Bike couriers from around the world are coming to Toronto for the big race. Red Nic invited them. That was the easy part.
Toronto Life, August 1995
By Steve Brearton and David Macfarlane
BIKE COURIERS SAY you're either waiting or racing. There’s nothing in between. Waiting is zero. No calls from the dispatcher. No motion. No money.
But racing. Adrenaline rushing. Legs pumping. Smoking through the downtown. Gearing up. Ka-lik. Raking the calls. Sixty. Seventy. Maybe eighty dollars a day. The faster you're rocking, the faster the dispatcher comes through. It’s synched. Like a clean set of Campie gears. Ka-lik. You're blasting through traffic at forty clicks, and the drops keep coming. Red Nic's been raking today. So has Budd. And Cat Steven. But not you. Little Joe must have had fifteen drops. But you're cleared off. You're cooling out. Stationary. Static. Inert. Stopped. Beside your Brodie Sovereign with Dura Ace components and Rock Shox on the front forks, grabbing a chili from the Standby. Then it's squawk.
Ninety-eight, Bill.
Go ahead."
Pickup at the dungeon. Sameday. And a super-direct going to Soudan, south of Yonge and Eg. Sameday at triple-seven."
Ten-four."
And you're back. You're not waiting anymore. You're up. You're racing.
YOU HAVE TO hand it to Red Nic. That's Red Nic Thompson. He’s not easily discouraged. Like the way he flamed in D.C. last Easter. He was there, along with nine other Toronto couriers for the Outlaw Courier Bike Race.
He was cruising across an intersection when his forks disintegrated and he lost his front wheel. General unhappiness. He took most of the impact on his left hip and knee.
Red Nic was in D.C. to race, but also to promote the World Bike Messenger Championship he's organizing for Toronto this August. It was important for him to stay on the road. To stay in view. To talk the talk. So, while other couriers relaxed on the grass at Dupont Circle, Red Nic spent the afternoon fixing his bike for the evening race. Major revision. Made it just in time.
There's no starting line. No ready, set go. The way a courier race works is like this. Couriers mill around, flake out, drink beer, maybe smoke some weed. Then, all of a sudden, it's on. No warning. Just like a squawk. Which is what happened just after Red Nic wheeled into the crowd at the circle. He couldn't believe it. " Chinese Embassy. 2300 Connecticut. Go, go, go."
Riders split like atoms. Seventy bikes squeezed by cars and accelerated into the dark. Thirty seconds and the circle is as deserted as the First Can mail room on Labour Day.
Half an hour later, a D.C. courier claimed first prize: some clothes, some bike parts and a voucher for a free tattoo. The Toronto couriers did okay. Little Joe finished fifth and Tall Dave one spot behind. Anita was the third woman in.
Red Nic would have been up there. Twenty-eight years old. The son of a U of T professor of Russian literature. Lean. Taut as a brake cable. Seven years on his wheels delivering packages in Toronto. Can move. But couriers have to make decisions on the fly: a crack in the traffic opens up, a split second freezes between a red light one way and a green the other, an untried shortcut suddenly reveals itself as a possibility. It's a kind of improvisation, a riff of speed and motion and direction that you put together through the chaos of traffic and pedestrians. You go by instinct, the way you ka-likalikalik through your gear changes without thinking. You take the chances that come to you. Sometimes they work out. You're cool. You make the drop. Sometimes they don't. You're T-boned. Door-prized. Smoked. When you're doing forty, fifty clicks through heavy crosstown, you don't have a lot of time to weigh the odds.
In D.C., Red Nic thought he saw an opening. He thought he saw one of those bursts of intuition you rock through. One of those magic holes the best couriers take and end up at their drop way before anybody could reasonably expect them to be there. Red Nic saw a local courier peel off from the pack. Check this, he thought. He had maybe two seconds, to make up his mind. On a downgrade, spinning out. Knows where going, Red Nic figured. So he followed. And ended up on I-395. General unhappiness. Not a good move.
YOU'RE SOUTH ON Bay, then east of Wellington. Into the parking garage at BCE Place and down to the mail room.
The dungeon is one of the best courier depots in the city. All the companies have their own pickup boxes here: Leader, Sun-wheel, Critical Path, Secured, UML. You leave the courier number and a copy of the waybill. The place is amazingly efficient. Other in-house mail rooms are less reliable. DMS at First Can has a bad rep. Couriers call DMS the PMS.
The package is oversize. You tuck part into your bag, part snug against your back under the strap. Most courier bags will hold a two-four of beer. Which helps sometimes.
