Courier Dispatch

This is where I share what the life of a real track biker in NYC is like. Alleycats, traffic cops, $1 pizza and the best places to meet girls on bikes in NY

Friday, July 08, 2005

I couldn't say it better myself

One of my new friends from CMWC 2005 wrote this poem and sent it to me.
Her name is Liziie and she is from Dublin.
Don't the Irish have a powerful way with words?
Thanks for the poem, homegirl.


New york minute
feels like a month
So fast, so much, so overwhelming.
Accents, traffic
Everyone pimpin their bikes
Checking each other out
Houston st.
Style
Drinkin
Falling over dancing on podiums
like a bunch a chimpanzies
we thought we were great.
Smashing skulls Aussie nige style
Kicking onto 10 different bars.
Free beer Mike D whispers in my ear
I look down, 25 bourbon an cokes and thats only the first round...
White chaple burgers the size of dimes-i laugh so hard.
Blowing nose bubbles as i let it all go.
Central park, sheltering under a tree
smoking spliffs,
ridind 60 blocks through rush hour traffic
in the pissing's a rain-this city is dirty like that.
Losing my stuff as well as losing my mind
and the use of my liver.
Shane-i was rubber.
Talking to people
Falling asleep dancin
Playing whiskey rugby outside of Capones
Caps Off! I roar
as 6 lads tackle me to the floor,
Doin Snuff like geriatrics.
Next day-Art show-good show.
Warsaw-free bar
we're messengers for christ sake
we drink the place dry.
Professional boozers
Occasional losers (of things oh yeah..)
Gold sprints become bike porn
as the Ladies take the stage.
Riding miles over bridges locked
outta our brains.
Smashing faces winning races.
Jersey city-I can breath
Dinner for 30 in Raj Mahal
chilled there-felt real.
10 Shane complaining about the heat
Steve 'The Rock' rappin on the street
"Ireland-Fuck Yeah"
Working checkpoint Sydney into
trailor trash on sunday
Stealin bikes, acting the maggot
Slagging the riders
and then giving them booze
Team drunk and silly-me,flip and joe.
Shamrocks on bare breasts
the girls do the race
like Hansel and grettel
I'm able to trace
them by green boa feathers
that have escaped.
Holiday monday at the track
Trees, beers an smoking
Grass under my feet.
Hanging around with my pals-laughing.
Awards given, our boys took a few-Nice.
Riding back to Red Hook from Queens
crazy and amazin at once.
Fireworks goin off on the streets
People cheering and waving like we are the Tour De France.
Up at the BBQ the Irish are on form
Huddled together
Singing and shouting and skipping the food Q.
Out on the streets checking the bunny hop
Saying goodbye and finding our way home.
Riding through jewish town
Looking for bike box with 3 hours to go
Train, Plane-Sally me and Smokin Joe.
Eggs-Beer-Sleep for a year
Till Sydney 06'
Maybe see ye all there.





Friday, May 06, 2005

Critical Mass: Cyclist Suspected in British Bombing

I went to critical mass last Friday and it was strange. You had the feeling the whole time that 100 scooter cops were going to come out of no where and start gassing and beating you. It never happened though. The police had Union Square on complete lockdown and maybe only a couple hundred people showed up anyway. The cops had a loud speaker booming warnings about how “You will be arrested; your bike confiscated and turned over to a foreign government.” They had detectives giving tickets for riding on the side walk. I saw a deputy commissioner and two precinct commanders along with about 600 other different types of cops, all out to basically break the law. A judge keeps telling the city to leave us alone and the cops keep ignoring him. The worst part is that all the people that pissed them off last August at the RNC protests left the city ten months ago. They had a helicopter over the park from 6PM on.

Now, I have road in critical mass in a dozen different cities, including New York, Montreal, Warsaw, Sydney, Melbourne, London, and even Gainesville Florida. The shit really is catching on. In Warsaw we rode two thousand deep at the Warsaw Car Killer Championships and they only sent two police cars. In Sydney a squad of bike cops escorted us through downtown rush hour. Only a year ago we had a good rapport with the dozen scooter cops that would block traffic with us at every light and even threaten irate drivers with arrest. They did that every month for five years and critical mass was so fun and safe that you could bring your kids. Now the cops are stealing bikes and locking honest citizens up for the weekend.

