Cyclist, August, 1987
by Sydney Shuster
Legend has it that Nelson Vails, New York's world-renowned ex-bicyclemessenger, was snatched from hip-hop obscurity by cycling patron Fred Mengoni.Mengoni supposedly spotted him chasing racers in Central Park; profoundlyimpressed, he was moved to buy Vails a good racing bike. The rest - Olympicsilver medal, endorsements contracts, film role, nice house in exclusiveneighborhood - it's all history now. From ghetto to Gollywood on the expresstrack.
So enraptured is the buying public with romantic outlaws that Vails'story sold like ice water to bedouins. The natural follow-up was Hollywood'sfawning 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 scrawledKilroy 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, a33-year-old former racer. She looks like a fashion model, talks like acorporate executive and manages Amazing Racing Messengers like an air-trafficcontroller.
Most messengers work part-time, furnish their own equipment and geta commission. Buckwalter's are independent contractors who keep the standard50 percent of what each trip nets, which is about $10. Buckwalter may upthe ante when she opens her own company, Maui Messengers. She feels theydon't get compensated enough and loads them down with quarters out of herown pocket to make sure they call for pickups. For 35 to 40 miles of dailyriding, 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 turnoveris rapid - a messenger's career is as spasmodic as a cabbie's driving.
The typical courier operation is characterized by tire tracks on thefloor and random arrangements of chain grease, which is why Born to Runlooks out of place. Floating amid glowing oak floors and pristine whitewalls is the only decoration, a landing strip of a desk covered with phones."We just moved in," apologizes owner and former messenger, ShellyMossey, 33, who accommodates "anybody who can't FAX their packageacross 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 toughto beat. But while they may have transformed communications, New York's3000 - plus messengers haven't endeared themselves to the man on the street.
Despite racing skills and a competitive attitude, these are not middle-classbike racers. A lucrative job with limited educational requirements is likeflypaper to immigrants and the underprivileged, and the racer look is mostlyvigorous posturing by people with every reason to emulate athletes andno reason to take a driving test or learn vehicular law. Language comprehensionand social graces are not givens, either. The picture the public sees frequentlylooks like this:
A messenger zig-zags the wrong way down a one-way street and then peelssouth on Madison Avenue, which goes north. He hits a pedestrian, who liesunconscious in the intersection. As a crowd gathers, he takes off withoutso much as a wave don't want that pizza to be late.
Joey is famous for his delivery uniform and style, which includes ahockey helmet complete with goalie’s mask. He'll ride the wrong way upFifth Avenue, weaving in and out, laughs Mossey. At full speed. He’s totallycrazed!
A non-English-speaking messenger inadvertently drops off a package atthe wrong address. The client is desperate. The frantic dispatcher triesto reconstruct the messenger’s trip, demanding to know where he has comefrom. The reply: Cuba.
A messenger cuts off a bike commuter, hops a curb, and scatters a gaggleof terrified pedestrians. A shouting match ensues. The messenger reachesinto his pants as if to seize a weapon. Lycra doesn't lie, clearly indicatingthe limitations of his defense options. Bewildered but relieved victimsclose in.
It is wrong, however, to assume all messengers are guerillas. You'rejust as likely to find folks who can't abide suits, or need flexible hoursfor auditions or classes but refuse to work the lobster shift typesettingclassifieds. 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 thewaist up and a Grewal from the waist down. At 17 he’s more articulate andself-assured than your garden-variety teenager. Initially he was attractedby the magic, but it also looked like a way to combine training with asummer 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 ofthe week, he admits, you're sort of sick of bicycles.
Julia Ashcroft’s purple locks are souvenirs from her last job, writingfor a rock music publication in London. This American adventure junkieshifted to the New York bicycle messenger mode since the pay beat thatof a staff journalist and she loves riding. But the big lure was a specialkind of distinction. Ashcroft is among a small but growing contingent ofspunky women invading what used to be defined as male territory becauseof the risks.
It’s not an easy job, and it’s dangerous. It gets pretty wild for themout there, insists Buckwalter, estimating Amazing Racing Messengers’ crashesat at least one a week, mostly minor. We try to get them to wear helmets.
Compare it to skydiving, suggests Mossey, remembering a messenger wholost two front teeth in an accident. Take your eyes off the road for onesecond, you end up under a truck. Trouble is a messenger's shadow. Cardoors 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 thesurprises. Some were humorous, like the day a pick-up turned out to bea stack of dining chairs. Some weren’t, like the time he was hit by a limousinethat ran a light.
Casualties, which have doubled over the last five years, are a touchysubject. Sizable taxes and licensing fees are de rived from commercialdelivery concerns, and the city does not like the down- side publicized.In 1986 there were 2629 injuries and seven fatalities in bike/ motor vehicleaccidents in New York. Pedestrians in the wrong place at the wrong timenumbered 617, one of whom checked out permanently. The city claims servicesare responsible for insuring their messengers; services claim the messengersare responsible for themselves.
Tired of dodging two-wheeled projectiles, irate citizens and businesseslobbied for city-wide bike control several years back. City Council membersand even the mayor jumped in, although he would jump into a vat of boilingAfrosheen if there were press in it. Steady streams of condemning legaldocuments flowed between lobbyists and City Hall. Guess who was hired todeliver them.
The upshot was a toothless commercial regulation passed in 1984, LocalLaw 47. It requires company uniforms on messengers and identification plateson their equipment, so they can be fingered in the event of mishaps. Complianceis lax. Messengers are otherwise left to police themselves. One named Judaauthored and distributes a handout entitled Safe Cyclists Code (sic). Ina sincere but left-handed attempt at self-government, the Code dispensesjewels of advice such as Don't run red lights or ride against traffic withoutgiving every one else the right of way."
Are couriers above the law? Let's just say they are in a grey area ofenforcement. 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, lostin thoughts of blind trusts and inside trading. By all accounts he wasminding 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-boyBudget 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 Warholsaid that in this, the Electronic Age, everyone will be a celebrity for15 minutes. It’s been a long trip from anthropological footnote to mediadarling, but for better or worse the bicycle messenger’s quarter- hourhas at last arrived.
Sydney Shuster rides a bike, lifts weights and battles computersin New York City. She was hit by a bike messenger once: he is expectedto recover.
If you have comments or suggestions, email me at messvilleto@yahoo.com