Bike Courier Day 1

March 19, 2007

I have made a huge mistake.

Those words encompassed my thoughts this morning; presently I disagree. I am amazed how a full day and three hours of crippled sleep can change a mind. I will try to make sense of today's tempest, but I am not sure I can.

I start the day at Washington Square Park in New York's lower east side with a dozen or more couriers, all of us waiting for the first call from dispatch (a 'tag,' I'm told). The scene is eclectic to any one of the thousands of drones scurrying amidst cubical farms but orthodox for the tribe. Some of the couriers are dragging on cigarettes, others suck down coffee. Still more are stuffing bagels plunged in cream cheese down their throats. A few are squatting on their top-tubes shooting the breeze. I can't help but feel a belonging here. I am one of the warriors of the financial district. I am that imprudent rider zipping past car doors and pedestrians (aka meat pylons). Couriers are kings on the fringes of society; scarred with tattoos and piercings, all garish and grudge, they swagger and speak in exaggerations.

My first tag comes in at 9:07. It's a pickup at 224 W 21^st. On my way, I get three more tags: 319 E 35^th; 754 W 24^th; 832 E 55^th. Oh, and I get drops for all the tags. I spend most of my time scrutinizing Google Maps on my iPhone and scribbling addresses in my manifest. At 1:30pm I'm done and told to “clean up.” Lunch time. I get 27 minutes before a tag grates from the radio. The afternoon is a rehashing of the morning's furor, but when I'm told to clean up at 5:13, I have realized only three drops. Dispatch told me seven drops is a good first day. Most greenwheels scarcely make five. I spun home and jumped in bed.

I awoke with arthritic joints and smarting muscles. I limped to the kitchen and devoured a pot of chili like a lion on a gazelle. I certainly had doubts about this new gig riding home. I traded a steady paycheck, benefits, and a parking spot with my name on it for a job and paycheck as unpredictable as the doors on a taxi. What did I expect find out here? Am I trying to prove something? To whom? I am seeing now that those thoughts are natural fallout from a crazy day from which I was still reeling.

The allure of a bicycle courier was not lost on me on my first day. I partook in the reckless abandonment the streets inspire and their stoical manifest quelled my preconceptions. I feel like I have suffered eight and a half weeks of basic training in eight and a half hours. And I get to do it all again tomorrow.