Cyclist, August, 1987
by Sydney Shuster
Legend has it that Nelson Vails, New York's world-renowned ex-bicycle messenger, was snatched from hip-hop obscurity by cycling patron Fred Mengoni. Mengoni supposedly spotted him chasing racers in Central Park; profoundly impressed, he was moved to buy Vails a good racing bike. The rest - Olympic silver medal, endorsements contracts, film role, nice house in exclusive neighborhood - it's all history now. From ghetto to Gollywood on the express track.
So enraptured is the buying public with romantic outlaws that Vails' story sold like ice water to bedouins. The natural follow-up was Hollywood's fawning tribute to bicycle couriers, "Quicksilver". Suddenly, bike messengers are hot stuff. But are the genuine items really scruffy- yet-lovable street urchins, or something else? Who becomes a bicycle messenger, and does the reality live up to the hype?
One flight up from Park Avenue's glitz, you are welcomed by a scrawled Kilroy with a hole in the plaster instead of a nose. A crazy quilt of receipts, bike frames, posters and flags is the backdrop for Stella Buckwalter, a 33-year-old former racer. She looks like a fashion model, talks like a corporate executive and manages Amazing Racing Messengers like an air-traffic controller.
Most messengers work part-time, furnish their own equipment and get a commission. Buckwalter's are independent contractors who keep the standard 50 percent of what each trip nets, which is about $10. Buckwalter may up the ante when she opens her own company, Maui Messengers. She feels they don't get compensated enough and loads them down with quarters out of her own pocket to make sure they call for pickups. For 35 to 40 miles of daily riding, the average weeks pay is $250 to $300. A little ambition guarantees $450 to $600 and $1,000 weekly for the top earners. But employee turnover is rapid - a messenger's career is as spasmodic as a cabbie's driving.
The typical courier operation is characterized by tire tracks on the floor and random arrangements of chain grease, which is why Born to Run looks out of place. Floating amid glowing oak floors and pristine white walls is the only decoration, a landing strip of a desk covered with phones. "We just moved in," apologizes owner and former messenger, Shelly Mossey, 33, who accommodates "anybody who can't FAX their package across town."
The function served by bicycle messengers is vital, albeit a tad primitive. Even with the proliferation of telecommunications and overnight air delivery, the cyclists' immunity to gridlock and AT&T strikes makes them tough to beat. But while they may have transformed communications, New York's 3000 - plus messengers haven't endeared themselves to the man on the street.
Despite racing skills and a competitive attitude, these are not middle-class bike racers. A lucrative job with limited educational requirements is like flypaper to immigrants and the underprivileged, and the racer look is mostly vigorous posturing by people with every reason to emulate athletes and no reason to take a driving test or learn vehicular law. Language comprehension and social graces are not givens, either. The picture the public sees frequently looks like this:
A messenger zig-zags the wrong way down a one-way street and then peels south on Madison Avenue, which goes north. He hits a pedestrian, who lies unconscious in the intersection. As a crowd gathers, he takes off without so much as a wave don't want that pizza to be late.
Joey is famous for his delivery uniform and style, which includes a hockey helmet complete with goalie’s mask. He'll ride the wrong way up Fifth Avenue, weaving in and out, laughs Mossey. At full speed. He’s totally crazed!
A non-English-speaking messenger inadvertently drops off a package at the wrong address. The client is desperate. The frantic dispatcher tries to reconstruct the messenger’s trip, demanding to know where he has come from. The reply: Cuba.
A messenger cuts off a bike commuter, hops a curb, and scatters a gaggle of terrified pedestrians. A shouting match ensues. The messenger reaches into his pants as if to seize a weapon. Lycra doesn't lie, clearly indicating the limitations of his defense options. Bewildered but relieved victims close in.
It is wrong, however, to assume all messengers are guerillas. You're just as likely to find folks who can't abide suits, or need flexible hours for auditions or classes but refuse to work the lobster shift typesetting classifieds. A cross-sampling of employees discloses lots of moonlighters: musicians, students, writers, artists, models yes, even bike racers.
