Romancing the Circuit

So dispatching's cool again just as it was twenty years ago when the first wave of wannabes started riding the city streets on mountain bikes shod with slick tyres and messenger bags slung over their shoulders. Back in the day, it seemed to be a right of passage for post qualified journalists and a fair few arts students to serve on the London circuit. I recall a friendly acquaintance remarking there was nothing remotely glamorous about riding ten hours a day (often soaked to the skin), having coke cans and abuse hurled by youths in tuned Fords, the city grime that permeates every fibre of your clothing and (amongst the ladies) tender, bruised breasts where the radio repeatedly made contact.

There’s the unscrupulous firms, no sick or holiday pay, no unions (although things are improving thanks to organised messenger groups), coupled with occupational hazards such as bike theft and the very real threat of becoming a statistic.

Certain sections of the media continue to perpetuate the glamour myth, failing to make the distinction between this “outlaw” romanticism- being paid to ride your bike and the stark reality of riding your bike to earn a living. The lean days when you barely get a job or can’t work due to a tumble with the tarmac/ illness are seldom considered. In the words of my late father (who looked after test riders at the Matchless motorcycle factory during the 1960s) “Doesn’t matter how good a rider you/think you are, you always come off”.

The flexibility suits those with other business/interests or those with a healthy contempt for the nine-to-five. I can fully appreciate how this is so easily romanticised. Perhaps the numbers of civilian riders astride track bikes dressed in retro merino wool jerseys, ¾ knickers complete with messenger bags should be considered the deepest form of flattery (although I regularly encounter hapless fashion victims wind milling around the capital on ridiculously tall gears).
The circuit attracts people from all walks of life and it’s nothing like the movies.. I’ve yet to meet a messenger without a story or two. My personal favourite being the tale of a thief returning a bemused courier’s fixer, saying he couldn’t ride it(!)-fixers were less desirable twenty odd years ago.

Whilst the elite and the seasoned might carve gracefully through the urban sprawl like athletic salmon aboard Bianchi Pistas, Specialized Langsters and a wealth of more exotic mounts, others, dressed in baggy tracksuits and trainers trundle along, earning minimum wage on beater mountain bikes with expiring transmissions.

The glory days of £450 a week may be a distant memory, yet the recent postal disputes saw some earning £800 and there’s no shortages of people seduced by the image and the lifestyle…Whether your flattered or frustrated by them, the wannabes look set to stay….

Next: The Perils of worn shoe cleats and ridiculing one's elders....