Despatches: The Long and the Short of it

The most exciting thing that ever happened to me as a despatch rider was when I had to deliver a parcel to a famous movie star, with instructions to make sure she signed for it personally. I blasted the VT500E across London in record time, probably causing several heart attacks amongst cagers as I barged my way through at maximum velocity. Riding a DR hack through London the whole space/time continuum becomes very warped and incredible risks become everyday occurrences. Once I had the bit between my teeth there was no stopping me.

Not even a fully bedecked doorman at the Hilton who almost had a coronary on the spot when he saw me park up on the bit of pavement outside the hotel, the matt black VT adding to the ambience and character of the place. I dodged past him with all the verve of a rugby star about to make the touch-down. I had to slow down at the desk to find out where I was going, which gave some security chaps the chance they needed to reassert themselves. After a long argument and much swapping of threats I was finally ushered into the star's room only to be put down with a sarcastic remark about my nose having a passing resemblance to Concorde. A reverse Winston was the only tip I could manage for the doorman, although he should learn that the odd eccentric millionaire has been known to ride a motorcycle, though perhaps not one of the Honda’s particular brand of nastiness.

The most terrible experience was a January thrash from London to Bristol on the same bike. Like most Londoners I was reluctant to leave the capital, especially to the West Country on a day so cold as to freeze my leathers so solid I nearly had to wave a blow-torch at them. There was a big, battered fairing to hide behind so it wasn't as bad as it could've been.

Not half, mate. There was more ice than tarmac on the road and my tyres had last seen 2mm’s worth of tread about six weeks before. I spent more time drifting through corners than controlling the Honda but by some minor miracle I didn’t come off. I was a nervous wreck by the time I made the delivery, threw in a sarcastic remark about getting their finger out next time and putting the letter in the normal mail. My bad attitude was duly reported to my boss but he never did learn that the return trip was made in the comfort of a lorry’s cabin after I’d pretended that I had an engine problem in the services. My ears were warm, though, from the trucker’s tales of all the skirt he’d had on the road. I think I'll have to try for an HGV licence!

The nicest thing that ever happened to me was the time I blew up the VT's engine - quite difficult to do but possible after 75000 miles of neglect. My neighbour took pity on my plight (no wheels, no money hence no mortgage payments hence no house) by selling me his crashed VT for a pittance and helping me do the transplant. I happily let him use the bike on the weekends when I spent my time in front of the TV recovering from the ravages of the week’s despatching.

The most amazing thing was doing 120000 miles on this motor with just sporadic maintenance when either | was overcome with conscience (rare) or when some element of the engine started clattering, usually the gearbox (every 7000 to 8000 miles, although I once left it for 10000 miles with out changing the engine oil). The chassis has done over 300000 miles and I’ve acquired enough engine parts to start a business. These are tough old motors and | have my eye on a newish Transalp that a friend had spent almost a year running in, ignoring my advice that you can just thrash the VT500 inspired motor from new.

The most I made in a week was seven hundred quid. The least about a hundred and fifty. Multiple drops and pick-ups are the way to stack up the dosh, and knowing where you're going, only using those illegal short-cuts that aren't periodically staked out by the cops, who should really have better things to do. Those police on the look out for terrorists aren't too amused to find you're ruined their careful day by shooting through a pedestrian precinct, down a series of steps and then squeezed through their bollards. I was once followed by a helicopter for five minutes, no doubt at great public expense.

The usual precautions of obscured numberplate, forgetting to register the bike or waving a wad of soaked and stained documents around usually avoids arrest if the forces of law and order get their act together. Periodic purges of the DR community should be taken as a sign to lock the bike away and book an immediate holiday in foreign climes, as the cost of making bikes like my Honda entirely legal would have most DRs out on the street, begging bowl in hand.

The hardest core DR that I know rides a KLX650 and has been known to take short-cuts that involve certain elevated pedestrian walkways. This went down extremely well with the boys in blue when the baffles fell out, resulting in some extremely loud backfiring on the overrun. The rider didn’t seem in the least bit fazed that it sounded just like a gun going off and he was likely to have the cops taking the odd shot at him. His greatest achievement was getting the KLX up on the roof of one car and proceeding to skim along the tops of about a dozen other vehicles until he spotted a way through the traffic on good old terra firma.

For the rest of the afternoon there were stories of cagers going berserk trying to knock over motorcyclists. Or more berserk than normal. I seem to get knocked off once every three months with an alarming regularity. I wear full leathers and lots of body armour, which insulates me from gravel rash and even allows me to survive having the Honda fall on top of me. Something like a car hitting me side on or a vehicle running over my body wouldn't be so nice but I haven't suffered that fate yet. Strategically placed crash-bars and bits of metal tube means that the damage to the car is often far greater than to the already rat-like VT.

Despite all the horror stories and the desperate riding, I’ve yet to come across anyone I know who's been killed or turned into a vegetable, although quite a few DR’s are leading charmed lives. I know of two guys who broke their legs and another who smashed up his arm, plus loads of minor casualties. I’ve also seen some bikes that have been completely mashed beyond recognition or hope of redemption, as if the cagers have gone out of their way to smash the things into tiny little pieces. My theory is that any cager found going mad in a big car is endowed like a hamster and should be treated as an object of ridicule.

The most ridiculous thing I ever saw was some huge lout in an ancient pudding basin helmet, running along on a CG125 with L-plates trying to make a living as a despatch rider (I think he was one of the past UMG contributors - Ed). He was overtaken by cyclists (and aren't their helmets cute), ridiculed by children and looked more precarious than a kid on his first bicycle but he kept it up for a whole two months before the Honda collapsed under the stress - literally, the forks unwrapped, bouncing the frame along the ground which then snapped. He just walked away from it all with a silly smirk on his face. I only hope I can do the same if the Big Accident every catches up with me!

A.K.