So that is where we stand. The city keeps wasting police recourses that we all know could be better used. There are people abducting and killing little kids in the ghetto right now that they could be looking for, or felony warrants they could be executing and don’t forget about the fool who threw a few hand grenades at the British embassy last night. Critical mass fucks up traffic for an hour or two while they still have at least seven city blocks sealed around the embassy looking for grenade shrapnel. A few news sources reported a man on a bicycle was seen riding north on 3rd avenue shortly after the grenades exploded. If this man was one of the bombers he not only broke numerous anti-bombing laws, but he was also riding the wrong way down 3rd and would have gotten at least half a dozen tickets if a NYPD bike cop would have caught him.

“Still We Ride” was what the sticker on the army medic bag of the girl riding in front of me. I asked if she was a medic and she said no, but the atmosphere of the ride made me feel like we would need one. There were about two hundred of us who started at an alternate undisclosed location to the police trap that was so carefully set up in Union Square Park. One computer nerd dude had set his laptop up to some amplified speakers that were part of his laptop bag and was blasting KRS-One and the Sex Pistols up to two blocks away. We found out that another critical mass had been busted on the west side around ninth and twenty seventh. I don’t know how many alternate starts there were but there were at least four. The police got one and seemed to be happy enough to leave the rest of us alone. They got 35 or so people. The best part of the ride was taking the Park Avenue flyover around Grand Central Station and the former PAN-AM building and hearing the screams of 200 crazy people in the black darkness of the tunnel. After all the bullshit and the police and scare tactics and police state big brother bullshit, I had a good time and that means that we won.

And to all you haters...

Bite my shiny metal ass

Wednesday, May 04, 2005

Famous Couriers

The New York Shitty Council just approved a 10% rent increase. No one passed a 10% pay raise. I hate the fucking city council. I like the fact that people are responding to the blog. As a supporter of the first amendment I will not censor. The ones from people who hate me are my favorite. Here is a list of famous people who worked as couriers.

-Nelson Vales, winner of the Olympic 200m sprint silver medal

-Ju-ju and Psycho Les from the World Famous Beatnuts

-Jennifer Aniston

-Carlos Leon, Madonna’s’ first “baby fah-vah”

-Frank McCourt the author of “Angela’s Ashes”

-Kevin Bacon

-PFC Rebecca “Lambchop” O’Reiley USMC

http://www.dccourier.com/lambchop/marine.htm

-Andrew Jackson was a military courier as a boy during the Revolutionary War.


From Lambchop

“This is my bicycle. There are many like it but this one is mine. My bicycle is my best friend. I must master it as I must master my life. Without me my bicycle is useless. Without my bicycle, I am useless. I must ride my bicycle straight, I must ride it before he rides me. I will. My bicycle and myself know that what counts in this war is not the noise of our chain, the smoke of our tires nor the miles that we make. We know that it is the skills that count. We have skills. I will keep my bicycle clean and ready even as I am clean and ready. I will ever guard it against the ravages of weather and damage. Before god I swear this creed, that my bicycle and I are the defenders of our country, the masters of our enemy, the masters of our fate. So be it until victory is America's and there is no enemy, but peace.”



Sunday, April 17, 2005

Day 3 Trexlertown

Trexlertown, PA is home to the Leighigh County Velodrome where I found myself yesterday. The annual semi-annual “T-Town Swap Meet” is not only a great place for deals on bikes, parts and gear, but it is also a nice to run into messenger friends from all over the eastern United States. I rolled up from the city with the Nipponese crew. Takuya had a friend who raced Keirin and came from Japan every six months to sell exotic steel frames and Keirin racing equipment. He wore a samurai shirt and was named Matsura. Even though we arrived early the pickings were slim. I was able to scout out a few ten dollar tires, Conti Grand Prix 3000 in “exciting new colors” like black. I wasted cash on a Giro full face helmet and Campy record track pedals, the real old ones that are like two hundred bucks on EBAY. I got them from the same lady that had Dure-Ace track chain rings and cogs and was pricing them to go. A few used saddles, a dozen inner tubes (3/$5) and some gloves filled my goodie box. I ran around and saw old friends from DC, Virginia, Boston, tons of Philly heads with their R.E.Load bags and heaps of rookies and even a couple fakengers. There were not many great deals on bikes, there were a few real beautiful Colnogos, but my woman would kill me if I dropped twelve hundred bucks on ANOTHER bike. A local Philly shop was selling a cool tandem beach cruiser for only a bill but I resisted the temptation just to have a fun bike I would ride for a week. I was getting sunburned and found Commie Ted and his ZIP CAR full of friends had room for me and I left around 1 PM. On the way home we called a guy in a Hummer a “fucking loser” for supporting the oil war and playing soldier while real ones are dying for gas.

