Courier Tales (long Post)

Yes, I've got that frustrated author urge again!

Having brought up the K75 BMW:



You can see how, amusingly, the owners went with a livery that made the bikes, at least, easily confused with police vehicles. The Trannies too, I suppose. The model was the RT – also as used by the cops. When I joined, Trans Action (never thought of it as two words) was trans itioning from R80RT Beemers, so that’s what I started on. Both models had the rack on the back for the extendable blue light the police bikes had, on which the R80 had a mobile phone aerial, but the K75 didn’t. The phone was mounted in the left pannier on both, which I’d turn off when the office kept calling it while I was on the motorway, or negotiating city centre traffic.

Details are hazy now; I don’t recall whether I rode the 800 Boxer 100,000 miles, or just 75,000. I rode the 750 triple for 75,000. I’d spent a year without a bike after selling the Jota, on which I covered 25,000 miles, which further confuses matters. And they really were those round figures to within less than 500 miles, almost as if I was deliberately aiming for them.

When I’d previously been a courier, but self-employed, I’d built the CB550 Four for that express purpose, but increasingly used the Jota. I had one weekly job for the AA, beginning in Basingstoke, to get to their Maidstone, Stanmore and Thatcham sites and bring back a big, heavy computer tape from each, to the Basingstoke HQ – before 12 noon! I could either take the A339 to Thatcham, then M4 to NW London, then across Central London for the M20 to Maidstone, then M25/M3 back to Basingstoke. Or do it in the reverse order. I had to leave at 6am to do it.

There were variations, brought about by boredom (i.e. familiarity, as the danger of the task was never itself boring). Sometimes I’d take the A30 instead of the M3, the A4 instead of the M4, the M25 instead of across Central London, the Blackwall Tunnel under the Thames rather than Tower Bridge across it, the A25 rather than the M25. I always made the noon deadline, but it was such a close run thing that I usually kept to the motorways and across London SE to NW or the other way round. Whether I went to Thatcham first or Maidstone first, was, again, dependent on boredom.

I’m not sure why I began that contract heading up the M3 to do Maidstone first, but it meant starting on the motorway (whereas the A339 was a pleasant and picturesque route. Anyway you started on one and finished on the other). This was in all weathers. Originally I began at 6am because traffic on the M3 was relatively light at that point. By the time I reached the M25 interchange the rush hour was in full flow, however. Whereas by the end of the morning coming back, motorway traffic was comparatively light again. Essentially, whichever direction I took, it was rush hour between 7 and 9 and, obviously, always heavy through Central London (which amounted to the Edgware Road to Hyde Park Corner, across the bridge and Old Kent Road to the M20).

I started at 6am to avoid as much of the rush hour on the M3 as possible, to get to Maidstone just as the AA site was opening; but it so happened that it gave me just enough time to make the round trip by the noon deadline, so I always started at 6am thereafter, even once I knew the route like the back of my hand.

And given how fast I had to go, I soon switched from using the Honda to taking the Laverda. This was just before speed cameras, and I spent plenty of time on the M25 at 120mph. I spent so much time at high speed that, by the end my year as a self-employed courier, 90 seemed slow. Which was part of the reason I then quit (basically I was burned out).

So when three years later, having forgotten the ordeal part of the job - as well as lived with and broken up with the only woman I ever considered marrying - I missed it, and joined Trans Action.

While it was an improvement not buying my own chains and tyres, or doing my own servicing, and being handy having a company card for petrol - and not having to wait six weeks to be paid by TNT - the company BMWs seemed awfully slow! At least the break had cured me of the extremely dangerous riding habits of three years earlier (I used to ride between traffic on the motorways on the white lines at 100 to 120mph on a regular basis. Eventually I’d consider the nerves of the drivers having a full-bore Jota go past them out of nowhere two foot from their window. This was when I stopped feeling I was doing them a favour subjecting them to that – likewise my neighbours having to listen to Led Zeppelin and Black Sabbath).

I’m pretty sure I did do at least 50,000 on the R80RT. Anyhow, then, for whatever reason – company finances allowed it, or the dealer finally had one in – I was taken to Farringdon on the Alton to Alresford road to take delivery of a brand new 750 BMW triple; so which I subsequently rode from new for 75,000 miles.

I was riding it on the M3 late one morning, around about Farnborough, I guess. I was in the fast lane overtaking a string of cars, at 80, heading for a decent gap ahead; I could have pulled in sooner, but didn’t want to unduly compromise my braking distance. Then I saw headlights flashing in the mirror. I was used to – obviously – and disdainful of, the likes of company reps doing that, so ignored it, and carried on, not appreciably breaking the speed limit, being ‘responsible’ this time around. Shortly the car behind flashed it’s headlights again and, without turning round, I extended my left hand behind me and gave the driver two fingers, with unmistakable emphasis. Eventually I reached the safe gap ahead and pulled into the middle lane.

