by Jason Milligan

Being a bike messenger was the best job I've had since I was 16, when I worked in my grandfather's toy factory. I say this even though it hurts me to type with my healing left wrist which I broke on May 23, 1995 at Park Avenue and 49th Street when a British diplomat sideswiped me while I was riding.


New York City Bike Messenger. One of those fantasy jobs like astronaut or fireman, where you get to dress like a Science Fiction Rebel Warrior and behave like world peace depends on your getting the treaty to the UN on time. The reality is working in the rain for fashion industry assholes, carrying six portfolios and a shopping bag full of fabric samples (please be careful with these) while Suits blithely jaywalk in your path and buses try to kill you. So what. When you get on your bike you become a superhero. You can fly, you are invisible, you have x-ray vision and you cannot be stopped.


The job itself is simple: don't lose the packages. Beyond that, being a bike messenger requires showing up for work with a bike, a beeper and a bag. With the aid of a manifest, you keep track of what to pick up, where to take it, and any special circumstances that may apply, like rushes or wrong addresses. There are no time clocks, desks, computers, or fluorescent lights. No one cares where you are or how you get the job done as long as the packages get delivered on time and nobody gets hurt.




BAG: The good bags come from the Globe Canvas Company on Mott Street. The Old Guy makes them there, and they kick ass. They are waterproof and durable and mine is orange.