Confessions of a Bicycle Messenger

(This article, published in the May 1998 issue of "Chicago's Amateur Athlete," nearly got me fired. My dispatcher said he was only able to save my job, even though I was as good a messenger as he had, because I didn't mention the company I worked for.)

I am a bicycle messenger. Need I confess more? I ride through red lights and stop signs. I ride the wrong way down one-way streets. I ride on the sidewalk. I dart amongst cars and slash through pedestrians.

I startle people and don't slow to beg their pardon. I am so used to being called "asshole" I take it as no offense. Give me a little tailwind or downhill or extra incentive and I'll exceed the speed limit. I'm continually flouting laws written and unwritten, but not with reckless intent or ill will, only to better serve my client and my dispatcher.

Being in a rush, being under deadline all day makes me behave with a little less concern for others than when I'm a civilian. I don't step aside for those I might otherwise, though I don't try to be brusque about it.

I edge to the front of elevators so I can be the first one out. I speed up to be the first one to revolving doors. I'll pass others on escalators. I'll sprint to make an elevator and will thrust my arm into the slimmest of openings as the elevator doors close. Condemn me if you will for such behavior, but I take pride (which I know is one of the Deadlies) in being so committed.

I try to avoid security guards and their petty policies at all costs. Some have nothing better to do than to harass messengers. If a security guard isn't looking in one of those buildings that make us jump through one hoop or another before being allowed to make a delivery (signing in, presenting ID, leaving our bag, taking a freight elevator, being finger-printed), I'll go directly to the elevator and spare myself the hassle.

If I must sign in, I don't bother to write my full name or take the pains to make it all that legible. Nor do I bother to check my watch so I can provide the exact time. I'll push revolving doors clockwise, rather than counter-clockwise, in the handful of buildings that by doing so I can avoid the security guard's line of vision. And there are times when I'll use the conventional swing doors even when they say, "Please use the revolving door," to save a few steps and a second or two.

Aboard the elevator, if I'm not going to the top floor, I'll push that button anyway and then push the down button after I exit the elevator so it will be there when I complete my delivery. Or if I'm going to the top floor, I might leave my bag in the elevator door to keep the elevator there if my drop-off or pick-up is within site of the elevator.

When I am kept waiting, I do not appreciate it, especially if it is a willful act. If a receptionist chooses to ignore me when I present her with a delivery that she must sign for, I have no qualm about dripping sweat or rain or melted snow on her work station. If she prolongs my wait, I'll take a peanut from my pocket and leave her the shell. I'll help myself to two rather than one of the candies on her desk. Make it longer and I'll have another, thank you.

I don't even pause for more than a passing greeting, if even that, if I encounter a friend. It's go, go, go and I don't like to let up. I become a man obsessed, though not the monster some people perceive messengers to be.

I'm just someone who cares about doing his job too well. Of course, some incentive is provided by the fact I'm paid by the delivery. That is a motivation, but even more so is the satisfaction in reaching a certain number of deliveries each day, whether it be 40 or 50 or 60 or even the occasional "miracle 70" delivery day. It is a thrill to reach any of the upper echelons, just as it is for a basketball player to score a lot of points.

Every day is a race to see how many deliveries I can make. When I have a lot, it only inspires me to go for more, maybe a record. It is always exhilarating to ride my bike all day with one all-out burst of speed after another. My blood is raging and head spinning with all the adrenaline and endorphins the exertion has stirred up.

More often than not, I am sorry to see my days end, especially if I am closing in on a distant goal. I want the orders to keep pouring in so I can keep riding. When the work runs out, which may happen any time between 4:30 and six, my only solace is I get to do it again the next day or after the weekend.

Yes, I do love my work, maybe too much. I don't even mind bad weather. I almost welcome it. When it's snowing or raining or the temperature is in single-digits and I'm told all day, "I don't know how you guys do it," it makes me stand a little taller.

It is an addiction of a sort. I always have loved riding my bike. To be paid to do so is almost too good to be true. I should long ago have given up the messengering and moved on to something more befitting a college graduate, or so society tells me, but it's too much fun and fulfilling and more than meets my needs, financial and otherwise.

When I first began, almost ten years ago now, I only did it out of curiosity. As an ardent cyclist who had ridden across the United States and Australia and to the tip of South America and felt beckoned by any and all roads, I had long wondered what it would be like to be a messenger. When I had a spare month between a job and the departure for another tour, I at last gave it a try.

My initial reaction was to be damn glad I was only doing this for the hell of it, and not out of any need, as it was more physically demanding than I could have expected and was a minefield of aggravations. I couldn't imagine sticking to it for any length of time. I could understand why not even one in ten messengers last two months.

