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In time Pete and I joined the ranks of the true professional, experienced couriers. We could hear any major customer’s name and know exactly where to go and where we would park. We got to know the clerk offices at the courts, the Securities and Exchange Commission and all the other Government oversight agencies, where official filings had to be stamped to be accepted as being received that day.

We learned which entrance of the various House and Senate buildings we needed to park at to ensure the shortest walk to a particular office. We enjoyed almost unfettered access to these buildings and even to the US Capitol, having only to have our bags checked before being allowed in to find the appropriate office.

A little aside—in these days of terror threats and tightened security, it is hard to imagine the incredible freedom we had to go here and there around town: we were allowed in Senate and House office buildings on Capitol Hill, and pretty much anywhere in the Capitol Building (except the mysterious third floor). We used the same underground passages between Congressional buildings as the Senators and Representatives themselves. We roamed the hallways of the Departments: Justice, Commerce, Transportation, and were even for a time allowed inside the State Department. During my tenure things started changing; concrete barricades were gradually introduced to areas of Capitol Hill, metal detectors were added, and eventually in many places messengers had to wait for someone in the building to come to them to receive or hand off packages and letters.

Eventually we got to know how many copies of House and Senate bills we were allowed to request while in the Capitol building, and how to wheedle a couple extra copies from some other messenger who was not going to reach their limit. We knew which stairwells were safe to share a quick toke in, which lobbies were best to wait in on cold, rainy days, and how to strap a huge box on our motorcycles so we would not have to turn down a delivery. At the start we had to learn the layout of the city, which really was about as well-laid out as they come (thanks Pierre L’Enfant!).

The city is arranged in four quadrants, each with a grid of streets with a few diagonal ones, and the building numbering followed an easy pattern of North-South numbered streets and East-West letter streets. Numbers on streets beginning with a letter were based off the last numbered street it crossed, so 1800 M street would be at 18th street and M. The same held true for the numbered streets only the number was based off the numeric position of the last letter street it crossed (although there is no “J” Street) so 1200 18th Street would be just above M street. And an address could be one of four quadrants: NW, NE, SW or SE but the same system held. It was easy to learn and made sense for the most part, freeing us to concentrate on learning the pattern of one way streets, and those that became one way only in rush hours.

Good riders knew which alley was a shortcut and which was a dead end. Where to pull up onto the sidewalk at a particular corner because the destination building was going to be awkward to reach and a little running would be faster than going around the block. We learned to navigate the expressway leading to Capitol Hill and its underground sections, which exit to take for a particular building and how it could be used to go from Capitol Hill to somewhere downtown in mere minutes, avoiding the tourists and other crowds along Pennsylvania, Constitution and Independence Avenues. We knew when our delivery route gave us the luxury of riding on Rock Creek Parkway and which exits from that led to which neighborhoods. One of my favorite discoveries was a shortcut connecting Massachusetts Avenue with Georgetown called “Lover’s Lane” which was really just a walking path, where the thrill of navigating this on a motorcycle was heightened by the possibility of meeting a Park Police officer on a horse or scooter.

Knowing a city in this intimate way gave us an immense sense of freedom, confidence and safety; we felt that the city was in a way our city. I felt sometimes that we were the players and everyone else, the office and Government workers, tourists and other drivers were merely pieces in our personal game. I am reminded of a Star Trek episode where the Captain moved among motionless people because he was so sped up. That’s how I would feel, flitting in and out of offices or sharing an elevator with workers who were resigned to an afternoon in a fluorescent office while I would be on my back out to the freedom of the street. We had no real boss, just our radios and a job to do and we mostly loved every minute of it. This comfort with the city extended past working hours to the nights where we might congregate at a bar with other riders. We thought nothing of bicycling anywhere downtown at night; we even knew the secret fire escapes that took us to rooftops where we would eat fried chicken and drink beer while watching the nighttime activity taking place below on the streets we had traveled throughout the day.

And we would all converge at base at the end of the work day for beers and stories, sharing a camaraderie that only those who do a hard and somewhat dangerous job together know. We were a part of everything that happened in the city, part of the making of the news—yet because of our job we were somehow apart from it, aloof even. We bragged about wild driving moves we made, filings we begged the clerk to accept slightly after hours, times we evaded the police and of course how many runs we had made in the day. And our dispatchers told stories of the impossible demands of the customers and how they had managed to get the craziest rush delivery taken care of. And made sure we knew that they knew everything we did all day down to the minute – especially when we took longer to get something done than the time they knew we could get it done in. No-one wanted to be caught “ghosting” this way and we tried our best to make a reasonable excuse for times when we had to do a personal errand like dash into the telephone office to pay a bill.

