So, dispatchin’s cool again just as it was twenty years ago when the first wave of wannabes started riding the city streets on mountain bikes shod with slick tyres and messenger bags slung over their shoulders. Back in the day, it seemed to be a right of passage for post qualified journalists and a fair few arts students to serve on the London circuit. I recall a friendly acquaintance remarking there was nothing remotely glamorous about riding ten hours a day (often soaked to the skin), having coke cans and abuse hurled by youths in tuned Fords, the city grime that permeates every fibre of your clothing and (amongst the ladies) tender, bruised breasts where the radio has repeatedly made contact. 
Then there’s the unscrupulous firms, no sick or holiday pay, no unions (although things are improving thanks to organised messenger groups), the constant threat of bike theft and the very real risk of becoming a statistic.
Certain sections of the media continue to perpetuate the glamour myth, failing to make the distinction between this “outlaw” romanticism- being paid to ride your bike and the stark reality of riding your bike to earn a living. The lean days when you barely get a job or can’t work due to a tumble with the tarmac/ illness are seldom considered. In the words of my late father (who looked after motorcycle factory riders during the 1960s) “Doesn’t matter how good a rider you/think you are, you always come off”.
The flexibility suits those with other business/interests or folks with a healthy contempt for the nine-to-five. I can fully appreciate how this is so easily romanticised. Perhaps the numbers of civilian riders astride track bikes dressed in retro merino wool jerseys, ¾ knickers complete with messenger bags should be regarded as the sincerest form of flattery (although I regularly encounter hapless fashion victims wind milling around the capital on ridiculously tall gears). The circuit attracts people from all walks of life and it’s nothing like the movies.. I’ve never met a messenger without a story or two. My personal favourite being a courier reunited with his steed, the thief saying he was returning it as he couldn’t ride it(!)-fixers were far less prevalent twenty odd years ago.
Whilst the elite and the seasoned might carve gracefully through the urban sprawl like athletic salmon aboard Bianchi Pistas, Specialized Langsters and a wealth of more exotic mounts; others, dressed in baggy tracksuits and trainers are earning minimum wage on beater mountain bikes with expiring transmissions.
The glory days of £450 a week may be a distant memory, yet the recent postal dispute saw some earning almost double and there’s no shortages of folk seduced by the image and perceived lifestyle. Whether they flatter or frustrate, the wannabes look set to stay….
Next: Worn shoe cleats and the perils of ignoring one's elders