One refreshing exception to the gonzo stereotype is Craig Cook. A 5' 9" USCF-licensed junior, he’s blond and rangy a choirboy from the waist up and a Grewal from the waist down. At 17 he’s more articulate and self-assured than your garden-variety teenager. Initially he was attracted by the magic, but it also looked like a way to combine training with a summer job. He discovered that riding in fits and starts all day is stressful, and after-hours laps and Saturday races make it redundant. By the end of the week, he admits, you're sort of sick of bicycles.
Julia Ashcroft’s purple locks are souvenirs from her last job, writing for a rock music publication in London. This American adventure junkie shifted to the New York bicycle messenger mode since the pay beat that of a staff journalist and she loves riding. But the big lure was a special kind of distinction. Ashcroft is among a small but growing contingent of spunky women invading what used to be defined as male territory because of the risks.
It’s not an easy job, and it’s dangerous. It gets pretty wild for them out there, insists Buckwalter, estimating Amazing Racing Messengers’ crashes at at least one a week, mostly minor. We try to get them to wear helmets.
Compare it to skydiving, suggests Mossey, remembering a messenger who lost two front teeth in an accident. Take your eyes off the road for one second, you end up under a truck. Trouble is a messenger's shadow. Car doors open unexpectedly, pedestrians cross against the light. A chicken- playing bus driver intentionally broadsided Mossey.
Cook was ready for oversized deliveries and rushes, but not for the surprises. Some were humorous, like the day a pick-up turned out to be a stack of dining chairs. Some weren’t, like the time he was hit by a limousine that ran a light.
Casualties, which have doubled over the last five years, are a touchy subject. Sizable taxes and licensing fees are de rived from commercial delivery concerns, and the city does not like the down- side publicized. In 1986 there were 2629 injuries and seven fatalities in bike/ motor vehicle accidents in New York. Pedestrians in the wrong place at the wrong time numbered 617, one of whom checked out permanently. The city claims services are responsible for insuring their messengers; services claim the messengers are responsible for themselves.
Tired of dodging two-wheeled projectiles, irate citizens and businesses lobbied for city-wide bike control several years back. City Council members and even the mayor jumped in, although he would jump into a vat of boiling Afrosheen if there were press in it. Steady streams of condemning legal documents flowed between lobbyists and City Hall. Guess who was hired to deliver them.
The upshot was a toothless commercial regulation passed in 1984, Local Law 47. It requires company uniforms on messengers and identification plates on their equipment, so they can be fingered in the event of mishaps. Compliance is lax. Messengers are otherwise left to police themselves. One named Juda authored and distributes a handout entitled Safe Cyclists Code (sic). In a sincere but left-handed attempt at self-government, the Code dispenses jewels of advice such as Don't run red lights or ride against traffic without giving every one else the right of way."
Are couriers above the law? Let's just say they are in a grey area of enforcement. This fact contributes substantially to their fearlessness, or foolhardiness, depending on your vantage point.
One fellow sure to take the long view was standing on Wall Street, lost in thoughts of blind trusts and inside trading. By all accounts he was minding his own business when one of Mercury’s own zoomed out of nowhere. Pedal and knee connected in a mighty crunch. David Stockman, former bad-boy Budget Director of the Reagan Administration, went straight to the hospital. Do not pass Go, do not collect $200.
Legends die hard, especially the ones about hero workers. Andy Warhol said that in this, the Electronic Age, everyone will be a celebrity for 15 minutes. It’s been a long trip from anthropological footnote to media darling, but for better or worse the bicycle messenger’s quarter- hour has at last arrived.
Sydney Shuster rides a bike, lifts weights and battles computers in New York City. She was hit by a bike messenger once: he is expected to recover.
If you have comments or suggestions, email me at messvilleto@yahoo.com