I was a Bike Messenger and lived to tell about it (Barely)

by Jerry Useem
Fortune, August 14,2000

First off, let's get one thing straight: I am not a "jackass."

That's what the woman mouthed at me, as best I could tell, through the window of her maroon SUV as my bicycle swerved in front of her on New York City's 34th Street. But hey, lady, I got a delivery to make for Urbanfetch, the Internet service that hustles food, videos, and sundries to any door in Manhattan in under an hour, free. You gotta problem with that?
This so-called "last mile" of e-commerce is its ugliest, full of surly doormen, potholes, and crazed taxis. Yet services like Urbanfetch are convinced it can be a profitable one, resuscitating a profession that other high-tech devices had nearly killed off: the bicycle courier. The question was, Could I spend an afternoon working as one without it becoming my last mile?

My escort in this challenge was an Urbanfetch courier named Vickie Huffman, a wiry 35-year-old with 15 years of messenger experience and a large tattoo on her left calf. Vickie holds several state cycling titles and has even won a courier championship. For someone accustomed to working on commission, Urbanfetch has been a dream gig: It offers stock options, a 401(k), and a steady salary to its 200 couriers in New York and London.

We met in front of Urbanfetch's main warehouse, on the West Side of Manhattan, which the company keeps shrouded with all the secrecy of the Bat Cave. From the quick peek I was allowed while changing in the locker room, it looked a lot like, well, a warehouse with lots of things that get stuffed in bags. Messengers aren't supposed to know what's inside these sealed delivery bags--lest the customer be too embarrassed to order antifungal cream or a Britney Spears CD--but the large rectangle jutting out of the top of mine was unmistakably Scrabble. Apparently someone was suffering from an intense Scrabble jones that just had to be sated in an hour or less.

Before leaving, Huffman read aloud the SEVEN COMMANDMENTS OF CUSTOMER SERVICE from a laminated card. DON'T ACCEPT TIPS. DON'T ASK TO USE A CUSTOMER'S TELEPHONE. DON'T FORGET TO SAY "THANK YOU."

I would have added an eighth: DON'T DIE. One snowy day, Huffman's handlebar caught on the fender of a truck; it dragged her half a block before the driver heard her screams. Experiences like this have sharpened Huffman's instincts. "I try to see and hear things the moment before they happen," she said. "I see the last puff of the cigarette before it comes out the window. I hear the click on the door before it actually opens. I expect that anything can go wrong at any time." Huffman offered one last piece of advice as we saddled up: "Don't use the bicycle lane. Doors fly open."

And with that, we were off. Within seconds, we hit traffic that formed a long, jagged chasm of car doors and mirrors--impossibly narrow, it seemed to me, for a bicycle to navigate safely. Huffman took it full throttle. As I hurtled in behind her, I heard a small yelp emerge involuntarily from my throat. Not only was the chasm barely wider than my handlebars, but it could close without warning like something out of an Indiana Jones movie.

"It's exciting, huh?" Huffman said when I pulled up, wheezing, at the red light.

Green light. A Mercedes passed so close that it seemed to groom the hair on my right calf. I pedaled furiously to get in front of a bus that was turning left, then veered temporarily into the lane of oncoming traffic. I was grateful when we turned right onto an avenue, whose six lanes of unidirectional traffic seemed luxurious by contrast.

Somewhere past Madison Square Garden, Huffman got so far ahead of me that I lost sight of her totally. I didn't know what to do, other than to barrel through every red light I could. When I saw her again, she looked like a ball in a pinball machine, careening off cars with her hand and making a loud whistle she has honed to sound like a siren. She noted that in the old days of straight commission, such a safe, leisurely work pace wasn't possible. "Years ago, we never stopped at lights," she yelled over her shoulder. "You really had to have purpose."

We hit our first stop, a New York University dormitory, in 15 minutes. "Can't we peek?" I asked after we'd chained our bikes to a signpost and were waiting for a student named Joe to pick up his sealed package. Huffman shot me a sidelong glance that suggested no. Joe arrived in the lobby wearing an undershirt and swimming trunks, one pant leg red and the other blue. "We're from Urbanfetch," I offered lamely as he signed for his package. And like that, it was back into the pinball machine.

A good courier can make as many as five drops per hour. CEO Ross Stevens says the average order is $40 to $50, because of popular high-end items like Palms. Yet the last mile is still a long way from being a green mile. Urbanfetch won't divulge its costs, but rival Kozmo.com spends $1.50 for every dollar's worth of goods it delivers, according to filings for its recently scuttled IPO; include marketing and overhead costs, and that figure balloons to $8.56. Still, Stevens claims that his New York operation will be profitable by the end of next year.

When our appointed rounds were completed, we checked in at Urbanfetch's corporate headquarters, where a hushed professional decorum reigned. As I stepped in--sweaty, covered with street, and affecting the sort of loose-limbed gait normally reserved for Ben Affleck--I experienced what must be the infantryman's exalted sense of self-drama as he returns to a headquarters full of higher-ranking officers, safely ensconced behind their desks. "Paper pushers, all of you!" I wanted to yell. After the thrilling trauma of near-death experiences, the poignancy of being called a "jackass," what could possibly compare for drama? Stock options? "Clickthrough"? I think not.

Back outside, I bumped into a courier wearing the enemy orange colors of Kozmo.com. "Urbanfetch rules!" I chanted, arms raised. He looked at me blankly, but I know what he was thinking. You talkin' to me, jackass?