I looked to the right, prepared to give the driver a “fuck you” look as it overtook me, only to be overtaken by a police car. The copper in the passenger seat waggled his finger at me as they drew level. There was a woman in the back who looked like the Queen Mum.

In a way, working for that company was interesting. We took the bikes home and there was no injunction not to use them as personal transport – though the livery was a constraint, along with the fact you didn’t really want to take long rides when you were already riding maybe thousands of miles a week. After picking up the bikes we had to take a few paid days off just riding where we liked, to run them in. Eventually I had to take it to a company at Langley to have the livery applied.

The co-owners were Simon – who had a 120 Jota – and Jan, whose husband ran a business on a farm not far out in the sticks, from where he prepared Range Rovers for off-road – and fitted tyres, so that’s where we went for those.

And we’d take the bikes for servicing back to the dealer – which is how I ended up in a ditch on the Alton Road after hitting ice one winter, while a copper looked on, and that I posted about previously. I repaired the fairing damage myself and got paid for that.

And the K75’s the bike I took the Advanced Rider assessment on, that we were all required to take when the company got fed up with the no. of accidents (though at this point I hadn’t had any). The Advanced Riding course company was based in Merton, where we went for slow riding around obstacles and testing on the more obscure parts of the Highway Code, including having to draw signs I had no idea even existed, let alone what they looked like. I for one didn’t do that great on the Highway Code.

And there was an assessment being followed around South London – which was more or less where I started riding fifteen years or so before, while at college in Morden, where I’d frequently skip lunch and just ride around on a borrowed CZ175.

The final part of the assessment involved being tailed for most of the day, to half-a-dozen locations throughout Southern England (and having to find specific locations, which I suppose was to test us for how safe we were riding through busy traffic while looking for street-names and businesses. Uxbridge, with it’s busy one way system, was a challenge).

From Uxbridge I was headed back to South London and from there, Bristol, joining the M3 at Virginia Water. By now I was getting pissed off with being over-cautious, hot and bothered behind a faired bike around London for a couple of hours. Being watched or not, the prospect of riding on the M3 and sticking to 70 was just too much. I decided I’d rather quit than do that, so once on the motorway I took off at 80; and the assessor stayed with me all the way. The furthest we went was Plymouth. It was a long day.

The report, on all of us, was that we didn’t need Advanced Training. Probably obvious just by the fact of our being alive and uninjured, though the majority of the work was in London, where it was said a motorcycle courier’s life expectancy was, I believe, three months.

I lasted one year in the job, again, burned out by the end of it. It made me not want to ride bikes for pleasure. I’d stop at an off-licence on the way back from the last London job of the day, after dark – sometimes not long before they closed – and buy a four or six pack of Special Brew; get home and drink until collapsing on my bed. Originally there were plenty of long-distance runs – like to the Peak District, Rhondda Valley, Cornwall, Merseyside; but by the end it was London, London, London. I only ever did it to be paid to do what I’d choose to do anyway; but it was turning pleasure into a chore, so again I quit. I still feel a certain nostalgia for the job, but I’ll never again forget the downside.

Doing it throughout the winter, day in, day out, bordering on hypothermia, soaked and cold with two or three hundred miles still to go, and maybe the same again to come back. You have to be mad or desperate to do it. I didn’t just lose my increasingly-immature philosophy whereby I was giving drivers the gift of hearing a big 4-stroke flying past near enough to touch; but also the curious notion I was some kind of working class hero riding bikes through any and all weather, like a particular version of a hard-case – not in a bike gang, not in the SAS, but able to take anything. Eventually I could see a stupid fucker in the mirror (though I stared him out).*

I mean, apart from the fact eventually you’d be banned anyway – at least I would – and the fact the office were absolutely adamant we should not break the law, while expecting delivery times that inescapably required it – so, you know, once I lost my license it would be my own fault, so tough shit.

There’s a nostalgia for riding about on the 550 Honda – in pleasant weather, on tree-lined A and B roads. Occasionally I think about buying another: it’s actually more appealing than the thought of another Bonneville – because fewer expectations would be unmet with the Honda. It’s deeply unsatisfying to ride a 750 Triumph and be continually overtaken by family cars. But the memories that are almost legendary are on the Jota which, minor details aside – like 180 triple as opposed to 90 degree V-twin – the Ducatis provide the exact same thrill.

In ‘Alive’, one of the teenage rugby players asks a teammate which he prefers, rugby or girls? He says (Ethan Hawke, as I recall) “girls”, except when he’s playing rugby. The other modifies that with “rugby except when girls are watching you play rugby”. Speaking for myself I think that riding near-perfect machines, in near-perfect conditions, is better than ‘girls’. Though it’s nice to have one on the back holding on to you.

* Sometimes what I'd see in the mirror kept morphing, lol. Which reminds me: what should I put a personalised plate on? The 999 or the 900ssie?