I thought I was in tip-top shape, but I ended my days utterly depleted with barely the energy to pedal home after work. But more disheartening and frustrating than the fatigue was learning all the intricacies of the job, wasting energy and time by not knowing the best place to lock my bike at each building and which door was the closest to the particular elevator I had to go to. And then there was continually being reprimanded by security guards for not knowing their building's policy regarding delivery personnel.

Most buildings allow messengers to go in and out as if they worked there and weren't some alien species, but about a third of them have special demands that only can be learned over time. Some don't even allow messengers to enter, making them go to their receiving docks, which might be on Lower Wacker Drive or off in an alley. I cringed upon entering each building, waiting for some security guard to pounce on me and send me off on another run-around.

Another headache in those early days was learning which firms only accept deliveries at their mailrooms. Among the most dreaded words a messenger can hear are, "Sorry, you'll have to take it to the mailroom," especially if it's on another floor. It can be positively exasperating if it's only one floor away and the receptionist won't allow the messenger to use the inner-office stairway. Before one learns the many do's and don'ts of the job and is forced to suffer all the indignities of a ball in a pinball machine, it can be very nerve-racking and reason enough to give up.

There was much to be learned, much, much more than I ever anticipated. I enjoyed being on my bike all day in a different environment, but I was looking forward to my next adventure in a distant land, not knowing if I would return to it or not.

While I was off riding in Central America, my thoughts kept returning to messengering. It was then that I realized I was hooked. I truly missed the non-stop intensity and the challenge the job offered. I craved the drug-like rush of riding hell-bent in traffic, holding three orders that all had to be delivered in the next 15 minutes. I missed the rapport I had with my dispatcher and the anticipation of the next set of orders he would give me and where they would take me. And I missed the camaraderie with my fellow biking junkies.

I was also surprised to discover I had developed an affection for the many buildings that comprise my playground in the Loop. I missed them as I would miss a friend and looked forward to getting back to them. Each has a distinctive personality and a multitude of alluring features from the art work in their lobbies to the buttons in their elevators.

I was away for two months and couldn't wait to return. That was almost ten years ago, and my fondness for the job has only grown. I still get away, but not as often or for as long as I'd like, despite earning more money than I ever have and having the freedom to come and go as I please. I just enjoy it too much. I can't make a greater confession than that. So there.

(George Christensen barely found time to write this article between his rounds in the city and his latest vacation, a bicycle adventure to Cuba. If you see a messenger with a yellow helmet and blond beard, it might be George. Say hi to him. If he's not too busy, he might say hi back.)

Reader to Reader

A woman and I were waiting for an elevator on the 24th floor of a downtown building when a bicycle messenger came bustling around a corner whistling some tune.

"It's nice to hear someone whistling," the woman said to him. "I certainly don't feel like it."

"Having a bad day?" the messenger asked.

"I hate my job."

"You ought to do something you like."

"I don't think I'd like to make that my profession."

Reader to Reader

A husky, somewhat disheveled older man took the last stool at the counter of a small diner near the Greyhound bus station. Beside him sat two gray-haired ladies with suitcases at their feet.

He ordered a coffee. After a minute or two, the woman next to him turned and asked, "What do you do for a living?"

He gave her a startled look and said gruffly, "I'm self-employed."

When he didn't elaborate, she prodded him a bit. "So you're self-employed?"

"Yeah, I am," he reasserted.

"So what do you do?" she persisted in a simple, kindly manner.

"Oh, I sell plastics," he said.

"I hear that's a good thing to sell."

"I make a living."

"What kind of plastics do you sell?"

"Plastic plastic," he said impatiently.

At last she got the message. "I'm sorry. We're just passing through, and I was trying to be friendly."

"Lookit, I've had a bad day, and I just want to be left alone," he said as he rose to his feet, tossed some change on the counter, and left.

The other lady turned to her friend, saying, "Mildred, I told you not to bother people. I wonder if he's one of those mafia guys?"

Reader to Reader

Two of us had been waiting with increasing impatience for an elevator on the 15th floor of an older downtown building. When it finally arrived, a bicycle messenger burst out. We stepped into the empty elevator and were taken up rather than down, as someone had punched the button for the 18th (and top) floor.

"Those messengers don't have any consideration for anybody," muttered my elevator mate.

"At least he only punched one button and not all three," I replied.

The messenger had apparently made his delivery quickly, for he was there when we stopped at the 15th floor again on the way down. My still-seething companion blurted, "We weren't too pleased to have to go up to the 18th floor."

"It never pleases me to have to wait for an elevator, and the wait can be long in this building," the messenger retorted.

"Don't you messengers ever think about anybody except yourselves?"

"Hey, I was sent here because someone had to have a document delivered in a hurry. I'm just trying to serve him as best I can."

"You're not the only one in a hurry."

"My job is to be in a hurry."

"Did you ever think when you send an elevator up like that it wastes energy and causes unnecessary wear on the elevator?"

