I started despatching about four years ago. Then, I had little money, so went for one of those firms that threw a bike in with the job. I lied a lot about my experience, my knowledge of London and my willingness to work my balls off. I spent my evenings poring over maps of London when I wasn’t worrying about how my motorcycling experience would stand up to the traffic. At the tender age of seventeen I had borrowed a mate’s bike to teach myself the basics and pass the tests.
The boss had promised me a Superdream, what he didn’t mention was that the last one in would end up with a Super-rat! It was a 250, whilst most of the other guys were on newer 400s. After a lecture on how to use the radio, I sat down amidst about a dozen other hopefuls. An hour went by until I was finally given a job. Two pick-ups, deliver them then pick up another package and bring it back to the office.
Despite studying the map with religious intensity, I became completely loss in Whitechapel and would have ended up in bloody Dover if I hadn’t clocked the road-signs. The radio squawked away but I was too busy to take any notice of it.
By the time I got back to the office, the jobs done, nearly two hours had gone by. After the large dose of applause died down (sarcastic buggers), I had to make up a story about the spark plugs oiling up and the radio not working. No-one seemed much impressed with my fiction. I did ten more jobs that day without too much tardiness, although the controller seemed to be taking the piss a bit, sending me to one side of London for a single pick-up and the other side for delivery. I soon learnt that the only way to make much dosh was with multiple pick-ups and drops. I earned all of eleven quid (less petrol) that day.
After about six weeks of pissing around I began to get the hang of roaring around London and was becoming more or less accepted by the other DR’s - at least they had stopped bursting into laughter every time I came back from a job. As soon as I started to earn a decent bit of dosh the heavens started opening. The old Honda was on far eastern tyres that slipped and slid all over the road. In the first day I came off twice I was treated with derision by the boss when I complained about the crap rubber. Nothing for it but to get a breaker to put on some better stuff. The Honda still felt horrible in the wet, though, and my times were way down.
Even at its best, I only managed to clear about £150 a week. That was the problem working for a firm that provided their own bikes, the money you could earn was strictly limited. Still, I had quickly polished my riding skills and now had an intimate knowledge of London. After a lot of pissing about I managed to buy a very nice GS125 for £600, one of the electric start models, essential in despatching, the game was so knackering that the last thing you wanted to do was piss around with kickstarts.
The really good DR firms are almost impossible to get into... there is a long waiting list of applicants who only get in with a personal recommendation and a pile of references. There are quite a lot of sharks around who employ too many people just to make sure they can cover all the possible demand - apart from a favoured few, the rest of the DRs just get the crumbs. I actually rejected two companies before I found one where everyone seemed very friendly and busy.
The boss was reluctant to give me a job, at 18 I could hardly claim too much experience, but I must have looked keen because he took me on.
The firm was about ten times as busy as my last one. The controller was ace, he always knew exactly where everyone was and where they were going. I was often out of the office for hours on end, picking up and delivering as I went along, being fed the addresses on the radio. There were still occasions when I couldn't find the address, but I could actually radio in and ask for directions - when I did that with the other firm all I got was laughter and farts. Everyone seemed to be working as a team, the prime ingredient being the willingness to work hard.
I was lucky with the GS. Doing 600 to 800 miles a week in heavy traffic, the little 125 whirred away tirelessly. I was tempted to go for something larger if older, but the bike was a gem. Brilliant in traffic, its 240ibs could be slung around with all the ease of a C50 but it was fast enough away from the lights to leave most cars for dead up to 50mph. Economy and running costs were another bonus, although I did change the oil every week.
The first week I made £275, after a year I was up to £425 after all my costs. Then two things happened to mess up my life. The GS, with over 40000 miles on its clock, died a death after I came off. The bike slid away from under me, skidding across the slippery tarmac until its progress was stopped by a Transit. The van scraped the bike along the gutter until its progress was stopped by a postbox. The little Suzuki was a complete wreck.
The insurance company told me to get lost as I hadn't told them I was a DR. Luckily, the Transit owner had fully comp insurance, so he was OK. But his insurance company sent me many a menacing letter for thousands in repairs. I kept throwing them in the bin, having spent what little cash I had available on a new GS125.
No sooner had I rolled into work on this device, than the boss sold out to another DR outfit. The new boss was a little Hitler who ranted and raved so much that the controller quit after the first day, leaving the boss to fill in for him. Utter chaos followed, which was blamed on us. My income dropped down to less than £200.
Within two months the new boss had bankrupted the company he had bought, but he didn’t seem concerned as he’d transferred a lot of the work to his other company. He kept berating us, telling us we were not up to the standard of his other DRs, that none of us would get a foot in the door there. The last we saw of him was bouncing into a Jag with our pneumatic blond secretary on his arm. She was rumoured to give wonderful head!
The next year was bad going for me. Not least because two insurance company heavies kept coming around demanding I pay for all the damage to the Transit. They both looked ex-army and seemed to be barely able to restrain themselves from getting into violence. Not having paid my rent for two months, I was quite happy to do a runner before I was evicted.
In the next year I went through five different DR companies. Once used to a good DR company it was hard going to take the rip-offs and incompetence. Still, I usually managed to make over £300 a week. The new GS, perhaps because there was no time for running in, wasn't as reliable as the old one. At 15000 miles the camchain started rattling and there was some wear to the camshaft bearings. Spares from a breaker soon sorted the problem but I was off work for two days and when I returned the boss had found someone else to take my place.
To be honest, the pace of work and the crazy traffic were beginning to take their toll. My hair was falling out and my hands shaking. I needed a nice long holiday and ended up lounging around in Spain for six months over the winter - I had gone on a two week package and couldn't bear to tear myself away until my money ran out.
Quite lucky really, as the Inland Revenue had done a purge of DRs in my absence and the heavies had been nosing around the last company where I worked. No problem getting a job again, but the work had started to disappear as the recession started to bite. The first week I only made £125, just enough to cover my living costs. I've been flitting from firm to firm ever since, very rarely making more than £200 a week.
The GS has done 78000 miles and is on its second engine now, the chassis just about shagged out... there’s no way I can afford another bike. I’ve been trying to get a job with a company that provides their own bike. If I’m lucky I'll end up back where I started!
Howard Watts