I.
Once upon a time in the City, riding in the heart of the financial district, traffic was bumper to bumper. It moved not at all. The river of metal and glass, pumping out exhaust, noise, dirt and grit, was completely stalled, and for untold blocks an army of endless red lights held time frozen. Enter the bicycle messenger. My delivery was on the 12th floor. As I reached my destination, I made a mental note of the position of the car caught in traffic directly in front of the building, along with the consternation on the face of the driver. Entering the building, I took the elevator to the 12th floor. I completed the delivery, had the paperwork signed, and called in to the office for my next destination. I came back down to the street, and there it was, the same car stuck in the exact same place for about 20 minutes. It hadn’t moved at all. The driver was giving me looks that could kill the messenger.
All business, I mounted my heavy-metal steed and moved between the lanes directly beside his car, and then, unfortunately, it happened! A species of Road Rage that infects Messengers. The once friendly messenger became the Messenger of Doom. A hot and dirty body, a mind overwhelmed by noise and pollution, compassion stretched, and too many Bugs Bunny Warner Brothers cartoons had come together in my mind. I puckered up my lips. I leaned over, and made a huge kissing noise in the unfortunate driver's window, like Bugs Bunny kissing Elmer Fudd on the head before escaping Elmer's "fwustwated fuwy." The enraged driver rolled down his window to reply to this insult, but I dug out between the lanes leaving the poor man stuck were he was. He may be there yet, even though this was 47 years ago.
II. Another Mental Breakdown
One day I was heading for home from work on my bike in rush hour traffic. As usual, I had to ride on just a few inches of street by the curb of an extremely busy multi-lane one way street. The cars beside me were dangerously close, and my attention was challenged by the need to stay out of traffic while balancing on a narrow strip of concrete. And then, it happened! Horns were blaring, drivers were snarling, but my tiredness, frustration, and frazzled nerves overcame common sense and even self-preservation. In a gesture of reality-negating bravura, I rode away from the curb and out in front of a lane of the on-rushing river of metal and glass. Surprising even myself, I began to weave back and forth in front of traffic in my lane, making everyone back up behind me unless they were willing to kill the messenger. I had practiced this weaving S-shaped curve riding my bike when I was 10 years old, and executed it perfectly. Fortunately, self-preservation gained the upper hand over bravura, and I went back to my curb hugging ways.
III. Bicycle Messenger Dream
I’m climbing a hill in downtown San Francisco on my 50’s bicycle. It has a heavy steel frame and balloon tires.This messenger service bike has rusted chrome handlebars. (I never would have tolerated this as a boy. My handlebars shone like mirrors!) The bike has an extra wide seat, a useless feature since, at this point in my life, I weigh in at 128 pounds. With an eighty pound weight in the front basket, that bike is going to throw me over those rusted handlebars if I hit a curb too hard.
In my dream I’m straining, standing up on the pedals, pushing with all my might climbing the steep San Francisco hill. I lean further forward, getting my nose closer and closer to the street. At some point, my weight and strength, the weight of the bike and the load, and the steepness of the grade all reach equilibrium. My forward motion stops. I fall. The bike crashes down beside me. I Iie there looking up at San Francisco sky.
I’ve been at the job for some months now, and I have these dreams. The job allows me to retain full Hippie regalia, long hair, bell bottoms, sneakers, head band. There is no dress code. There are no drug tests. There is just bicycle, traffic, smog, noise, dirt, and deliveries. My bike wants to flip over forward from heavy loads. Traffic cops hate us. "Hit him," they yell at motorists, gesturing at us.
The traffic is intense for everyone. Motorists are irritated with us, this wandering Hippie tribe of the downtown mounted on old heavy-metal steeds, negotiating the congestion, slipping through lanes and up onto sidewalks to make deliveries. Drivers feel that somehow we are winning the traffic wars that they lost long ago,
