Gurriers (57 page)

Everybody was that bit more interested in what everybody else was getting, everybody pushed that bit harder for extra dockets on each run - dragging their heels on every run out in the hope of clicking one more docket and also suggesting deviations to their routes that would have been unthinkable before Christmas.

In December Aidan was told that a courier was “Blackrock rolling in” using the left hand to push in the button on the radio so that the right one could keep the throttle wide open lest, God forbid, the individual would slow down even a tiny bit. In January, the same courier would pull over, stop and ask his base controller if there was anything available in Sandyford Industrial Estate, encouraging a deviation that would have led to a screaming match had the controller suggested it the previous month. This behaviour did nothing for the quality of service provided. Aidan took some serious bollickings off clients before dishing out bollickings of his own.

There were more disputes between the couriers also, mostly about robbing jobs on each other. It was common to walk into the base to hear one workmate implore to a doubting other that he had been right beside an account when the other had had a job dispatched to him, entitling the robber to rob.

Mobile phones were more of a factor here than before Christ
mas also because of those that had received them as gifts. At this stage roughly half of the couriers in Lightning had them, though Aidan didn’t ring them as often as some base controllers because of John’s concerns about the increase in the company’s phone bill. I wasn’t too keen on the politics of persuading your base controller to put your number on a docket instead of a colleague.

I didn’t rob any jobs that season. As for being in the bad books, I continued my policy of going where I was sent without complaint, but threw a sprinkling of persuasive suggestion that my next run should be a juicy one any time I got a bum run. This helped my cause plenty, combined with the habit I developed of ending every radio message to Aidan with “Is there anything else there?” This simple strategy caused him to have another glance at the computer screen every time and resulted in me picking up an extra docket or two on my route a lot of the time.

Once we got a little bit into the season and people in their various professions completed enough work to necessitate sending it somewhere or for others to send payment or whatever other commercial despatches that made our services such a vital one (more vital to industry than most people chose to appreciate), things picked up considerably. The two remaining new couriers that were left out of the four hired before Christmas decided, courtesy of Aidan, that they had had enough and packed it in. The call rate rose daily, as did the amount and quality of the dockets that I managed to get my number on. I earned less than the basic that I had been given during the dead week on our first week back, despite spending a tenner more on petrol, but beat it easily the following week. Things were looking up.

Then the snow came.

We had, of course, been watching the weather forecast religiously – hoping and praying for conditions to minimise the rigours of our profession. We wanted clear skies by day, cloudy by night with gentle southerly winds to keep the temperature above freezing for us.

Things had actually been quite favourable for us for the first couple of weeks of January, despite the frosty sparkly mornings which prettied up the whole place while simultaneously dread tightening the stomachs of all those whose well being depended on four square inches of rubber.

We had our clear days and cloudy nights but with westerly winds. Not as good as southerly but, thanks to the Gulf Stream, air from the west tended to improve the temperature - provided the wind wasn’t too strong.

Paddy was with us in the flat on that third Tuesday of January. He finished late and cold in Balinteer and, having used Channel Two to make sure that one of us was home (Vinno was in; I was still dropping off in the Ballybrack area at the time), decided to pay us a social visit and heat himself up for the journey home.

I had just arrived home when the weather forecast came on at half six. Gerald, the weather man, familiar enough to us for first name terms, broke our hearts with that evening’s predictions.

“Wind changing to a northerly direction reaching gale force in coastal areas. Clear night becoming very cold. Temperatures dropping to –5 in some inland areas. Cloud moving down from the north early on tomorrow, bringing snow and preventing the temperature rising above freezing. Widespread ice and ground frost. Driving conditions extremely treacherous.”

This was just what we needed. Not!

“Sean, you take the Cary Grant to work tomorrow.”

“Ah, sure the CB’s bashed up now; another knock or two won’t make much difference.”

“Whatever bike you go to work on will probably land on your legs a few times. The CG is less than half the weight of the 500. It’s not as if you’re goin’ to need the power or an’in!”

“Okay Vinno, thanks.”

“I’ll be takin’ ou’ me own little spare meself. The plastics for the FZR are jus’ fuckin’ unbelievably expensive to replace. Wha’ you goin’ to work on, Vinno?”

“The RS. It’s a bi’ heavy, but it has crash bars on i’.”

“I forgo’ tha’ ye had one a them. This is the blue one ye bought off Leo as a project?”

“The very one.”

“Did ye get it all fixed up?”

“Just abou’. It’ll go an’ it’ll stop. The most important thing is tha’ it has the crash bars. Hopefully if I hit the deck tomorrow it’ll jus’ be a case of kickin’ ou’ from under i’ then pickin’ i’ up an’ carryin’ on.”

“When ye hit the deck ye mean!”

“Las’ day o’ the last snow, I kept meself vertical all fuckin’ day, man! I was on me Cary Grant an’ i’ went from under a few times, bu’ a good stamp on the ground an’ a wrestle of the bars saved the day every time.”

“Let’s hope you’re that successful tomorrow.”

“Let’s hope we all are.”

I didn’t sleep very well that night. The worsening weather had being taking its toll on me, especially with all the extra standing by involved in the quiet season. The base in Dublin 2 was great, but with so many couriers standing by all over the city, the odds were that you were going to come across a buzzy buddy at the kiosk, or the bank on Baggot Street or the bridge at Percy Place or wherever to have a chattering, foot stomping smoke with while waiting for more work to be despatched to you.

I found that I was even more likely to yap and smoke when I came across couriers in the industrial estates, preventing myself from having to scam heat from some strange receptionist. I also found that I really, really didn’t like suffering the intense, prolonged, bone – deep cold wreaked upon couriers in the winter. Apart from the obvious discomfort, the cold has other negative effects on a body. One of these is the reduced capacity of the bladder.

