The traffic warden was obviously suffering from hormone deficiency or something. This twenty tonner was trying to pull my neat little Suzuki GSX250 off the pavement into the gutter and on to the omnipresent double yellow lines. She had not noticed that the bike was shackled to the railings, which were buckling out from their stone-work under her ministrations. Before she caused any structural damage I ran over to her, waving my helmet in a threatening manner. The altercation that ensued was loud and very nearly bloody. Under Mongoloid brows her eyes glinted with repressed sexual lust and I had visions of myself being raped in the gutter.
In the end, I unlocked the bike, clambered aboard and shook off her hold on my collar with a death-race, 10000rpm wheelie start. She had probably already jotted down my number but I did not really care because the bike wasn't registered in my name; some poor sucker in W1 had amassed a pile of parking tickets and threatening citations for chronic traffic violations. With all the foresight of a second rate Shaman, I hurtled the little Suzuki through the mid-day madness of London City traffic.
There were a pile of deliveries in the top box and the boss kept squawking down the radio about getting a move on. Getting a move on? Jesus, the only way the GSX would better 70mph was if it was dropped off the side of a cliff and even then the huge screen would probably act as a parachute. It was great, though, for keeping off the shower bursts that were turning the road surface greasy.
I kept thanking God for leading me to an army surplus shop that had huge German army jackboots on offer for £15. Every day I had to dab down a couple of times to avoid the machine skating away from under me. The rest of my wardrobe was similarly ex-army stuff with an outer layer of Millett's cheapest waterproofs. When the sun came out I was drenched in sweat but when it turned cold and wet I was laughing. Unfortunately, this garb didn’t go down well with the general citizenry, who reacted to my appearance as if I was a typhoid victim. Hands clamped down on noses, they hurriedly changed their route to avoid me.
Receptionists would accept parcels only at arm’s length and sign the docket with only the greatest of reluctance. You couldn’t really blame me, the despatch game was paying so poorly in the recession that I had to move into a hostel with one bathroom to fifty people and couldn't afford a change of underpants let alone a proper set of outer garments.
The bike wasn't faring much better, either. Even police officers had given up, shaking their heads in wonder at a loss at where to start on the long list of offences... bald tyres, bent rims, hastily rewelded frame, an engine covered in gunge and oil, open down pipes, disc pads that were down to the metal with huge gouges in the wafer thin discs, dented cycle parts, a sprung bicycle seat that had replaced the dual seat which had turned to dust, a massive rack held on by bungee cords and a set of ancient panniers and top box that hung out precariously in the wind.
The bike sat so low on its ruined suspension that the rear tyre threatened to coexist with what was left of its mudguard. Despite all this, the engine still pushed out enough power for the bike to be tottered around the city at a reasonable pace - one needed to employ a tyrannical attitude to maintaining forward motion and a deaf ear to the sufferings of the motor. The top box contained an adequate supply of tools and bits for most eventualities. I had, on occasion, liberated essential items from parked motorcycles; given the choice between being off the road for a few hours and an innocent bit of thievery off some yuppie's pride and joy it was not a difficult decision to make.
With a set of keys and a tube to siphon off fuel I hadn't, in living memory, had to buy any petrol! I had to be a bit careful, though, the GSX reacted badly to unleaded crap, refusing to run at lower revs and clattering mightily above 50mph. Only half the gearbox worked, whilst the clutch alternatively slipped and dragged. I had seen worse despatch bikes around London, but not that many.
A twelve hour stint on the Japanese bopper was very tiring, all the more so when I had nothing to look forward to on my arrival back at the hostel. Still, as evidenced by the haggard looking Soho hookers and Piccadilly bum boys, there were a lot worse ways of making a living. The worst day was when my sadistic boss insisted I take a delivery up to Luton, an unheard of distance to take the GSX250 without a break.
Up through Willesden we stuttered, eventually making it to the motorway in one piece. It was a sheer fluke that I did not die when a swarm of XRis came racing up the hard shoulder at ton plus speeds. They crossed me up every way possible and then hurtled away into the distance. The Suzuki had almost as many palpitations as myself. During that trip I had three punctures, not that surprising as the tyres were condom thin; I just kept pumping Finilec into them; a fairly low tyre pressure was acceptable as it did more to soak up the spine rattling bumps than the shot suspension would ever manage.
I got completely lost in Luton, roaring the bike through the pedestrian shopping centre much to the alarm of the shoppers. A cop indicated that I should come an orderly halt but then thought better of it as I rode straight through where he had been standing. Running the machine down a flight of steps deposited the rack, top box and panniers in my wake; I hastily lifted the whole assembly back on and did a vanishing act.
By the time I found the address the rest of the day had been wasted and I was supposed to ride back to London in the dark. I had to take the long route as the bicycle lamp I kept in store for such emergencies, the lights having long since burnt themselves out, would not have befitted the 70mph slog back down the motorway.
It took six hours to get back home, every time I went above 20mph I lost track of the road and threatened to run the machine into oncoming vehicles or off the road into some poor wretch’s heavily mortgaged matchbox. The car horns seemed to merge into some wild symphonic devil music by the time I returned home.
The next day it was back into the horrors of despatching. Day after day of toil had caused my hair to fall out and my right eye to develop a nervous twitch, my hearing was going and my voice had gone hoarse with all the shouting into radios and hurling abuse at car drivers who were only too happy to vegetate behind their heaters and radios.
My most erudite moments came only when I had to ask the boss for an advance on the last advance; according to him I'd have to work the next six months just to pay all the interest I owed him. I seemed to spent more time swapping profanities with him than on the bike (it was a lot warmer and drier in the office) but at least the knowledge that I owed him so much money meant I was usually first in line for any jobs that did come in.
What has been missing from this litany of disasters has been accidents... I reckon the Suzuki is so slow that there's no way I can get into serious trouble on it, that it looks so awful that most cagers take a wide berth around us and that, anyway, I've been despatching for so long (six years) that I've developed that all important sixth sense. How much that is worth I don’t know, all I do know is that when the GSX finally expires I will not have the money to replace it, so this could well be my last year.
Many of you may think that that is no bad thing, and you may well be right!
Mike Collins