Peek-a-boo, I’ve seen you. And you’ve seen me
as well.
No, really. I write this with justified confidence
after being a bicycle messenger in San Francisco since the summer of
— are you ready for this? — 1979. It is with a healthy sense of
individual identity and awareness of my selfhood that I admit to you
that, like the cable car driver with a bushy beard, suspenders and a
beret or the North Beach café regular with an archaic vest and
Sunday papers from both coasts in his clutches, I am a San Francisco
archetype. You’ve seen me all right. My hair is a bit too long and
my shorts are a bit too short; I ride a low-tech, basket-encumbered
one speed, often with a gnashed grin on my face as I stand on my
pedals for that extra bit of power.
I’ve seen you in your office, in elevators,
smoking outside your building, walking on your break, getting a
little sun and wind for lunch, waiting in line for food or caffeine,
and heading home relieved after a long day’s work. I’ve rung my
bell at you with any of a number of interpretations: Lookout! Hey,
get out of my way, please! Hi, nice to see you again! Or most
likely: Hi, you look like the lights are on and someone might be
home!… I wonder… well, maybe we’ll meet someday.
Perhaps we have met and become friends… we saw
each other at a bar or concert and recognized each other from
downtown, or I handed you a package downtown and announced that I
had seen you at our common, favorite hangout the night before. Maybe
we haven’t met and we still ascribe cartoon character features to
each other’s non-workaday lives. You think I return to a gutter
after work and sip cheap beer with others of my ilk till it’s time
to ride again; I’m convinced, as I see you clutching your cell
phone, that you return to a home full of off-white walls in order to
relive your workday in front of your computer screen. You wonder how
I can be fulfilled by something as seemingly meaningless as riding a
bike for a living; I suspect you actually think you lost a friend
when Seinfeld signed off the air.
We’re both wrong, of course. When I’m not
wallowing in the endorphin rush of hills, miles, and increasingly
challenging traffic, I read books, hone my skills in other
languages, and pursue an advanced degree in clinical psychology, in
order to make a living when pedaling is no longer an option. You, I’m
sure, are also a full, diverse human being and have physical and
intellectual pursuits which take you galaxies away from your day
job.
In these increasingly generic times, as we see
money and ambition dilute San Francisco and make it less unique and
more um… er… American, I think that aging messengers like myself
provide a pleasant link back to innocent days when choosing to ride
a bike for money instead of succumbing to technopeasantry, was still
a respectable decision. I’ve often, in talking about my years as a
messenger, divided my colleagues into two categories; those who can’t
do anything else and those who can’t do anything else. The
delineation is often very subtle.
So next time I ring and wave… how about a smile
back? After all, a smile is good for a mile and I still have many
miles to ride!
Steel Monkey
