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Courier culture
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Bikers live in a strange world of waiting,
speeding and delivering
By Ian Dille
American-Statesman, August 12, 2006
Up above, in the glittering, frosty towers, lawyers, bankers and
high-tech executives battle for dominance, prestige and the fattest
paychecks.
Down on the streets, the rat race plays out at a different speed. Here,
Austin's bike messengers are the competitors, and time is their rival.
Sweat and danger are their constant companions; traffic lights, cars
and pedestrians are their most frequent obstacles.
The bike messengers' service, ferrying documents from point A to point
B, remains essential to the flow of commerce, although less so since
faxes, then e-mails allowed communicants to send clean, clear messages
without the aid of a bicycle.
Loathed by the police, tolerated by the business types and revered in
their own subculture, these couriers provide the free-spirited link in
an otherwise rigid chain.
To write about what they do, you need to keep up. I formerly raced road
bikes professionally - first with the U.S. Under-23 National Team in
Europe, then with the Kodak Gallery/Sierra Nevada Brewery Team - so I
figured I could hang.
But speed as a courier is less about fitness and more about calculated
risks. So I also asked them to take it easy on me.
The afternoon guy
I meet John Trujillo at the Little City coffee house on Congress
Avenue, the couriers' unofficial hangout. It's 2 p.m. on the last day
of June, and it's hot. Trujillo, who works for Magic Couriers, is the
second longest-tenured bike messenger in Austin at three years.
We sit casually and chat for a few minutes when, suddenly, Trujillo's
radio crackles to life - time to get to work.
The radio the courier wears on the strap of his bag is his lifeline to
a dispatch center. The calls tell him where to pick up a package, where
to drop it off and how quickly he needs to do this.
The faster the package must be delivered and the farther it must go,
the more money the courier makes. An ASAP delivery must be picked up
within seven minutes of the dispatch and pays about eight bucks. A
package that can wait for say, four hours, pays half as much.
Our first run is for a law firm just across the street. At the corner
of Congress Avenue and Ninth Street, Trujillo pulls his lock out of a
holster fashioned to his bag and secures his bike within seconds. He
grabs the delivery, and we hop on the elevator.
Trujillo's appearance, set against the law firm's large, marbled office
and ninth-floor view of the Capitol, clashes. He's wearing tightly
fitted, vintage polyester jeans - cut off mid-thigh. They allow him get
on and get off his bike easily and ride comfortably. On his feet are
cycling shoes with a cleats recessed into each sole. They're the most
efficient for riding and don't scuff the immaculate office hardwoods.
On his head, he sports a European-style cycling cap.
It's mostly for looks but also keeps the sun out of his eyes. After a
few minutes in the radiating heat, Trujillo's gray T-shirt is soaked
with sweat.
"You just get used to your back being wet all day long," Trujillo says,
"It's inevitable."
The package is headed to the Public Utility Commission, just north of
the Capitol. Normally, Trujillo would sit on a delivery like this for a
while, waiting for more calls headed in the same direction, but because
he's ready to get moving, we roll up Congress Avenue and loop around
the Capitol. I take a moment to enjoy the beauty of the manicured lawn,
tall trees and limestone architecture on the Capitol grounds; it must
be nice riding your bike through here every day.
Trujillo agrees. "The only reason I'm doing this is because it's cool
to get paid to ride your bike all day," he says. For Trujillo, much of
the mystique around being a bike messenger is gone; he considers
himself a working stiff.
He admits what he'd really like to be is a professional racer, but he
knows as a 24-year-old and only a mid-category amateur, that's a lofty
goal. So was becoming a courier: The job is extremely hard to get.
"Look in the phone book for courier services," Trujillo says. "You'll
see about 40 different businesses; only about four of those use bike
messengers." In total, there are about 12 bike couriers in Austin, a
far cry from the hundreds who populate cities such as New York, San
Francisco and London, where Trujillo first saw messengers in action.