You're out of the dungeon and back up Bay. First thing, a deadbeat in a car on his cellphone. You try inside, then go out, passing him as fast as you can. He’s riding the lane divider and paying nobody on the road any attention. Couriers have a bad rep for craziness, but you've never seen a courier do anything half as weird as the stuff drivers pull every day. Reversing at fifty miles per hour down Bay Street. In rush hour. In the wrong lane. Reading. Shaving. Putting on mascara.
You have to be aggressive. You have to take your place on the road. If you're lamb out there, you're going to get smoked. Which is why, up Bay, you blast into the curb lane, ride on you speed for a beat or two then ram down, harder, cutting into the middle to move by the cars on the turn The cars are big and stupid but dangerous, like sharks. They'll eat you, given half a chance. But right now, they're all backed up at Queen and Bay, like cows. You slip between them, pumping through and put a hundred yards between you and the bumpers. You have the road to yourself, and your bike is humming soft, sweet beneath you.
SO RED NIC figured why not. He figured why not get a thousand couriers in, Toronto, in August, for the bike messenger world championships. He figured spectators would crowd the course--the closed-off streets of the King and Dufferin warehouse district--and watch couriers get their bikes over obstacles, find checkpoints and deliver the most packages in the least amount of time. Messengers would visit booths to swap parts and information, and to buy the hippest threads and bags. They'd strut around. They'd party. It would be pretty cool.
That was the plan. But six months before the race, the stadium wasn't booked, the road-closure permits hadn't been sent to the city, and Red Nic hadn't agreed on security or finalized how barricades would be erected. He hadn't dealt with liability insurance or sent application forms to competitors. He hadn't seen a penny from any of his sponsors.
So, in the Jet Fuel Coffee Shop on Parliament at Carlton, Red Nic was getting touchy. Bike couriers can get touchy. Door one, you'll see touchy. Like the day Bruce got caught behind one too many suits on cells in Beamers, and then got bumped by one in the Maclean-Hunter elevator. Coffee all down his Mountain Co-op bike jacket. The guy had the nerve to get mad at Bruce--who grabbed the suit's Motorola flip and smashed it on the floor: "No more calls for you today, asshole." Then ran.
In the Jet Fuel, Red Nic wore a dark sweatshirt. His jeans were cut off below the knees. Calf muscles like rock. A bike cap covered his messy, hair. He was getting anxious. This was like waiting. Not racing. Not motion. And motion is what Red Nic is all about. You could see it. His knees were jiggling. He was entertaining doubts about the World Bike Messenger Championship. He'd never organized anything this big before. "I've been a courier for so long, I don't know what the real world consists of." His eyes were roaming, as if looking for the opening doors of parked cars. "It's happening bigger than I could have imagined. I hope it levels off. I don't feel very well organized at this point."
YOU PICK UP your sameday at triple-seven. That's 777 Bay, the Maclean-Hunter building. Then you're back up, sprinting up Bay. You're hot now. You unzip your red Pearl Izumi shell. Another light up ahead. You're pumping. You're thinking, Stay green, stay green. It goes yellow, and you slam down a few more pushes. You're thinking you can just make it. Just squeeze through. Maybe. It turns red. Maybe not. The thought passes through your head in about half a revolution. Probably not, and you hit the brakes.
You circle a car, weave behind a cab and lean against a pole. Feet still snapped into your SPDS. You re waiting, glancing at the light, at the cab beside you, at the sewer grate up ahead that'll box you in if you don't get around it before the cars.
Still red. No blinker on the taxi. Probably going straight, but you never know for sure with cabs. Red. He's looking straight ahead. Red. His wheels aren't turned. Looks good. Red. He's starting to inch forward. He has a passenger, which means he wants to beat you off the line. When they have a fare, they drive too fast, and when they don't, they troll the streets six inches from the curb at half the speed limit.
Yellow. You check for cars running the light. It’s cool. Still yellow. You push off and pedal hard. You're halfway through when the light goes green.
You swivel your head and check what's behind. You've blown the cab away. You're past the grate, and you cut into the curb just as the cab, all rattle and frustration, accelerates by. Lungful of fumes. Very nice. You can see by the way the traffic's jamming ahead that you're going to go into some weaves. You rough out your course, knowing that it will change with inspiration and opportunity. You serpentine the lanes. Lean in. Lean out. You make eye contact with drivers before you cut in front of them. They're not pleased to see you. But you don't care. You don't want them to like you. You just want to make sure they know you're there. A car clips your back tire. A wobble. You pedal through it. You find the line of your speed again. You stay on. You keep going. You don't even bother to look back.
