Bike couriers from around the world are coming to Torontofor 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 inbetween. 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 dollarsa 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 blastingthrough traffic at forty clicks, and the drops keep coming. Red Nic's beenraking today. So has Budd. And Cat Steven. But not you. Little Joe musthave had fifteen drops. But you're cleared off. You're cooling out. Stationary.Static. Inert. Stopped. Beside your Brodie Sovereign with Dura Ace componentsand Rock Shox on the front forks, grabbing a chili from the Standby. Thenit'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 easilydiscouraged. 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 disintegratedand he lost his front wheel. General unhappiness. He took most of the impacton his left hip and knee.
Red Nic was in D.C. to race, but also to promote the World Bike MessengerChampionship he's organizing for Toronto this August. It was importantfor him to stay on the road. To stay in view. To talk the talk. So, whileother couriers relaxed on the grass at Dupont Circle, Red Nic spent theafternoon fixing his bike for the evening race. Major revision. Made itjust in time.
There's no starting line. No ready, set go. The way a courier race worksis like this. Couriers mill around, flake out, drink beer, maybe smokesome 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 thecircle. He couldn't believe it. " Chinese Embassy. 2300 Connecticut.Go, go, go."
Riders split like atoms. Seventy bikes squeezed by cars and acceleratedinto the dark. Thirty seconds and the circle is as deserted as the FirstCan 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 didokay. Little Joe finished fifth and Tall Dave one spot behind. Anita wasthe third woman in.
Red Nic would have been up there. Twenty-eight years old. The son ofa U of T professor of Russian literature. Lean. Taut as a brake cable.Seven years on his wheels delivering packages in Toronto. Can move. Butcouriers have to make decisions on the fly: a crack in the traffic opensup, a split second freezes between a red light one way and a green theother, an untried shortcut suddenly reveals itself as a possibility. It'sa kind of improvisation, a riff of speed and motion and direction thatyou put together through the chaos of traffic and pedestrians. You go byinstinct, the way you ka-likalikalik through your gear changes withoutthinking. 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 ofthose bursts of intuition you rock through. One of those magic holes thebest couriers take and end up at their drop way before anybody could reasonablyexpect them to be there. Red Nic saw a local courier peel off from thepack. Check this, he thought. He had maybe two seconds, to make up hismind. On a downgrade, spinning out. Knows where going, Red Nic figured.So he followed. And ended up on I-395. General unhappiness. Not a goodmove.
YOU'RE SOUTH ON Bay, then east of Wellington. Into the parking garageat BCE Place and down to the mail room.
The dungeon is one of the best courier depots in the city. All the companieshave their own pickup boxes here: Leader, Sun-wheel, Critical Path, Secured,UML. You leave the courier number and a copy of the waybill. The placeis amazingly efficient. Other in-house mail rooms are less reliable. DMSat First Can has a bad rep. Couriers call DMS the PMS.
The package is oversize. You tuck part into your bag, part snug againstyour 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 ina car on his cellphone. You try inside, then go out, passing him as fastas you can. He’s riding the lane divider and paying nobody on the roadany attention. Couriers have a bad rep for craziness, but you've neverseen a courier do anything half as weird as the stuff drivers pull everyday. Reversing at fifty miles per hour down Bay Street. In rush hour. Inthe 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, upBay, you blast into the curb lane, ride on you speed for a beat or twothen ram down, harder, cutting into the middle to move by the cars on theturn The cars are big and stupid but dangerous, like sharks. They'll eatyou, given half a chance. But right now, they're all backed up at Queenand Bay, like cows. You slip between them, pumping through and put a hundredyards between you and the bumpers. You have the road to yourself, and yourbike is humming soft, sweet beneath you.
SO RED NIC figured why not. He figured why not get a thousand couriersin, Toronto, in August, for the bike messenger world championships. Hefigured spectators would crowd the course--the closed-off streets of theKing and Dufferin warehouse district--and watch couriers get their bikesover obstacles, find checkpoints and deliver the most packages in the leastamount 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'tbooked, the road-closure permits hadn't been sent to the city, and RedNic 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 wasgetting 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 downhis Mountain Co-op bike jacket. The guy had the nerve to get mad at Bruce--whograbbed the suit's Motorola flip and smashed it on the floor: "Nomore calls for you today, asshole." Then ran.