I can’t wait for October

Friday, April 15, 2005

Day 2- New Bag, Fast Mexicans

I have been riding incognito all week with a cool crumpler bag that is basically a cool backpack. The importance of this is that it has two straps over your shoulders instead of the standard spine twisting mono-strap that every mess bag is designed for. I have mashed up both my shoulders on numerous occasions and having the weight evenly distributed provides relief. A cool side effect is that many security guards have been mistaking me for a tenant at low security buildings and letting me walk right in. At any kind of film shoot, sound studio or music company people let me walk around like I belong there.

This bizarre phenomenon is defiantly a matter for study. It could be I look like some kind of video extra or punk/death metal/reggae band member or underground hip-hop MC with a bizarre gimmick from the early 90’s that never existed. It could also be that so many people have begun to emulate messenger style that I fit in with hip art crowd who work at these places. I hope it’s just the bag or something.

Around rush hour I was racing down 31st street with a Mexican pizza delivery guy and he was fast man, and his chain was squeaking for oil but he was plowing through the huge potholes and gashes in the road that would have destroyed my bikes much lighter wheels. At one point near Broadway I was behind him for a few feet in tight traffic and an inconsiderate driver pulled out of a garage directly in front of us. He hit his brakes and I heard the scratch of metal on metal and I realized that he too was riding with no brakes and my respect for him grew as he maneuvered around the car with the same grace and skill that I did.

I still dropped him at Sixth Avenue where the road surface dramatically improved. Booking down sixth a guy on a shiny new green track bike was crawling behind a car that was stopping to double park. Traffic was tight and I was flying straight at the stopping car and trying to race the cab next to me into the gap that remained. The space was too small for his cab to get through because a big truck was on the other side of the gap I needed to get into. So I started screaming “BUCK SHOT, BUCK, BUCK YES FIRE” and the startled cab slammed its brakes and I moved on. What a day.

Thursday, April 14, 2005

The Track Bike

Everybody and their grandmother are riding a “Track Bike” these days. It used to mean something when someone said “I ride Fixed.”. Now the previously exclusive domain of bike messengers has become as much a part of your average hipsters’ wardrobe as a mesh back trucker cap or gas station attendant shirt. Can this boom in fixed popularity keep going, or is it just another passing trend like Africa medallions, Malcolm X hats and recycling? Is the track bike now the equivalent of the thick rimed glasses that revolting hipsters use to distinguish themselves from regular people? Can a trend in both athletic equipment and lets face it, fashion, be sustained when it’s embraced by nerds?

All the first bicycles were what would now be called a track bike, or a fixed. Snappy cycling accessories like brakes and derailleurs had yet to be invented when the Tour De France was first run on the dirt roads of rural France. The first vehicle to circumnavigate Australia by land was a track bike. Even with the invention of hand brakes, all bikes were still fixed gear. Once Tullio Campagnolo invented the derailleur, however, the heyday of fixed gear bikes was over. The fixed gear was relegated to the velodrome (French-Bike Track) and that is how they became to be known as the ‘track bikes’. Velodromes were big business back at the turn of the century; people used to pack into Madison Square Garden to see Major Taylor, a black man from Indianapolis, race in one of the U.S.’s first integrated sports. After the Second World War the public developed a greater interest in car racing and most bike tracks around the country closed up.

Today there are only 16 operating velodromes in the land of the free, most used only by a handful of people. The Kissena Velodrome out in Flushing, Queens is one such place. The newly resurfaced bike track is a valuable resource that most new Yorkers rarely take advantage of. Go out any afternoon in the summertime and you can see what it is all about. Some of the pros can be a little snobby, but the people out there are full of cycling wisdom. There is a race for everybody from pros to novices and kids. If you have a track bike and have not even raced on a velodrome, you might be fakin’ it...

When the messenger boom started in the 80’s the streets were filled with all kinds of different bikes. Messengers, like New Yorkers, come from all over the world and in other countries that are not as developed, people still ride fixed everyday. An unnamed messenger from Trinidad and Tobago said that it was a Trini messengers who were the first to ride track bikes for work. The small island nation has two concrete and four grass velodromes and the sport has always been big there, so there may be reason to believe him. I also heard the same story from a Jamaican, a Venezuelan and a Mexican. The only problem is that there is a picture of a twelve year old Irish kid in a Western Union uniform on a track bike circa 1920 in the book Bike Cult by Dave Perry.