THE HOLE RED NIC thought he saw looked like this. Toronto messengers were the largest North American contingent at the 1993 Berlin championships and again last summer in London. In London, they built the racetrack, and in Berlin, they helped set up the campground. In Toronto, they have their own places--the Jet Fuel, and the Standby on Temperance at Yonge--and their own magazine--Hideous WhiteNoise--published with appropriate semi-regularity by Red Nic's friend, Derek Chadbourne. There were, Red Nic knew, potential sponsors--companies such as HMV or Gatorade or Oakley sunglasses that wouldn't mind being associated with what couriers are: hip, young, fast, reckless, free. So when the International Federation of Cycle Messenger Couriers decided it was time for a North American city to host the Championships, Red Nic saw an opening.
It was like he was just flashing through. He'd left his home in Don Mills when he was seventeen to attend a downtown alternative school. Started riding three years later. Like most messengers, he hadn't planned on it being permanent. A career. He was, so he said when asked "Just a courier." It was sort of a job, sort of a club, sort of a party. He just kept riding, making the drops, hanging out at the Standby in cutoff jeans over Lycra long Johns, talking Campagnolo, Dura Ace. And then, there it was. Out of the corner of his eye. He was at the right clip, in the right gear. And he caught sight of the possibility. So he thought, why not? I'll bring the championships to Toronto. I'll pull all this together. It's possible. And he leaned into the turn, cut across the flow and went down the hole.
The thing about holes is you never know. They can open right through. Smooth and empty and quick all the way. Or they can close down. Slam. Real fast. There's not a courier in the city who hasn't been slammed. Down the wrong hole. At the wrong time. Like Derek Chadbourne, Red Nic's partner in An.IL8 Productions, the organization, so to speak, dedicated to bringing the championships to Toronto. Derek’s been run down by an airport limo, doored by a cab and T- boned by a car. "I got smoked, he said of the last occasion. "My bike went flying about forty feet and I went onto the windshield. I landed on my back on top of all the packages I was carrying. I think that saved me from real damage."
Red Nic thought the hole looked very good. He liked the feel. He liked e ride handled. He was courting sponsors--Norco, Specialized, Kryptonite. He was talking to the city about street closures. He was getting faxes from Scandinavia, from Holland, from Germany, from England. He was moving. He was racing. All this before the first yellow. The first yellow. The first uh-oh.
It was Lamport Stadium. Red Nic wanted it for the start. For the centrepiece. For the focus. A place for the messengers to congregate--which is to say to hang out, which is not what Red Nic said when he talked to the stadium authorities. He's smart. He talks the talk. But six months after Red Nic s initial inquiry to the stadium's co-ordinator, he was still waiting to hear back. Waiting. Red Nic is not big on waiting. He gets touchy. "Not cultural enough," was the vibe he was getting. Which was like, huh?
Then there was the question of insurance. This was "a real big hurdle." A squeeze on a hole like a garbage truck blocking an alley. Red Nic saw reality coming up fast. And didn't like it. The first flutter in the gut. The first squeeze on the brakes. It was looking like the street-closure permits would depend on insurance, which was bad news. Which was general unhappiness. Which was maybe major revision. Bike messengers possess a certain self-awareness. You get that way when you and your life squeezed between fast-moving, heavy-steel projectiles. No one wants to insure a bunch of bike couriers, " said Red Nic. "Would you?"
YOU TUCK IN behind a truck and draft for a block. His right signal goes on, and you pull left and accelerate along the yellow line through the light. Southbound drivers look frightened and pull farther into their lane. Eye contact. Eye contact. Eye contact. You're flashing by them, one at a time, leaving them all still and stuck and zoned-out on air-conditioning and CFRB.
Your adrenaline's starting. Like ka-thudathud of the bass on the Beastie Boys "Sabotage," like Green Day's guitar winding out, like the smooth progression of your chain through your Nuovo Record or your Campies or your 105s. Ka-likalik. You pull back in and have the street to yourself. You're in a groove. Legs pumping. Smoking. Forty. Faster. Fifty clicks. Moving. Flying. Racing. And the thing that's so cool is how strong you feel. How fast and tight and synched. Look at them, will you. Eye contact. Eye contact. Their gazes dead. Their faces blank. Their guts under their steering wheels. Their farts hanging around them. Don't know this high. Never will.
You gear up. Tops. This is the place to be. You cut across Davenport and left onto Yonge. A curve so wide and smooth you'd think it was banked. A Jeep sits with its nose five feet into Yonge coming out of Canadian Tire. Drivers coming out of Canadian Tire are always momentarily confused. All those garden hoses and rakes and barbecues make them think they're in Gravenhurst. But this is core, downtown. Speed City. No favours. Don't even think about it, pal. And you're past the Jeep, picking up speed, winding out, burning through. And you know what? You never felt so good. Ever.
