I saw my first bike messenger up close in 1988 when I was
visiting New York City with my family.
We were riding an elevator in that great metropolis and he got on at the
same time we did. I couldn’t take my
eyes off his toned and tan skin, shiny with sweat. He may have had tattoos or crazy hair, I don’t
recall the details, but something branded him as “other,” even more so than the
slight odor wafting from his body. I
stared at his functional, hardy clothing, and his bag which held his package
and his book for customers to sign. As a
jaded teenager, I did my best not to gape at everything in the city, but I’m
pretty sure I stared at him the entire time we shared that elevator.
Bike messengers were everywhere on that trip. Fax machines had started to catch on, but the
city still needed a ton of people to get something from here to there. I knew that people didn’t like them because
they didn’t follow traffic rules and took every opportunity for a shortcut,
angering pedestrians and drivers alike, but I loved them for their athleticism,
the feral look they had about them, and the vague sense of anarchy that
followed them around.
When I moved to Portland, I worked downtown where my path
crossed with many of the bike messengers.
It was the early 2000s by then, and between the dominance of the fax
machine and the convenience of electronic messaging, I’m sure the population
was greatly reduced, but they were still there.
I took walks on my lunch breaks, descending from the twentieth floor of
the Wells Fargo Tower, eager for fresh air.
As I walked I took in the sights and kept track of the changes in my
environment, which meant cataloging the bike messengers.
There was a woman bike messenger I was always happy to come
across. She was lean and wiry, with
thick pants and wool sweaters to keep the rain from her. She kept her brown hair cut short in a bob
and her black-framed glasses and cap reminded me of a friend from college. She rode well, but I loved passing her while
she was resting. Sometimes I would come
across her chatting with other bike messengers, but one day I caught her leaning
against the wall of a high-rise building, her bike next to her, her feet
propped up on a planter. She had her face to the sun, eyes closed, drinking in
the good weather. At that moment, she
looked like a picture of freedom.
My job at the time had a bike messenger come to pick up our
deposits. He had black curly hair and
wore shorts in every kind of weather.
All the riding had pared his frame down to a gristly muscle, the kind
you see on cowboys who have spent their life on the range. He wore a typical bike messenger’s cap, not a
helmet and he was all business. I was
the receptionist so I saw him every day and no matter how hard I tried, I could
never engage him in conversation beyond, “hello” (in response to my greeting)
or “fine” (in response to how are you/the weather/the day?). Because I was bored at work, trying to get
him to talk became a bit of a project.
Flirting didn’t work, or general good vibes or questions aside from the
standard greetings. I wondered if he had a speech impediment or a general
dislike for me, or if he was just socially awkward. The plot thickened one day when my coworker
said something about Audrey Hepburn to me while he was picking up his parcel.
“Oh, are you talking about Roman Holiday?” he asked her. They chatted briefly about the film and he
went about his business, leaving me with my mouth agape and adding “Audrey
Hepburn fan?” to my mental list I was compiling about him.
I like bike messengers because they are a part of that class
of hard working blue collar workers that businesses are always trying to
eliminate. I also probably romanticize
them. Their job is hard, and it’s
dependent on them staying in good health.
I know it doesn’t pay much and I have a good idea that most of them
don’t have health coverage. But I love
to watch them, moving through the city, getting things to where they should go,
in all kinds of weather.
When I worked at the construction company, we had many messengers each day. But, in Boise, I think there were so few bike messengers that everyone did deliveries by car. Of course! I was the delivery gal for my company in fact. No grilled traffic law breaking wildness for me. I just drove a company car and took specs/project designs/blueprints/change orders/proposals too and fro or picked up plans that had been approved etc.
ReplyDeleteI did end up dating one of the gentlemen who came by with deliveries from Idaho Blue Print and Supply. We talked a lot via phone through work, he would deliver to us, and me to the shop. He did not ride a bike, but I was quite enamored with his Greek good looks. Ah youth!
I feel so nervous all the time for bike messengers! I'm always afraid they're going to get really hurt. It's a job I could never do, and definitely one that I admire.
ReplyDelete