Intrepid two-wheel couriers brave downtown's wild kingdom of snarling drivers and corporate jungles all in a day's safari.
Vancouver Sun by Katherine Monk 1987
In the wild kingdom of the downtown core, there are certain species that reign supreme from invisible dens, and there are others who are misunderstood, hated and baited for roadkill at the first opportunity.
Alas, the two-wheeled creature called the bicycle courier falls into the latter category.
I wanted to know more, so I went on a downtown safari and lived among these buzzing info pollinators for a day. I learned their language, experienced their ways and put myself through their rites of passage
I carry the lessons of that day with me still so join me now (won't you?) as we go underground and explore the core from the otherside up, where suits are seldom seen, elevators are an office, and meals must cost less than $3.
It was 8 am on a bright and cheery morning when I pulled up outside the ATM Express headquarters at 200 West Seventh Ave. on my belled bicycle to meet my guide for the day, a tall soft-spoken chap named Zach. Wheatley.
Zach was impressed I arrived on time. (I didn't mention that I pulled my bike from the trunk of my roommate's car not three blocks away, and was already breathless from the pedal.)
Inside the pulsing nerve centre, Zach showed me the assorted dispatch areas: the -tidy truck desk, the shiny motorcycle desk and the heavily decorated bike courier corner, complete with Wall of Shame" where items of shameless idiocy were pinned up for perusal.
Zach picked up a radio and we were on our way once I managed to free my bike from the stop sign.
I make a note in my journal to watch Zach's locking technique: Keep the U-bar on the handle bars, hold the crossbar in your hand. (In the 102 times I tried that day I was lucky if I finished before Zach returned from the drop-off.)
Once mobile, the first challenge would be the Cambie Bridge, where the feared steel predators flash their grilles and honk with hunger. Zach crosses four lanes of traffic without a growl. I search for safe passage, but the wild kingdom has no bike lanes I must make myself vulnerable, I succeed one wobbly lane at a time, a chorus of honks greeting each move.
The adrenaline surges. The safari has started in earnest.
We arrive in Yaletown for the first pickups. Zach says this is not regular territory for bike couriers they try to keep to the central core, where the buildings are higher and prized pickups are plentiful.
The tastiest of pickups, and most preferred by couriers, is "hot," The hotter the pack age, the more it costs, an the more couriers who work on a percentage cut pocket. Hot packages are called "The Juice."
As the day progresses, Zach is given an assortment of deliveries to handle, some "au jus," and some simple "econo" no matter, they're all bacon.
After the first five or six stops inside the gleaming towers of the core, the day becomes a blur of elevator buttons and lobbies, secretaries and mailrooms.
"You'll notice that you hardly see men at all during the day," says Zach. "Women really run the downtown." And it's true. As we criss-crossed the core that day, I saw only female, pale-faced office dwellers.
I make a note in my journal: As a whole, both the males and females of the species tend to move slow and wear stressed expressions.
With the exception of office dwellers who can't speak and write their initials at the same time, Zach likes everyone he meets. In fact his last relationship crossed the courier/office dweller line: she was a receptionist in one of these tall, glassy boxes.
I'm watching the males who are now pouring into the street, flooding the pavement in grey flannel. It's lunchtime the hour when this reclusive gender leaves the shelter of its domain.
Zach and I scout the area and decide to head up to the 99-cents-a-slice pizza place off Robson, Zach makes sure all his meals cost under three bucks, otherwise his catch, which ranges from $60 to $100 a day (gross), would dwindle too quickly. The pizza is fine fare, and makes a nice bookend to the $1.25 breakfast burrito we started with this morning.
I make a note in my journal: The indigenous diet is poor.
Zach says he is a musician when he’s not on his bike. "That’s pretty standard. There are two types of people who last in this job: people who really love to ride their bike, and people in a band.
I make a note in my journal: l have yet to see any couriers in their 40s.
After lunch, I realize I'm well into the rhythm of this job, which lets you sit under the sun and ride a two-wheeled steed all day long. "It’s not so great when it's raining or during the winter," Zach points out. "Packages get wet people complain.
But that's nothing compared to the biggest nightmare: opening your bag and looking for a package that isn't there. Zach is not so worried about that any more, it's a novice's problem.
With a year of experience, he fears only one thing: the awesome power of the idiot-driven automobile. Zach had a run-in with one last year. He was thrown on to the hood and almost run over - on purpose.
Most couriers have similar stories.
"I can't think of anyone I know who hasn't been hit," Zach says.
It's the way of the wild kingdom I discovered in a head-on challenge with a bus. I was prey it a predator.
But it didn't take long to realize the only vehicles that didn't try to plaster my spandex pants over the panels of parked cars were other couriers.
I make a note in my journal: Community keeps the courier species alive ,but I wonder why the car is still the vehicle of choice in the congested core.
The day nearing an end, I go back over the breathtaking scenes I had the luxury to witness: the beautiful waterfall cascading down the granite face of the Clearly Canadian offices; the intricate handiwork of the Marine Building's mezzanine; the resident art collections visible through the smoked glass of many waiting areas.
By this time, I'm simply exhausted. Zach and I head down to the Hongkong Bank building, where other couriers gather on the sunny stairs at day’s end to watch the wildlife walk by. The skittish office-dwellers skedaddle past. leering at the tabooed bodies, mirrored glasses and long hair of the couriers next to me. Now that I'm tolerated as one of them, I'm no longer noticed.
From there, we all head down to the Cambie Hotel for a round of the finest ale and best company the city can afford.
As the couriers park their bikes outside, a fat man begins to gesticulate, wildly. "You can't park here, I'll call the cops.
He's ignored until a police cruiser stops momentarily. When the car is gone, the man carries out a chainsaw, which he threatens to use on the locks, We can see him growing scarlet.
One of the couriers, Jake, learns of my mission. "People seem to get interested in bike couriers as a hip Gen X kind of story make a Levi's -ad out of it or something...
"But I want to tell you that I've been a courier in Toronto for years and this town isn't a real courier town at all. It's way too small, the drivers don't know how to share the road..."
I nod timidly as the man outside revs his chainsaw.
I make a note in my journal: It's a wild, wild, kingdom indeed.
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