Despatches: Finding out the hard way that money isn't everything

It kept flashing through my brain. The time in January when the black ice got to me. The front wheel hit it, the next thing I knew I was flying one way. The GT750 the other. The bike, equipped with crash-bars and hefty panniers, destroyed everything in its path. I landed on my knee, the crack ringing in my ears. The pain incredible.

I really thought it was a knee-capping. I hopped in desperate circles on one leg. Grinding my teeth to keep the screams within my mind. Vision clearing, pain subsiding a little, I noted the position of the big Kawasaki. 20 yards down the road. Cagers staggered out of their tombs. Astonished and enraged at the damage to their pride and joy's.

I kept hopping towards the GT. To add insult to injury (to the cagers) the Kawasaki ended up leaning against a once pristine BMW. Still f..king ticking over! The only damage, a couple of bent levers and cracked panniers. At that point, I summoned the courage to glance down at my knee. The padded leather pants were still intact. No swelling. As long as I kept the leg bent it wasn't too painful...

I hopped over the saddle of the GT. Found that it was less painful to sit on the bike than stand up. At that point I noticed the gang of cagers moving towards me. They looked like psychopaths. Popped the clutch, got out of there fast. The nearest cager's mouth hung open halfway down his chest in shock at this lack of social responsibility. Officially, y'see, I didn't exist. Fall into the one part of the bureaucracy and the rest would have a real feast.

The reason that flashes of the accident kept intruding was I kept dreaming about being run down by a pack of enraged cagers. Was living in fear of falling off again. Despatching for just eleven months, my brain often felt like it was falling out of my head. The old hands just laughed when I complained about hitting things and falling off. Seems, it either clicks or you move on to something else. That's fine if you have no commitments. I'm lumbered with an expensive wife and three brats. Work, work and work. Or die! And die?

About the only thing I've done right is machinery choice. I went about this in a logical manner. I looked at what the DR's were riding. Talked to a few of them. The GT's and NTV's emerged as the toughest of the bunch. I decided to be sensible. For once! Buy a newish GT550. How did I end up with a 750, then? Simple, really. The only 550's I could find were high milers at absurd prices. A 6000 mile 750 came up at a bargain price and I didn't think about it. Not existing, didn't need insurance, tax, etc.

The GT750 proved an amazingly adept choice. It was a big, fat old tug for town work. Didn't matter. What I couldn't swing around I just attacked. The crash-bars were soon notched up with all the cages battered into submission. Their own fault for trying to play silly buggers. Or deliberately closing up the narrow conduit through the traffic chaos.

One time, some dumbo was so enraged that he swung across my path. Okay, I'd just thumped his roof, leaving a large dent. He'd swung across two lanes. Making me almost lose my breakfast as I slammed the brakes on. He wasn't amused by the air-horns either. He was absolutely out of his head when he found he couldn't open his doors far enough to exit the car and thump the shit out of me. When traffic to my other side moved I was gone. Rather than a goner. A lot of cagers were close to murder - the density of the traffic jams was ruining the little worlds they lived in. Shattered their illusion of being a master of their own little universe.

The GT did 30,000 miles under the usual regime of disinterest. Oil was done every 2500 miles, the filter when I felt guilty. That was about it, really. Oh, the drive chain was replaced at 18000 miles. Only because its wear ruined the gearchange and low speed running. Despite its capacity, the mill still needed a fair bit of cog swapping to keep ahead of the traffic. Cheap Avon tyres lasted a credible 15,000 miles. As mentioned, they had no resistance to black ice. Fine on wet roads and good on dry if shiny summer ones. Fuel was expensive, around 40mpg. Could probably improve that if I'd ever balanced the carbs. Or did the valves. But I could never bring myself to go that deeply into the aircooled motor.

Cleverness in my choice of motorcycle was all very well. But the despatch companies were something else. The first one I worked for had a controller with a thick Scottish accent and a short temper. When I misheard him, went hurtling off to the wrong side of town he'd go ballistic when I called in complaining that I couldn't find the company. You wouldn't think it was me who was losing dosh to hear him rant and rage. Honestly, two days was all it took for me to conclude that I was wasting my time. He may just've been taking the piss!

The next company had a controller I could understand. Sort of. Sending me on a circular tour of London, trying to find one address, was quite educational. Going to Hornchurch when I was supposed to be in Hounslow (about as far apart as you can get and still stay in Greater London!) didn't amuse me.

Often I'd turn up at some plush company HQ to be met by a scowling receptionist who looked deep in PMT, or something. She'd deny all knowledge of any package. I'd radio in, they would consult the company and radio back. Finally, a package was thrust into my hands to go somewhere completely different from what was on my docket. Invariably, this ruined the controller's carefully crafted series of pick-ups and drops. The receptionist left scowling ever more furiously when I let rip. To cap it all off, I'd get a bollicking from the boss when I returned to base. Reminded that the customers were paying my salary and I'd better shape up fast! Cocksuckers always win out in the end!

I started out wearing fairly dapper clothing but the first rainstorm changed all that. Plus all the grit and shit thrown up by the other vehicles. Enough black to give a fascist a hard-on resulted. Leather plus waterproofs even in the high summer - it made for some sweat and an odd odour but at least I had the illusion of protection from the road rash.

I still haven't got rid of the death-flashes. Either premonition, paranoia or just plain old brain rot. Zooming through the traffic for hour after hour enervating in the extreme. It's quite frightening to find my hands shaking for hours after I finish the day's work. I don't think it's just down to the secondary vibes that creep through the GT's rubber engine mounts. There's also backache, stooping shoulders and the beginning of a hump.

The backache wasn't helped by the time I had to heft a couple of bags full of beef joints on to the back of the bike. Banning beef-on-the-bone made them into cult dinners, nice little earners for butchers and mad DR's. One of the bags split slightly, dripping blood over the GT, stinking like death. Some traffic warden copped a sight and noseful, went berserk on his radio as I swept off into the traffic. The sound of sirens came not much later but by then I'd dumped the incriminating evidence on some top notch restaurant. The GT was just one of thousands of UJM despatch hacks in Central London. No way the beef police could track me down!

I suppose that was fun, of a sort. At least it took my mind off my probable imminent demise. The only thing that keeps me coming back for more is the dosh. I don't think anyone else will pay me more than 25000 notes a year (tax free until they catch up with me). Mind, it took six months of near-misses and general insanity to get up to that level.

The Brockley Butcher