 

Sometimes it was sublime - I mean, forgetting the long distance stuff. Working London after rush hour of a balmy evening. Or, first time around - '88/'89 - on a Sunday, when there was little traffic: second time around - '93 - London on Sunday was like every other day of the week. A great racetrack had been sacrificed to Sunday opening!
Racing the other bike couriers from one set of lights to the next on a virtually empty Brompton/Earl's Court Rd or Kensington High St., weaving across four lanes like it was choreographed, because everyone did that job and it was second nature.
I had routes - as I suppose we all did - criss-crossing London avoiding the log-jams. Like for instance the route I used to take for Croydon - that I tried a couple of years back on Google Street View, with a result split between being unable to remember sections and new roads; and just that - and getting caught in a bus lane here the first day riding after the 16 year break (that is the true meaning of my user name. I wouldn't watch Doctor Who if you paid me) - I realize all those routes, all that saner version of The Knowledge, is lost. Like tears in rain.

One of Trans Action's riders had this story - that sounded genuine but you could imagine it as an urban legend. He said he had a minor collision with a car (in London) and the driver turned out to be David Bailey, who got out and photographed everything. It sounded hilarious the exasperated way he told it.

 

Yeah, that rings many more bells.

Nodded off far too often, but luckily always woke up in time. The worst was going north on the M6 at Walsall. I forget which bike I was on, but one with a really light throttle, because as my arms relaxed it wound the throttle open and I woke up accelerating toward the car in front. I think you must be lucky to have survived the job for 9 years; I'm sure I wouldn't have.

But to state the bleedin' obvious, I have a hard time not going as fast as I can get away with. Hence couriering (if that's the word. I never did know) on a Laverda Jota.

I used to love the A25. I'd ride it before I became a courier, to Redhill or Reigate and back. When I had the use of a CB900F2, I took it out in the early hours and did the A25. Which is the first time I appreciated Japanese fours, which led to accepting one-and-a-half CB550 Fours, in bits, as payment for rewiring a Kwacker; and, wondering what to use it for, gave me the idea to be a courier.

And, as some will be aware, my mate Dave started making guitars, after making a replacement body for my Telecaster. When he got serious must have been in '89, because I used to pick up luthier supplies for him from a shop in Reigate.

I have a wistful memory of sandwiches of prawn and avocado in baguettes from one place in Pall Mall and another in Clerkenwell, but I think I'm just straying into wishing I was young again now. Eventually I was taking orders from the staff back in Basingstoke, which was, to me, an amusing, slightly unreal development.

 

One other story: this was on my first stint, self-employed. I'd met this also self-employed van driver at the TNT office. I wonder if he's still alive, given he was a thalidomide victim (if 'victim' isn't somehow demeaning). Tiny little arms! Anyway he was a real ball of fire. And one evening, after I'd called it a day, he rang me and asked if I'd do a job for him. This was 21 identical documents to deliver all over London, that night. So I went over to his place, picked it up and off I went again.

That was one of those balmy evenings. I don't know what it is about the quality of the light: I suppose it is clear because everything comes together - air pressure, air quality, just the right density for sound to carry, for visual clarity. The stars, bright points of light without the night being chilly - all of which, combined, is precisely why you feel sharp, with an over-all impression of everything being just so.

And I remember walking back to the expanse of road in Hampton, having made my final delivery, and looking at the wide open space before me beneath the lucid, blue-black sky, and watching an equally blue-black Merc drive past, from right to left, at high speed, it's anti-theft alarm honking frantically.

I put the key in the Honda and headed for the A3 and home.

Note: In the original post I stated that I had to complete the AA job by 12 noon. While that was correct, I would stress, nonetheless, that I did not have to complete by 11 noon. Or indeed by 13 noon.

 

Yes, I concur, the internet pretty much killed it. For years I almost unconsciously kept an eye out for evidence there was still such a trade and realised long ago most of what motorcycle couriers did could now be done online.

This subject made me wonder what old colleagues were doing these days and I did a little googling. I found just two mentions of Trans Action: one listing their old premises on some business finding site, which can be seen to be obviously outdated using Google Street View. The other is co-founder Simon's CV on LinkedIn whereby he was no longer there post-'97 - which would have been about when the internet took off to the extent he'd likely have figured the game was up.

Further, Simon's linkedin lists him as manager of Bournemouth Flying Club, yet that doesn't appear to have existed since 2012.

What you can still do and I've idly considered, though not very seriously, is delivery of medical materials. Typically, I believe that would be carrying blood, maybe organs - if you ask yourself just what would hospitals need in enough of a hurry to require carriage by motorcycle. I believe there are one or two on this forum who do, or have done, that.*

* As, indeed, doogalman mentions doing in his original reply - though my point is that this use does continue today.

 

I presume you're still doing the rideouts? I could tag along on the 900. I could probably ride sedately on that.

 

Thanks, I appreciate the offer. I don't believe I'd be up to it before the summer mind. Possibly more to the point I'd vowed not to return to Wales since the 20mph thing. I'll be interested in your experience of that.