RED NIC was at the Standby Cafe. Bikes were gliding in and out, like aircraft at Pearson. Specializeds. Rocky Mountains. Silent Sports. Cannondales. They were stacked five abreast, locked to city bike posts or leaning against the rickety white patio fence. A circle of couriers were playing Hacky Sack. Others were standing in groups, smoking, drinking beer or juice. Waiting. Wearing baggy pants and cutoffs and ball caps and bike jackets. De Martini, Ortlieb and Rot Runner messenger bags flopped empty, and radios, clipped to straps, crackled. Couriers counted their pink and yellow slips, complained about dispatchers. "Forgot me for two hours up on Bloor." All as per usual. The Standby is the hub of the courier scene.
Red Nic was thinking about control. Things were still wobbly. The stadium was maybe. So were the street closures.
So were the sponsors. He hadn't seen a penny from any of them. It was clear that they liked the idea of bike couriers but were a little worried about the reality. The courier look was cool. The image was sellable. But they weren’t sure about actual couriers. The death-defying risks and the weed and the beer were stretching it. From a corporate point of view. So Red Nic was left to contemplate control. Because the fact was, he was moving way too fast to brake now. Sometimes you just have to clamp down and ride out the hill, keeping the bumps under you. One thousand couriers were not going to not come to Toronto in August just because the permits weren't in order or a stadium was unavailable or an insurance policy was not, surprise, surprise, a possibility. In fact, strictly from a courier point of view, street closures and safety regulations and insurance policies were not essential ingredients of a world championship. Maybe not even desirable, But Red Nic was learning. It was like a premonition before a fork goes. "I'm worried," he said, about the business side."
TRAFFIC SLOWS. You gear down and pop your right foot out of your SPD. You wait for two pedestrians, who are crawling. Until you glare. Then you glide past their heels, giving them an eighth, maybe a quarter of an inch, into the intersection and try to pop your shoe into your SPD. Trouble. The road along this stretch of Yonge is terrible. The shoe's not going in, which loses time. So the run's not perfect. Never is. Then the shoe clicks in. And you're off.
Past Clair. Downhill again, then a long climb. Your legs are burning. You focus on a Chevette and power past it on the hill. Uphill car passes are very cool. You cut in front of a car to the curb lane, but almost immediately you're back out, passing two Sunday cyclists. Then back into the curb where somebody's double-parked, and you have to bunny-hop the sidewalk. Cutting between a lady with a dog and a jogger and hop back down onto the road.
You reach down and have a pull from your water bottle. It tastes wet and plastic. Glance back. Car edging in the way cars inexplicably do, and you move in closer to the curb. Lose them on the turn to Soudan. Peel up, jump off. Slip your Kryptonite out of your PAC hip pouch. Lock up. Legs a little rubbery, and you're inside for the drop. And with the water from your water bottle still wet on your chest and your breathing still fast and your body hot and your head still racing the perfect run, you're already tired of waiting. You're already thinking, now what?
BACK AT THE Jet Fuel, Red Nic is in a groove. Things are falling into place. It feels like the way the drops came in before the fax machine and e-mail and the recession. These aren't samedays anymore. These are super-directs. Red Nic is riding as hard as he can, but he knows he'll have to find the juice somewhere to sprint to the end. Because things are happening.
He's worked out the beer tent. And he's set up accommodation for out-of-towners. And he just received his first $250 in application fees. From Denver. It blew him away. Actual money. Three days' pay for a courier. Soon they'll be raking. Cash from sponsors: Kryptonite, Smart Drink and the Upper Canada Brewery. Parking permits are in order. He has tracking devices for the race. He can use the parking area around Lamport as a staging point, which is fine. And the course is set.
Some things have a way to go. Like insurance. Like security and barricades. But Red Nic is flying. He's pumping. He nods with the confidence of a courier blowing a light. He says, "It's gonna happen."
It' s like a grunge fairy tale. Rad Nic blowing the hole. Body tense. Scared. But keeping off the brakes. And suddenly he's through. Adrenaline pumping. Nobody near him. No cars. No other bikes. This is it. Sweet. Clear. Greens and yellows all the way. Because it's going to happen, and he feels alive the way he does when he's really steaming, when he winds out on a downgrade, when he makes a drop and somebody looks up from a reception desk, all Calvin Klein perfume and nice hair and for some reason actually sees him. Actually sees him. Smiles and says, "Wow, you were fast." And it feels very cool. Like a very smooth gear change. Because the World Bike Messenger Championship is going to happen. Ka-lik. In Toronto. Ka-lik. In August. And because hundreds of couriers from out of town will show up. And then people will see. That's what Red Nic has been working toward for nine months. For people to actually see them. And it will be like, Wow, they really are fast. Because when you get a group of couriers together, they always end up racing. They just hate being still.
If you have comments or suggestions, email me at messvilleto@yahoo.com