In 1984 the track bike gained a special place in the hearts of all NYC bike messengers when one of their own took a silver medal in the 200meter sprint at the Los Angeles Olympics. It was Nelson Vails who showed the world what one dedicated messenger and his bicycle could do. This caused a whole wave of messenger on track bikers to hit the streets during the ‘gravy days’ of the 80’s trying to emulate the new hometown hero. The impact was so great, that when the timeless messenger classic film “Quicksilver” debuted in 1986, Kevin Bacon runs out and buys a track bike when he drops out of Wall Street to find himself as a bike messenger. When the cycle messenger world championship started twelve years ago, couriers from all around the globe were impressed enough by the New York track riders and their machines that many of them got into fixed. Today there are famous crews of track bikers like the Warsaw Car Killers from Poland in any city of the world worth visiting.

The fixed has been a contentious issue in the messenger community since the early days. Many couriers share the view of regular folks that riding a bike with no hand brakes in New York City traffic is insane, stupid or both. New York messenger king Felipe believes in safety-”I can go faster with brakes.”

Many veteran riders have seen too many young bucks go down and not get up from an accident on a track bike.

“If you want to ride fixed in traffic then you need mad skillz my yut”, said Eddie Williams, author of “New York Messenger Life”, a collection of courier photos from a twenty year career as a messenger and a photographer. Eddie is also a Campagnolo fanatic and has a choice collection of the coveted vintage pista hard ware. Many see the fixed as a badge of honor that sets them apart from other riders.

“Messengers are like soldiers in the war against traffic who know that they could die in combat. Messengers on Track are like Green Berets who want to jump out of a plane behind enemy lines.” says Horeshack. The lightness and mechanical simplicity of the track bike is what draws many couriers. “There are just less things that can break. The bike is cheaper because you don’t have to buy shifters, brakes or levers”

Back in 1999 a Track rider named Snake threw an Alleycat race called “Monster Track”. It was the first of it’s kind; an illegal street race through Manhattan with only one rule. –No Brakes allowed. It was an instant success and spawned similar ‘track bike only” races in cities all over the world. Monster Track 6 was on February 18th and over 200 competitors attended. These were the elite of street track bikers. They all have adopted the strict code. “No Brakes allowed” and ‘Brakes are for pussies,” were two overwhelming opinions. They would laugh at and insult you if you tried to register for the race with brakes. The Track Bike is now a fixture in the microcosm of messenger culture, and this trend is now completely taken into the macro

About three years ago, sometime after someone blew up the world trade center and dirty looking jeans came back into fashion, I started noticing them; hipster punks riding around on old road bikes with a fixed gear and (yuck) a brake or two. Most of them wore distasteful, mess bag like devices that are sold at the Gap and a shiny new kryptonite chain around their waists’. As one well respected courier put it, “I just want to knock one of them off their bike with an elbow to the face and say,”This isn’t for you, you little jerk-off’”. Most didn’t feel as strongly as he did, but many couriers have funny names for these characters like culture-vulture, poser, dick-jocker, tourist hipster scum and fakenger. They don’t have real track bikes, but converted road “wack bikes”. ”its fashion, not function”, says Alex, who opened Bicycle Doctor (133 Grand street,), a Brooklyn bike shop catering to just about everybody that sells a lot of track bikes. “In the last year I have sold more track bikes than in the four previous years combined”. Being in Williamsburg a huge percentage of these bikes must be being sold to poser, hipster douche bag fakenger scum.

The draw of popular culture to track bikes is obvious and sometimes disturbing. Messengers have been a staple of the advertising business for years now. The have us selling watches, sneakers, cold medicine, banks, 401k plans, and even fucking cars. Can you believe that? It’s like, “Buy our car and you can run over these guys.” The NYT Sunday magazine is running ads for a SUV that stole three of my friend’s names and put them in the ad without paying them. Bronx Johnny indeed. The manufacturers of the killers of more Americans than handguns and terrorism combined couldn’t pay three regular cats whose names they stole. Thanks for nothing Lincoln. SUVs and the people who drive them will be viewed by history as war criminals against humanity and the earth. There is a limited supply of oil on this planet and we should be conserving it. Instead, billions of gallons of federally subsidized petrochemical pollutants are wasted every year to power V8 engines driven by lone, bloated lazy drunks ten blocks to the liquor store. We have to fight wars over oil and then people put jingoistic patriotic magnets on the back of their trucks to feel better about themselves. That’s not keeping it real. Ride a bike to the liquor store. Fight Terrorism. A track bike is cheaper than the lease down payment on any SUV and you might live longer with some daily exercise in your life.