"It would cause even more wear if it had to go all the way down and come back to pick me up."

"Listen, I own this building, what do you own?"

"I get to ride my bike all day, what do you do?"

At that we reached the first floor and the messenger was gone.

Tribune Messenger Lingo Article

Chicago Tribune June 15, 1994

Copyright 1994 Chicago Tribune Company
Chicago Tribune


BYLINE: George Christensen.

Bicycle messengers are no different from any profession or tribe in having a lingo of their own, one that evolved to make radio transmissions snappier and to break the tedium of reciting numbers and addresses all day.

It's quicker and easier to say "Clean at the Apple" than "I've made all my deliveries and I'm at 35 W. Wacker." The Apple, the Leo Burnett building, earned its nickname from the basket of apples on each receptionist's desk of the advertising company. Messengers are always happy to make a delivery or pickup at the Apple as they, like any visitor, are welcome to help themselves to one.

It used to be the same with the Gum House-the Wrigley Building at 410 N. Michigan Ave. Every reception desk for the Wm. Wrigley Jr. Co. is lined with packs of the dozen or so brands of gum they manufacture and are also free for the taking. Unfortunately, messengers have recently been diverted to the gum company's receiving room off Lower Wacker Drive to make their deliveries and no gum is offered there. Some messengers have since taken to calling it the No Gum House.

Some of the other nicknames for buildings or locations are:

The Oil Can or the Can: The Amoco Building at 200 E. Randolph St.

The Rock: The Prudential Building of the insurance company known for the Rock of Gibraltar at 130 E. Randolph St.

The Hill: The only marginally significant climb in the city up Lake Street from Michigan Avenue past the Rock to the Can. One says, "I'm on the Hill," whenever he's east of the Can.

The Peacock: The NBC Building at 454 N. Columbus Drive.

Time of Your Life: The Time-Life Building at 303 E. Ohio St.

The Fat Lady: Oprah Winfrey's studio at 110 N. Carpenter St.

The M&M: The Merchandise Mart.

The Picasso: The Daley Center at 60 W. Washington St.

The Governor's Playhouse or the Playhouse: The James R. Thompson Center at 100 W. Randolph St.

The House of Confusion: City Hall at 121 N. LaSalle St.

The World's Tallest: The Sears Tower at 233 S. Wacker Drive.

The B.O.T.: The Board of Trade at 141 W. Jackson Blvd.

The House or the T: The terminal, the messenger company's base of operations.

Some buildings are known by their major tenant. Arty's Place is 33 W. Monroe St., thanks to Arthur Andersen. Kemper's Dock is 77 W. Wacker Drive.

A few other miscellaneous terms and expressions are:

Food Stamp Run: A long ride at a reduced rate.

Sucker Pole: "No Parking" or similar such signs that aren't bolted down. If one locks his bike to such a pole, someone can lift the pole from its foundation and make off with the bike.

A Kite: An oversized envelope 2 by 3 feet or larger that can catch the wind as one is riding.

Reader to Reader

Two young, fast-talking, yellow-jacketed traders waiting for the elevator at the Merc:

"When I'm at a bar and I have to wait more than two minutes for a beer, I'm out of there. It was the best thing that happened to me the other night though. The next place I went I met the greatest chick."

"What happened to Joanne?"

"Oh, I had to dump her a couple of weeks ago. She started acting like a wife, a beast of a wife."

"Hadn't you been living together a while?"

"Yeah, two years."

"That's too bad."

"Ah, but this new one's great."

"They all turn out the same."

"Not this one. I can tell she's gonna be different. She doesn't have any of that possessiveness shit like Joanne did. I could see it in her from the start."

Urban Heroes

Chicago Reader letter-to-the-editor

Urban Heroes

By George Christensen

[Re: Neighborhood News, August 14]

What's all this fuss about taming bicycle messengers? True they may seem reckless at times and give a fright or two, but rather than reviling them, they ought to be celebrated. They may well be the hardest working and most courageous workers in the city. For eight hours or more a day they ride their bikes at all-out speeds in traffic that few would dare. They have to be fearless as well as superbly conditioned. They have a spirit that ought to be admired. It is the same spirit that brought our forefathers to America and pushed the frontier from east to west.

So what if they don't always observe red lights or stop signs. Do any bicyclists? Or pedestrians for that matter? At least messengers have cause. They are trying to deliver a document that someone needs right away as fast as they can. Isn't it refreshing to witness someone doing their job to the best of their ability? If anything they should be encouraged and applauded rather than restrained. That they startle an occasional pedestrian may say more about the alertness of the pedestrian than a messenger's irresponsibility. As the messenger quoted in Ben Joravsky's piece said, messengers are highly skilled at what they do and aren't out to scare anyone. Let them be.