One week I cleared 600 notes, the next I made a third of that, then a quarter, then back up to £500 for a couple of weeks. Then into hiding as the government Gestapo came to town in force, sorting out the real from false; revelling in finding people with multiple identities. I didn't do it myself, but I knew clowns who claimed social from several different offices across London (it paid all their basic costs, leaving the DR money as pure profit). I was more worried by the Inland Revenue who had yet to realise I existed!
It helped to move from derelict squat to girlfriend's flats to the floors of long suffering friends; the constant changing of address as important as turning over the motorcycle every month. As I always had to have wheels, I could never sell my bike before buying another, but that was okay, there was plenty of room for manoeuvre in the capital and I knew enough about the way both the world and motorcycles worked to come out ahead by at least a couple of hundred quid.
I preferred the hustle of buying and selling to actually maintaining a motorcycle or fitting new consumables. In a month I'd do two to three thousand miles, which was well within the limits of neglect set by Japanese machines. All it took was a sound ear for mechanical malaise and a good eye for bent frames. I usually picked up MCN late on a Tuesday, descended on some poor guy's residence just as he was ready to go to sleep and only too happy to get rid of me by selling his fading motorcycle at a bargain price. In a sea of credit merchants I was famous for carrying my stash of hard currency around with me in a bulging money belt. Nice if you can get it.
The fluctuating income from despatching made it hard to figure how much money I'd have in my pocket at the end of the month. The key to everything was to live as cheaply as possible for six months of the year, make a large profit, then spend the six months of the winter in some hot, third world country where everything was cheap, including the women. Africa, Asia or South America were all hot spots for those inclined towards cultural imperialism and the sleazy side of life.
Not that any UMG readers would want to know about that kind of immorality.......back to the ever so wild streets of London. I'd taken the hint from the editor and fitted myself our with a Walkman (electrical interference from the radio buzzes my ears so I always know when the controller's trying to give me an ear-bashing). None of this Punk nonsense, though, Rap, Rap, Rap blitzes my brain all day long, aiding the lunatic riding style necessary to survive London traffic.
I favour 400 to 500cc vertical twins. Superdreams, GS450/500E's, GPZ500's, etc, etc. They have enough power to scare the shit out of most cages, are narrow and light enough to flip past imprudent coppers, and they have simple enough designs to suss out without needing a degree in mechanical engineering or 20 years experience as a factory trained grease-monkey.
I always go for bikes with loud exhausts; by the time the cagers have got over the shock to their minds from the noise it's usually too late for them to perform any sneaky, homicidal moves. A decent front brake, that'll shake the forks in their bearings, is another essential ingredient to successful despatching. For that reason I try to avoid bikes that will wheelie on a hint of throttle - the brake's damn all use if the front wheel's a couple of feet in the air.
The one Paris Dakar replica I owned floated brilliantly through the battlefield of potholes and bumps that the average London road represents, but I had to sling a bag of cement over the handlebars to stop the thing trying to loop the loop every time I went wild with my right hand. Just for a laugh, one time I bounced it down a flight of stone steps with some enraged stall holder throwing potatoes at my head. Well, I had a delivery right in the middle of a street market and on the way out I'd brushed against his stall. That's what happens when you give in to common humanity and decentness; as an alternative I could've run down some old granny entombed in Iranian blacks! Next time I'll know what to do.
In parts of London anything goes; the traffic lights are ignored and the Highway Code has as much relevance as morality in an African brothel. It's everyone for themselves and any cop silly enough to give traffic directions to that mad mob would be mowed down, torn limb from limb, flattened out like a dead hamburger box. So you can imagine how the average motorcyclist fares.
I've seen grandfather types on mopeds squeezed out of the gutter, thrown on to the pavement, either flying through the air or being crushed against a post box or lamppost. The cagers just sound their horns in jubilation and add another notch to their steering wheels. Kids on L-plates are even worse off, trying to keep their dignity out of the gutter they are buffeted, abused and scared silly by the cage antics.
I react to this kind of nonsense with maximum throttle and violence. I think the final solution would be to arm all DR's with .358 Magnums and let them shoot erring cagers between the eyes with Royal impunity (it's surely a Green kinda thing). You either join in with the lawlessness, show the buggers you've got a bigger pair of balls, or end up either broke, completely insane or a vegetable in a dingy, remote NHS ward. Throttle and brake craziness rules; make more noise than a pack of roving tanks and ride like you don't give a damn.
It's always interesting to see virgins from out in the sticks turn up in the capital, out to grab their share of the fortune. It doesn't take them long to work out that rather than being paved in gold, the streets are awash in grime, grease and shit; that everyone's fuse has blown and the great god mammon is as elusive as a beautiful Soho hooker.
New DR's fall into two camps after the first couple of days. There's the majority, who look like shell-shocked, napalm scorched veterans of the Vietnam fiasco. I often pick up cheap bikes off these disillusioned chaps who, on trainee rates, find it impossible to conceive of a time when they will cover their running costs let alone make hundreds a week as promised in the enticing adverts in Motorcycle News.
A small minority of new DR's come back with wild grins and tall stories. It's as if they have found their place in life; the extravagant adrenalin rush of tearing through traffic on two precarious wheels. You can see in their eyes that they will be in the game for a long time and might even, once they suss the quickest routes across London, make loads of lovely lucre. I end up supplying them with bikes as they invariably have some nasty crashes in the first couple of months.
Make no mistake, despatching is hard physical and mental graft. In the heavy, chaotic traffic you have to go for it at ten-tenths all the time; not just to survive but to beat the odds on time and mileage; set by psychotic controllers with an unfathomable sense of black humour. A slight detour from the optimum route or too rigid an interpretation of the traffic laws can all add up to a loss of earning power. The odd bottle of whisky slipped to the controller does wonders for the way multiple drops and pick-ups magically come together.
Avoiding accidents is, after the first couple of months, all down to an uncanny sixth sense. I crashed three time on the first day and six times on the next. They were taking bets on which hospital or morgue I'd end up in, back in the office. I'd crawl into bed at night still shaking from the near fatalities, get hardly any sleep from the sheer worry, yet, the next morning, leap on the bike with a true warrior's grin.
One of the old DR hands assured me that it would all fall into place after a while, that I had the right kind of spirit for the job. At times he had more faith in me than myself but after the first month my survival instincts came to the fore and my reflexes sharpened up. It's a well weird, manic kind of life but if you can take the flow and ebb of the day then it can be rewarding. But after six months of madness I'm desperate for my holiday in the sun.
K.L.