 2nd, I collect my slips but can't quite make it out the door. Wayne has runs on the desk and asks if I want any. I keep dawdling. I'm scared. I want to do 5 days, but I've made it through 4 without a mishap. The odds are against me.
"Hey man," says Wayne, "You're a short-timer. If you don't want to go out there today, I'll understand."
It’s enough to keep me inside, but I still feel like a wimp until Rick arrives. He's got the willies, too, and never makes it back out the door. Then Blaze shows up after making only a few runs. Like jungle animals, messengers survive by instinct.
So we hang out and swap war stories. Rick drinks 14 beers be tween 1:30 and 5. Blaze and I join him after the first dozen. the feeling that Rick's just warming up for Friday night.
Blaze is bummed because he has to vacate the "squat" (unoccupied apartment) he's in and move to another this weekend that has no running water. Repo has housing problems, too. He's got 8 days to move out of the apartment he's lived in for 8 years.
But soon we're too blitzed to worry about much of anything and I start my last, long, wobbly commute home in the dark. I pause at the highest span of the 39th Street Bridge to urinate into the river I wonder if the first drops will hit the water before the last drops leave my bladder.
Below me the dragon sleeps.
"I'm alive," I say to the beast. -Let s call it a draw."
Epilogue
Monday, October 2, 10:15 a.m. - "Yo, man. It s Dondo. I'm at the corner of South Road and Ames Hill Road in Marlboro."
[A brief pause.] -What's the matter?" says Wayne. Bored with the country life already?" "Nah. I just wanted to see if you were busy. Got any runs on the desk?
-Yup. But you wouldn't be asking if you weren't hooked. This stuff gets in your blood.- says Wayne.
-I m having trouble writing this one up. It's too close to home, if you know what I mean." Hey man, says Wayne. -Call it like you saw it.
So I did.
If you have comments or suggestions, email me at messvilleto@yahoo.com