My first days as a bike messenger were in the blustery winter of 1982 working for Central Delivery Service. It was a rude awakening from the mellow days of Eugene where I minded the time as a student , bread maker, yogurt inoculator, musician and organic gardener. I had recently returned back home from Oregon where I had done post graduate work in computer science at the University. I found the classes tedious and difficult, with students and teachers who barely spoke the language. A large man named Tom Gormerly hired me at Central and explained it was a tough job, with no insurance or prospects for advancement. I would be an independent contractor, without benefits or recourse if something happened. In this industry, people were injured all the time and even lost their lives. Very few made it past the first season, let alone more than a year.  Being young, and feeling immortal and immune from any possibility of tragedy, in addition to being desperate and hungry, I ignored his sage advice and foolishly accepted. I had no concept of the subculture of radicals, free spirits and bohemians that I was joining.

I  was broke and living in Reston, Virginia with my mother and sister at age 25. Reston is over 35 traffic-clogged miles away from the city of Washington, so I had to rise at 5AM in the bitter cold and dark winter mornings in order to prepare myself in time to catch the 6AM commuter bus. These nasty and wet mornings were a virtual enslavement in a crushing cycle of going to and returning from work.  I had to walk almost a frosty mile in the snowy predawn hours from her apartment just to reach the bus stop! An hour long bus ride dropped me off in Rosslyn, Virginia, across the river from the city. I would then transfer to a subway for the standing room only, 15 minute rush hour ride from Virginia, under the Potomac River and into the city. After a two hour ordeal, I would arrive at Metro Center, emerge with the crowds and walk four blocks to the Central Delivery Service offices by 8AM. Believe it or not, only then would the hard, grueling, leg warping, butt killing work begin! You have no idea how hard it was to do this job.

The CDS office downtown was a sleazy, century old, hole in the wall  located at 12th and K Street N.W.. I was dispatched to various pickup points around town by the infamously grouchy 'Clark' and by the gentle and kindly Calvin. At first, I had a great deal to prove. I had to earn respect and build my reputation as a solid, reliable worker. After a few months learning the to ropes., I felt appreciated by Clark and began making better money. Later, after some mistakes and other competitors, I fell out of favor, and the work just wasn't coming my way. Around 5, after perhaps 25 miles of cycling in winter rain, icy streets and bitter winds, I would lock my bike, walk back to the Metro, catch a subway to Rosslyn, and crawl onto the bus back to Reston, more often than not, soaked to the bone and freezing cold. After the rush hour hell, I'd have to walk the final mile home in pitch dark agony. I had zero energy left and would fall asleep almost immediately. All told, I was 'working' from 5AM to 7PM, a total of 14 hour work days, for generally less than $60 a day.

I remember my first day on the job, riding with Chauncey Brothers, who taught me the fundamental basics. He legitimized courier work in my eyes. Here was another college graduate, with a broad perspective and intelligence, who found cycling a thrilling and rewarding profession. Certainly, it was better than being an office drone in some stuffy bureaucratic cubbyhole, sitting all day long.  It also provided plenty of exercise, excitement, immediate rewards and historical immersion in the real world.  I loved cycling so much! The thought that I could get paid to do this was phenomenal. It kept me on my feet and paid better than most jobs I'd held.

Occasionally, I arranged to catch a ride back home with my mother. This involved a subway to Rosslyn, a painful half mile walk up the very steep Wilson Avenue mountain to the American Gas Association where my mom worked. I could catch a ride back to Reston, arriving by 6:30 or 7! Add it all up and I was commuting four hours a day and cycling nine hours! I had never worked so hard in my life!

I left Reston and Washington, DC after nine months of cycling and returned to the west coast. I landed in the ultra-liberal oasis of Olympia, Washington at the Evergreen State College.  In contrast to the rat race of Washington, this truly was Nirvana. I was delighted to escape the grimy east coast and the pervasive, relentless, grueling all-work. all-business, no play attitudes. Everyone in Reagan dominated D.C. seemed to be working so hard for so very little true reward.  I wasn't having much fun or challenge. I would stay on Olympia several months before moving north to Seattle. After a few months working with Time-Life Telesales I moved into more interesting work with non-profit groups like WASHPIRG before finally joining Greenpeace. I would end up loving this work canvassing, organizing and researching issues related to toxic waste disposal and did so for the next two years. I never wanted or imagined that would someday return to the gritty, grimy job of being a bike courier. Why would I ever return to the business? Love and Money!

After several years of living at below poverty levels in Seattle in non-profit organizations, making a pathetic $100-$200.  I was ready for a change. Besides, I was in love with the dispatcher, who I had met briefly over the New Years holiday during a vacation back east. By springtime, I was soggy and wet enough to consider a return to Washington. I was hoping I could make serious money. I'd been biking twenty miles every day in hilly Seattle, as well as canvassing five nights a week, and was in great physical condition, and felt much better prepared to handle the whole deal.. So, I did eventually return to work for my future wife at Michael's Courier Service in 1985-86.