Gurriers (81 page)

“You know I don’t care.”

“You could easily have got someone to do these minis.”

“You were the handiest for them.”

“Someone who’s had some food.”

“Just do it.”

“Four Sean.”

“Go ahead.”

“I’m at Imprint and my bike won’t start.”

“I don’t believe it.”

“Come up here and see for yourself. It’s something electrical.”

“Stand by for a phone call.”

“All the phone calls in the world aren’t going to make this bike start. I’m gonna leave the bank job here and push the machine round to the lads in the Gem. Don’t forget that there’s two in Compusol.”

“I’ll see you in the morning, Shy Boy.”

“Hopefully I’ll have the bike sorted by then.”

Fuck you, Fatso!

THE UGLY

Okay! Mount Street Lower, then Mount Street Upper, then Mount Street Crescent.

Then Merrion Square. No! That’s zig zagging. Mount Street Lower, cut through the lanes and hit Mount Street Crescent then Mount Street Upper and then straight across for Merrion Square. Sweet!

Watch that van heading this way, there’s something about it. Couldn’t be, they’re turning right, so there’s no way they’re going anywhere until I’m past them.

Over cautious, Sean, keep her throttled!

Oh no! Oh Fuck! How could this be! Brake, brake, brake! Swerve it!

This is gonna hurt! BANG!

“Four Sean, Four Sean, four, need an ambulance. Four Sean,
emergency!”

“Everybody stand by, Four Sean where do you need the ambulance for?”

“Aaagh, fuck I’m smashed up, Jeezus it hurts! Junction of Northumberland and Haddington Oww fuck. Get them here quick!”

“Roger, Sean, Roger. Ambulance on the way to Northumberland for ye. Tell me what happened.”

“Bastard van… oh, fuck! This hurts so much! Bastards turned right when I was on top of them… Head on crash…fuckin’ bull bars…hurry up with that ambulance. I’m broke up bad here!”

“Roger Sean, ambulance on the way. Ray is headin’ around to ye to get yer work an’ look after yer bike an’ tha’”

“I should be in shock, but I’m not. The fuckin’ pain.”

“Try not to think abou’ the pain, Sean; think about the claim money or sum’in.

How come the van didn’t see you?”

“The cunts are talkin’ German. They prob’ly though tha’ they were still in the fuckin’ Fatherland and turned right without lookin’ for oncomin’ traffic. Aaagh! Oh, fuck, I never knew pain like this. I thought I woulda passed ou’ before ever feelin’ this much pain.”

“Listen, Sean, you’re in the right so the more pain you’re in now the more money ye’re goin’ to get later on.”

“Fuck the money, this is too much!”

“I can hear sirens over your radio, man, the worst of it is nearly over, jus’ hang on in there.”

“Shy Boy.”

“Ray, aaagh! Oh, fuck, the fuckin pain!”

“You relax yourself, man, here comes the ambulance. I’ll get your witnesses together too…’Scuse me, did you see what happened? No. Anybody see the crash?

You did? Lovely. Could I trouble ye to write your details here please. You too, when this gent is finished with the pen I’ll get you to write your details under his. Thanks very much. Could somebody please help me with this bike?… What does it look
like I’m fuckin’ doin’, ye foreign bastard. I’m pickin’ my friend’s fuckin’ bike up for ‘im. See him there? He’s my fuckin’ friend, you dickhead, now get the fuck owa my fuckin’ way or I’m gonna punch the fuckin’ head off you and every other fuckwit that was in tha’ van that injured my fuckin’ friend!”

“Okay what have we got here?”

“Oh, thank God. Have you got painkillers? I’m not in shock; I really need painkillers.”

“All in good time; can you tell me what happened?”

“They pulled across in front of me and I hit them head on without going into shock. Please give me some painkillers!”

“Did you swerve?”

“Yes. Oh, God, the pain!”

“And your right hand side hit the van?”

“Yes. What about those painkillers?”

“Any dizziness or nausea?”

“Just pain! Please!”

“Bring the trolley over this side, John, he has a dislocated right shoulder, more than likely a broken bone there also. Probably other injuries down the right hand side too.”

“Can you give me painkillers?”