Oh yeah, track bikes, sorry, I like to rant.

The allure of these pure machines is not easy to avoid. A classic Atala frame with full Campagnolo Pista Record groupo, Brooks leather saddle, Alfredo Binda double toe straps and Cinelli stem, is a vision most people will never see with their own eyes, let alone ride. Such a machine was made for a champion of the days of old and is the goal of any true track rider to assemble. To accomplish such a task one needs to be resourceful and adept, skilled with tools and blessed with a delicate touch. You must be able to identify the worn markings of constantly changing logos on even the smallest nuts and bolts. A whole new vocabulary must be understood and a mind for geometry is a helpful tool. Otherwise you will swiftly fall victim to the hucksters that work at many bike shops and infest the black market. For example; how do you know if your Bianchi was made in Italy or Taiwan after the shop takes the sticker off? You bet your sweet ass it matters and you should know. Italian beats everything and costs the same as something made in a Chinese sweatshop. Informed consumers are much harder to rip off. A low end rear hub from China will “strip”(the threading on the hub that the lock ring and cog screw on to is sheared off by the force of your attempt to lock up and skid and the cogs attempt to stay screwed on) the first time you lock the rear wheel and become useless. Then you have to walk back to the shop like a rookie, complain, and probably not get your money back, sucker. Real bikers build up their bikes themselves.

A true Fixed Fanatics bike will show not only their wrench skills but their taste. Some go for retro styling, while others want only new high tech parts. Some distinguish their bikes with bright tires and toe straps that match the bikes paint job. That’s rookie shit. If you want to impress me have all the same parts from the same manufacturer from the same year. If Phil Wood hubs still impress you, you might be a rookie. Phil Wood hubs from 84’ would get my attention. Remember if you can just buy something at the store, its not that cool, anybody can get one.

It looks like the mass commercialization of the fixed has begun and it won’t turn off any true fixed fanatics away from their bikes. There will still be velodromes and Monster Tracks after all the hype dies down and college kids get back into rollerblading. If the hype can get big business to not only invest but share some of the bread, maybe Monster Track will be an x-game event in a few years. Knowing corporate America however, they will probably just beat the trend till it’s dead.

By the way, No one is impressed with road bikes with a fixed wheel jammed on the back. It might be a good idea for a beginner to slap together and see if they like riding fixed before they go out and spend a lot of money, but don’t expect anything but snickers from any true disciple. Even if you go to one of the little track bike boutiques that have been popping up and get a real bike, don’t try to race me over the bridge or in traffic, because you ain’t gonna beat me. You might even get yourself killed by an SUV.

Wednesday, April 13, 2005

Day one

Cold stale air and warm car farts all day long start to play tricks on your mind. I have been poisoning my mind with news reports from google and whatreallyhappened.com for the past two days. Around 5pm I was riding my bike around the herald square area and traffic was jacked, hoards of peds spilled off the intersection of 34th and 7th, near Penn station. I deftly maneuvered around the mess of cars, busses and peds and got moving west to 8th avenue when I noticed the buzz of helos. Above the buildings I saw no less than five choppers hovering around. "Insane " I said to myself and images of people dropping from gas attacks and Ebola like hemorrhagic fevers came to mind, followed by flesh eating zombies devouring anyone with the poor fortune to still be alive. I looked at everyone around me like they were already dead, like I was already dead, and none of us knew it.
These post traumatic stress related visions were pushed to the back of my head as a man darted in front of me at unusually high speed. This was not the only thing unusual about the man. He was short and in healthy shape, but was bald on the top of his head. The rest of his hair, that growing on the side and back, were pulled into a pony-tail that reached the middle of the mans' back. Oh, and he was wearing vinyl sweatpants. The man also was able to get out of my way once he saw me. I told him "Good Moves," and went about my merry way, comforted in the thought that New York is full of people who wear vinyl sweatpants and not terrorists. There was smoke in Penn Station, no zombie gas.