Whatever way prolonged cold affects the internal organs, the result is that the bladder has to be emptied much earlier than in normal circumstances. Driving a bike in the cold, you could
be grand one minute, not sure whether you need the toilet or not the next minute and be in danger of pissing yourself the moment after that. The irony of the situation is that it happens when couriers are wearing more layers to protect them from the cold, taking that extra couple of seconds to point Percy at the porcelain exactly when the last thing they need is such a delay.

Of course, it’s a hilarious sight to have a courier burst frantically into a toilet and stand dancing and cursing for those tortuous couple of seconds at the urinal and when (if!) they finally manage to safely release the flow, the expression on their faces looks like sheer bliss through the steam, though it really isn’t an enjoyable experience at all. Just another torment of winter, on top of all the others.

Vinnno was up before me for a change the following morning. The drowsiness from lack of sleep was only a small part of what kept me in bed. Gut wrenching dread of what the day had in store for me was the main reason that I couldn’t leave the warmth of my duvet, clutched to my chin in protection, not just from the cold air, but also symbolically from the cold reality of what I had to do that day.

My mind raced among the variety of excuses that might keep me from work like a hamster on ecstasy might race on a wheel. I jumped when Vinno pounded loudly on the door.

“C’mon, Sean, up an’ at ‘em. Adventure time! There’s a winter wonderland outside for us to enjoy!”

Despite my sarcastic snort, the distraction from my excuse making was enough to get me to ease my cold fearing arse out of my warm bed.

Once up, I got moving pretty sharply, applying my various layers of clothing.

I had slept wearing just my jocks, but had wisely laid out all of my clothes in preparation for the battle against chill–induced inertia.

First on was my thermal vest, swiftly followed by thermal t-shirt and light long sleeved polo neck. The neck of the jumper
was unfolded up my neck to cover my lower jaw as per courier style. If you managed to trap the part under your jaw with your helmet strap that would keep the polo neck in place with the throat shielded, at least for a little while – until the many swift movements of the head involved in driving a bike in the city dislodged it.

Many of the older couriers never wore any other form of neck warmers, the premise being that the whole neck area becomes accustomed to the cold as the temperature drops day by day.

“If ye’re goin’ to wear a neck warmer ye’d better buy a spare one as well, ‘cos once ye depend on them ye can’t get stuck havin’ to drive without i’ even for an hour ‘cause yer sensitive, spoiled little neck’ll have ye in bed sick for three days, or – in the case of a weed like you Shy Boy - two fuckin’ weeks’!”

“I’ve never taken a sick day off.”

“Yes ye did, I remember Bollicky Balls givin’ ou’ shi’e about ye tha’ Monday in November.”

“That was different. That was a hangover, or, to be more precise about that one – still drunk.”

“Take my advice, kiddo, let yer neck toughen up to the weather.”

I had heeded this advice so far, wearing a hoodie like so many couriers did with the hood falling outside the neck of the jacket, thus blocking cold air from getting inside my jacket at the back. However, on a social smoke stop in D12 Motorbikes on Cromwellsfort Road the previous week, I had bought myself a light open face polyester balaclava for when the worst of the weather inflicted itself upon us. Today the balaclava was going to be worn for the first time. My neck had been toughening all winter, but snow and ice were a different ball game altogether. I was going to wear my balaclava, snugly tucked into my polo neck, while there was ice on the ground and take no shite from anybody who wanted to give me a hard time over it.

Over my polo neck went a light round neck lambswool jumper, which had great insulation for such a thin garment. Then my thickest hoodie, then - just before leaving the flat - my motor-
bike jacket followed by my waterproof over jacket.

Anybody who knows anything about dressing to combat cold will tell you that many layers are more effective than a few heavy ones. Heartening as it is to know that one is taking the appropriate actions for the conditions, I was under no delusions whatsoever that the seven specially selected layers that I had on my upper body were going to greatly reduce the suffering that I was going to endure this day.

I had begun the winter wearing tracksuit bottoms under my leathers for extra warmth, but – on Vinno’s advice – had bought long johns for this purpose instead. They were thinner, more comfortable and offered just as much heat retention – possibly even a bit more – as the bulkier tracksuit bottoms. On this day I wore both. Then leathers, then lined leggings.

On my feet I wore sports socks, Gore-Tex waterproof socks, another pair of socks and then crushed and stomped my overly padded feet into my boots. It is hugely beneficial to any courier to have a pair of motorbike boots one size too big to wear in the winter.

On my hands I wore a pair of white cotton waiter style serving gloves under my normal gloves. Ray had procured a box of these gloves from God knows where, but he kindly dished them out amongst his workmates to help ease the suffering a little.

I had had a go on a bike that had handlebar muffs on it before Christmas – the wind and waterproof canvas covers that go over the entire end each side of the bars, covering throttle, brake and clutch whilst giving the hands that operate them cover from the weather. The problem with muffs is that they make operating the machine very awkward. Apart from the restrictions on the essential movements of the hands, all of the switches on the bars are hidden from view. Even on a bike that you’re familiar with this can lead to problems with indicators, horn and high beam headlight switches, let alone on an unfamiliar machine, which happened to me one day.

I bumped into Jimmy the Hoover in IFG Mortgages in Booterstown that day. He was on his XBR500, and the old bullet-proof single cylinder thumper came complete with muffs. He
had just got a claim and was considering trading it in for a CB. He bombarded me with questions about it that I didn’t really have time to answer so, since we were both heading low road south, I suggested that we swap bikes and rendezvous in Dun Laoghaire at the shopping centre. Jimmy was made up and in seconds we had switched all of our jobs between here and there to the appropriate machines and off we went.