While I did not think much of it at the time, I now realize that there was little racism or bigotry among messengers, at least that I was aware of. We judged each other by the quality of our riding and how well we did the job so any reservations towards others was mostly reserved for slackers, short-time college students or others who we considered less professional than us. I did notice attitudes towards women riders, however. This likely stemmed in part from the fact that there were simply so few of them.

Apart from the woman we met our first day driving to our tryouts I recall only one other female motorcycle messenger, and even woman bicyclists were somewhat rare. I was fortunate enough to ride with a few of them once I moved to a bicycle (and married one of them as I will tell in another story). There was certainly sexism; I think female riders were sometimes regarded as either sex objects or lesbians. One thing I know: they were as tough as anyone, and maybe more so due to having to defend themselves from the attitudes and opinions I mention.

One of our riders was known for sporting a decapitated Barbie onto her handlebars. One day June found herself needing to cross Connecticut Avenue to make a delivery but there was a Presidential motorcade stuck in traffic, blocking the entire street for a couple of blocks. She just rolled up to go between the nasty black SUVS, and when confronted by a gun-wielding agent said “Either shoot me or eat me”, and crossed anyway before the shocked agent could react.

Warning! Side-trip into motorcycle nerddom…

At this point I had purchased Nick’s old Yamaha SR500 when he upgraded to a new bike, and actually Pete had also bought one of his own, having quickly realized his Triumph was one of the absolute worst cycles for the job. So what did other riders ride? Well, the slender Yamaha SR500 was deservedly popular, as were other Yamaha, Honda, Suzuki and Kawasaki bikes of the era: Yamaha XS 400, 650 and 750s, the pedestrian Honda CB360s, and the four-cylinder 500 and 750 Super Sports—the big brothers to my bike, Suzuki GS550s GS750s, Kawasaki Z1s and the newer GPZs. One of the riders at Speed Service rode a completely unremarkable Honda CL350 and was one of the most solid, steady riders I knew.

Some riders opted for BMWs—even Pete bought one for his main bike after tiring of replacing the Yamaha’s chain and sprockets regularly: the BMWs were all shaft-driven. There were little 125cc bikes and others 900cc and larger, and even a Harley every now and again—but almost no scooters like you see delivering food everywhere in DC and New York City today. Then there were the more unusual water-cooled bikes: 500cc Honda Silverwings and the newer Ascot, and the Sabre and Virago 750s. And there were the loud and dirty two-strokes as well: the wickedly fast Yamaha RD350 and the crazy Suzuki GT750 “Water Buffalo”: a water cooled three cylinder two-stroke that was in all likelihood the quickest bike out there.

That first winter I found out there was still far more to learn about how to continue to do the job—and even be comfortable—as the temperature dropped and rainy days meant hours of chilly misery. We made sure our tires had plenty of tread and our brake and clutch cables were well-lubricated, as they could get sticky with the cold. One accessory I consider to be a requirement was a pair of “Hippo Hands”, large mitts that fit over the handlebars so a rider could slip their hands inside and wear lightweight gloves instead of bulky ones. Our clothing had to be carefully managed as well. Some riders opted for “bear suits” – one-piece insulated coveralls that were effective but cumbersome—and the opposite of high fashion. I used a layered system, with wool bicycle tights (this was before polypropylene fabrics) under jeans and sometimes ski pants, and a thin wind- and waterproof jacket over a couple of wool sweaters.

We found out that when it rained hard all day you were simply going to get wet so the wool clothing was important to keep some warmth when the rainy days approached freezing and even below because even the best rain suits were eventually going to leak. One wonderful week though, I got to ride a fellow courier’s squat little Yamaha Exciter, which he had outfitted with a lap robe – like we saw on police motorcycles. That was a revelatory experience as my legs stayed warm and dry no matter what the weather. The robe even draped over the seat while I was away running into buildings, and kept it—and my butt—dry all day.

 

BretH, Looks Like We Made ItPost + Comments (24)