In the Jet Fuel, Red Nic wore a dark sweatshirt. His jeans were cutoff 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 werejiggling. He was entertaining doubts about the World Bike Messenger Championship.He'd never organized anything this big before. "I've been a courierfor so long, I don't know what the real world consists of." His eyeswere roaming, as if looking for the opening doors of parked cars. "It'shappening bigger than I could have imagined. I hope it levels off. I don'tfeel very well organized at this point."
YOU PICK UP your sameday at triple-seven. That's 777 Bay, the Maclean-Hunterbuilding. Then you're back up, sprinting up Bay. You're hot now. You unzipyour red Pearl Izumi shell. Another light up ahead. You're pumping. You'rethinking, Stay green, stay green. It goes yellow, and you slam down a fewmore pushes. You're thinking you can just make it. Just squeeze through.Maybe. It turns red. Maybe not. The thought passes through your head inabout half a revolution. Probably not, and you hit the brakes.
You circle a car, weave behind a cab and lean against a pole. Feet stillsnapped into your SPDS. You re waiting, glancing at the light, at the cabbeside you, at the sewer grate up ahead that'll box you in if you don'tget around it before the cars.
Still red. No blinker on the taxi. Probably going straight, but younever know for sure with cabs. Red. He's looking straight ahead. Red. Hiswheels aren't turned. Looks good. Red. He's starting to inch forward. Hehas a passenger, which means he wants to beat you off the line. When theyhave a fare, they drive too fast, and when they don't, they troll the streetssix 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 goesgreen.
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 rattleand frustration, accelerates by. Lungful of fumes. Very nice. You can seeby the way the traffic's jamming ahead that you're going to go into someweaves. You rough out your course, knowing that it will change with inspirationand opportunity. You serpentine the lanes. Lean in. Lean out. You makeeye contact with drivers before you cut in front of them. They're not pleasedto see you. But you don't care. You don't want them to like you. You justwant to make sure they know you're there. A car clips your back tire. Awobble. You pedal through it. You find the line of your speed again. Youstay on. You keep going. You don't even bother to look back.
THE HOLE RED NIC thought he saw looked like this. Toronto messengerswere the largest North American contingent at the 1993 Berlin championshipsand again last summer in London. In London, they built the racetrack, andin Berlin, they helped set up the campground. In Toronto, they have theirown places--the Jet Fuel, and the Standby on Temperance at Yonge--and theirown magazine--Hideous WhiteNoise--published with appropriate semi-regularityby Red Nic's friend, Derek Chadbourne. There were, Red Nic knew, potentialsponsors--companies such as HMV or Gatorade or Oakley sunglasses that wouldn'tmind being associated with what couriers are: hip, young, fast, reckless,free. So when the International Federation of Cycle Messenger Couriersdecided 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 DonMills when he was seventeen to attend a downtown alternative school. Startedriding three years later. Like most messengers, he hadn't planned on itbeing 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 Lycralong Johns, talking Campagnolo, Dura Ace. And then, there it was. Out ofthe corner of his eye. He was at the right clip, in the right gear. Andhe caught sight of the possibility. So he thought, why not? I'll bringthe 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. Realfast. There's not a courier in the city who hasn't been slammed. Down thewrong hole. At the wrong time. Like Derek Chadbourne, Red Nic's partnerin An.IL8 Productions, the organization, so to speak, dedicated to bringingthe 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 thelast occasion. "My bike went flying about forty feet and I went ontothe 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 likede ride handled. He was courting sponsors--Norco, Specialized, Kryptonite.He was talking to the city about street closures. He was getting faxesfrom Scandinavia, from Holland, from Germany, from England. He was moving.He was racing. All this before the first yellow. The first yellow. Thefirst 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 sayto hang out, which is not what Red Nic said when he talked to the stadiumauthorities. He's smart. He talks the talk. But six months after Red Nics initial inquiry to the stadium's co-ordinator, he was still waiting tohear back. Waiting. Red Nic is not big on waiting. He gets touchy. "Notcultural enough," was the vibe he was getting. Which was like, huh?