"The first time I saw a bike messenger, I was really drawn to the idea,
but I had no idea you could be one in Austin," he says.
On our next run we're headed to the federal courthouse, where we have
to pass our bags through a security machine before entering. Once
inside the office, Trujillo greets the clerk jovially, "Hi, Annette,
back up front, eh?"
He knows the names of almost every clerk and secretary he delivers to
or picks up from. "A big part of this job is making friends," he says.
"You know the saying, 'Don't shoot the messenger?' That's totally
untrue. I'm the first one to get blamed if something gets messed up."
This time, Trujillo is covering for someone else; the last page of the
filing has a signature but no date. He calls the client, who asks him
to fill in the date. On our way out, another courier pulls up and locks
his bike. I expect Trujillo to nod or say "hi" as he's done with the
other couriers we see, but he blatantly ignores this one. "You know how
I told you I know all the other couriers," Trujillo says. "Well, I
lied, I don't know that guy. If someone's new, you're not sure if
they're going to make it, so you pretty much ignore them. After an
arbitrary amount of time, they'll be accepted."
At one point, as we make a right onto Lavaca Street, a confused-looking
gentleman is driving the wrong way on the road, straight toward us. I
veer quickly to the curb, shaken but safe. "The more time you're out
here, the higher your risk for getting hurt," Trujillo says,
underlining the point that it's not a matter of if, but when. "I'm an
independent contractor and I don't have health insurance. I haven't had
a serious accident yet, but that could change at any second."
As 5 p.m. approaches, the orders increase and the traffic gets heavier.
It seems illogical, but Trujillo says it's easier to work when there is
more traffic. He says when cars are immobile, they're more predictable
and easier to navigate. If someone gets upset because he ran a light,
they won't be able to chase him down. And the more traffic there is
downtown, the more the bike messengers are needed.
Really though, Trujillo doesn't enjoy putting his life on the line,
running lights and dodging traffic. "If I'm not in a hurry, I stop at
stoplights, I don't take risks," he says. "But when things get busy,
it's all about managing time. When an elevator gets crowded or a
secretary is taking too long, in the back of my mind all I'm thinking
is I'm going to have to take more risks to get my packages delivered on
time."
Public safety officials have other ideas.
"Bicyclists, no matter if they're commuters or couriers, are to abide
by the same traffic laws as motor vehicles," says Laura Albrecht,
spokeswoman for the Austin Police Department. "This is for their own
safety as well as the safety of others."
Trujillo regards a cyclist's decision to break traffic laws as a
person-to-person issue. He would never advise someone to run lights or
stop signs, but he doesn't judge those who do.
At the end of the day, Trujillo and I join an informal gathering of
messengers at Little City for a post-work beer, something I've been
looking forward to. Here, they hash out the day's adventures and make
plans for pizza at Home Slice. To me, it's been a long day in the
saddle; for them, it was just another day on the job.
The morning guy
A few days later, I join Patrick Newell, who one copy clerk tells me is
the "King of Austin couriers," to see what a morning shift is like.
Newell, a bike messenger for almost five years, speaks fondly of the
good old days when the scene was smaller and the business was better.
"The amount of work down here has really slowed down," he tells me
nostalgically. "A great day used to be $300; $200 days were regular.
Now, for most of the guys, $150 is really good."
Newell says there's a set amount of money to go around downtown. It's
the main reason the messengers are wary of newcomers. "When someone new
gets hired, you know that's money coming out of your pocket or your
buddies' pockets," he says.
According to Newell, the main factor inhibiting the amount of work is
the proliferation of electronic documents. Essentially, bike messengers
as we know them are a dying breed. In the filing room of the Public
Utility Commission, Newell points to the stacks of paper piled high in
every corner of the office. "The amount of paper that comes through
here is unbelievable," he says. "It's not hard to understand why
they're moving to e-filing."