Then there was the question of insurance. This was "a real bighurdle." 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 flutterin the gut. The first squeeze on the brakes. It was looking like the street-closurepermits would depend on insurance, which was bad news. Which was generalunhappiness. Which was maybe major revision. Bike messengers possess acertain self-awareness. You get that way when you and your life squeezedbetween fast-moving, heavy-steel projectiles. No one wants to insure abunch of bike couriers, " said Red Nic. "Would you?"
YOU TUCK IN behind a truck and draft for a block. His right signal goeson, and you pull left and accelerate along the yellow line through thelight. Southbound drivers look frightened and pull farther into their lane.Eye contact. Eye contact. Eye contact. You're flashing by them, one ata time, leaving them all still and stuck and zoned-out on air-conditioningand CFRB.
Your adrenaline's starting. Like ka-thudathud of the bass on the BeastieBoys "Sabotage," like Green Day's guitar winding out, like thesmooth progression of your chain through your Nuovo Record or your Campiesor 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 youfeel. How fast and tight and synched. Look at them, will you. Eye contact.Eye contact. Their gazes dead. Their faces blank. Their guts under theirsteering 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 Davenportand 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. Allthose 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 aboutit, pal. And you're past the Jeep, picking up speed, winding out, burningthrough. And you know what? You never felt so good. Ever.
RED NIC was at the Standby Cafe. Bikes were gliding in and out, likeaircraft at Pearson. Specializeds. Rocky Mountains. Silent Sports. Cannondales.They were stacked five abreast, locked to city bike posts or leaning againstthe rickety white patio fence. A circle of couriers were playing HackySack. 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 stadiumwas maybe. So were the street closures.
So were the sponsors. He hadn't seen a penny from any of them. It wasclear that they liked the idea of bike couriers but were a little worriedabout the reality. The courier look was cool. The image was sellable. Butthey weren’t sure about actual couriers. The death-defying risks and theweed and the beer were stretching it. From a corporate point of view. SoRed Nic was left to contemplate control. Because the fact was, he was movingway too fast to brake now. Sometimes you just have to clamp down and rideout the hill, keeping the bumps under you. One thousand couriers were notgoing to not come to Toronto in August just because the permits weren'tin 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 notessential 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 youglide 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 goingin, which loses time. So the run's not perfect. Never is. Then the shoeclicks 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 passesare very cool. You cut in front of a car to the curb lane, but almost immediatelyyou're back out, passing two Sunday cyclists. Then back into the curb wheresomebody's double-parked, and you have to bunny-hop the sidewalk. Cuttingbetween 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 wetand plastic. Glance back. Car edging in the way cars inexplicably do, andyou 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. Legsa little rubbery, and you're inside for the drop. And with the water fromyour water bottle still wet on your chest and your breathing still fastand your body hot and your head still racing the perfect run, you're alreadytired of waiting. You're already thinking, now what?
BACK AT THE Jet Fuel, Red Nic is in a groove. Things are falling intoplace. It feels like the way the drops came in before the fax machine ande-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 thejuice 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. Itblew him away. Actual money. Three days' pay for a courier. Soon they'llbe raking. Cash from sponsors: Kryptonite, Smart Drink and the Upper CanadaBrewery. Parking permits are in order. He has tracking devices for therace. He can use the parking area around Lamport as a staging point, whichis 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 courierblowing 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. Adrenalinepumping. 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 feelsalive the way he does when he's really steaming, when he winds out on adowngrade, when he makes a drop and somebody looks up from a receptiondesk, all Calvin Klein perfume and nice hair and for some reason actuallysees him. Actually sees him. Smiles and says, "Wow, you were fast."And it feels very cool. Like a very smooth gear change. Because the WorldBike Messenger Championship is going to happen. Ka-lik. In Toronto. Ka-lik.In August. And because hundreds of couriers from out of town will showup. And then people will see. That's what Red Nic has been working towardfor 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.
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