Still, busy days do come, and they're what keeps Newell working this
job. "It's this big puzzle that you have to figure out mentally as well
as physically. I have all these points in my head of deliveries I need
to make and I have to figure out the fastest and most efficient way to
do it. I take into account hills I want to avoid, streets that are less
busy than others, I even think about which roads are smoother than
others (he points to a large seam in the road as we ride down Fifth
Street)."
"Every day is like a different race," Newell says. "When I first
started this job I thought it would be boring, just walking in and out
of buildings all day, but everyday varies enough to keep it exciting."
We stop by the Blast Express office, Newell's employer, and I see the
other side of the job. The dispatcher, Carlos Mendoza, sits in front of
two large, flat-screen monitors. When an order comes in, he simply
drags it from one screen to the number of a courier on the other. As
soon as he lets go of the icon, the order information is texted to
Newell's radio. At Blast, bike messengers have met the 21st century.
Heading back downtown on Sixth Street, Newell spots a police car and
for the first time, we don't roll through a stoplight. Newell is
extremely wary of the law; he's received 16 moving violations on his
bike. Newell makes sure each ticket is marked clearly as a bicycle
violation so it won't go on his driving record, then he takes the
ticket to court, where he's able to haggle the price down.
But still, it hurts him to give up hard-earned dough, so we obey all
the traffic laws until the police car turns.
The main reason Newell is rolling lights is because his bike is a fixed
gear; it has no brakes. Unlike most bikes, fixed gears don't have a
freewheel, making the pedals and rear wheel completely synchronized. If
Newell pedals backward, the bike rolls backward. To stop Newell puts
reverse pressure on the pedals, or lifts the rear wheel, it lock his
legs and throws the bike into a skid.
"The fixed gear is more fun and it keeps me on my toes," Newell tells
me. "When I have gears or a free wheel I tend to get bored and
careless. The only times I've been hit is when I wasn't on my fixed
gear bike."
Most of the messengers in Austin ride fixed gears, and their speed and
skill on them is a measure of pride. However, when they do inevitably
crash, they're still thinking about getting their packages delivered.
"It's not good for any of us when someone crashes," Newell says. "When
packages don't make their deadlines, we all lose business." If he sees
a courier go down, Newell says he'll stop and deliver their packages
for them, even if they're from another company. He expects they'll do
the same for him.
Both Newell and Trujillo tell me no courier in Austin has ever been
killed on the job, although a co-worker of Newell's did collide with a
car, hit his head and receive some serious brain trauma. Many couriers
don't wear helmets.
It's the sort of brotherhood that builds strong bonds. But it also
breeds competitiveness. In their battle to be the hardest-working bike
messenger, they also want to know who's the fastest. Alley cat races
are how they find out. The races, which are designed to mimic work
conditions, involve a start line, a list of stops around town and a
finish. The messengers can take any route they want. The goal is to hit
all the stops and finish first.
At an alley cat Newell organized for early June, he finished slightly
behind Trujillo. But Trujillo's manifest (the list that is signed at
each checkpoint) didn't include a stop at West 10th Street, essentially
disqualifying him. Trujillo argued he didn't see the checkpoint, and,
in fact, the person responsible for watching the stop had mistakenly
gone to East 10th Street. Newell offered to call it a tie. But the
messengers wanted a winner, and to decide one, proposed a skid
competition. After some badgering, Newell and Trujillo agreed.
The two Austin messengers - the two with the most experience downtown -
lined up their bikes. They took off simultaneously, sprinting down
Sixth Street. At the agreed upon point they locked their rear wheels.
Trujillo, who had built up too much speed, couldn't hold his skid and
broke out of it after 20 yards. Newell, skidding past him, slid almost
the entire block. Finally, he came to a stop in front of Casino el
Camino, where the messengers hung out for burgers and beer afterward.
Newell is almost done as a bike messenger. He's applying for a job as a
Central Texas firefighter. For now though - and the other messengers
will surely give him grief about this - he's still the king.
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