“He says he’s not in shock”

“I amn’t. Goddammit, I’m in pain!”

“Painkillers aren’t our priority, son. We’ll have you in hospital in a few minutes, someone there will give you something for your pain.”

“Ah, for fuck’s sake!” “...two three, hup!”

“Aaagh!”

“Is this the RTA?”

“Yes nurse. His injuries are mostly down the right hand side. The shoulder has been broken and dislocated, knee and elbow have both been injured, but there doesn’t seem to be any other broken bones.”

“And he’s not in shock so he’s in an enormous amount of pain!”

“We’ll get you something for that in a moment Mr…?”

“Flanagan. Sean Flanagan.”

“Address?”

“2 Arbourfield Terrace, Windy Arbour, Dundrum, Dublin 14.”

“Next of kin?”

“Mother, Iris Flanagan. Please can you help me with this pain?”

“Just a little bit more information. What religion are you?”

“Fucking Jedi. Jedi in desperate need of painkillers.”

“That language and attitude won’t help you, Mr Flanagan.”

“Catholic. Please help me with my suffering. Please.”

“Okay. We’re just going to cut off your jacket and then give you an injection to ease the pain.”

“Do you have to cut the jacket off?”

“You have a dislocated shoulder, Mr Flanagan. To take your jacket off normally would cause you excruciating pain.”

“Would it do any further damage?”

“Well no, provided it was done carefully.”

“This jacket cost a fortune. Why don’t you get the injection ready for me while these gents help me out of it?”

“Are you sure?”

“I don’t have the money to replace it, so I have to save it.”

“Okay, Mr Flanagan, are you ready?”

“Ready as I’ll ever be.”

“Oh, there’s two zips in it.”

“Extra protection from the weather. That’s one of the reasons that they cost so much.”

“Ready John?”

“Please be quick. Aaagh, oh, fuck! Oh, Jesus Christ! Keep going! Gnnnnh…oh, my God! Oh fuck!”

“Nearly there.”

“Aaaagh….good suffering, Jaysus…oh, fuck!”

“Okay, Mr Flanagan, just a needle pinch to go now.”

“Oh fuck. Oh shite. Oh God!”

“That should start working pretty soon, Mr Flanagan. It’s quite powerful.”

“I can feel it already. Oh, thank God, thank you. I hope I never have to feel pain like that again. Ever!”

The crash on Northumberland Road killed my poor bike and scuppered my plans to go to the Isle of Man. It also had me out of work for six weeks while my shoulder healed. Six skint weeks with sick pay from the social welfare my only source of income - though I was lucky to get that thanks to the PRSI contributions that I had paid in my previous job. A lot of couriers who crashed had to go to their local health centre every week to see the relieving officer for payment because of the lack of stamps paid at the lower tax bracket that couriers were in.

Vinno and Nat were great to me while smashed up, supplying me with hot meals pretty much for the entire time, though my landlord was adamant that a smashed up shoulder wasn’t an injury that would prevent a man from making his share of the joints.

“There’s no fuckin’ way am I goin’ to be the only one skinnin’ up wi’ three of us smokin’. No fuckin’ way!”

It wasn’t that hard to skin up with my right arm in a sling and if he hadn’t pushed me into mastering it I would have been rightly stuck while he was in work, and arsing around all day while you wait for your bones to heal is not a situation that you
want to be stuck for narcotics in!

After five boring and depressing weeks, the highlight of which every week was Friday night in the local being bought beer all night by my buddies, City Spares gave me 200 quid for what was left of my poor machine. This was less than what I had paid for the tyres and new chain and sprockets only a few weeks previous, but they made sure to tell me that I was doing well to get that much off them.

Heartbreaking as it was, the machine was only good for the breakers after that smash. Vinno assured me that I was better off letting it go after being smashed up by it also, rather than going to the expense of getting a new frame and front end, fixing it up and riding around on a constant reminder of the worst injury that I had ever suffered. Best to just consider the machine as a bunch of components that had a little bit of value separately than a working companion that had been loyal and faithful and had worked as hard as I demanded it to without ever letting me down. Man it hurt like hell to abandon it.

I still felt like a shithead when I dropped it off in Pat Murphy’s van, counting the money like a Judas as Pat drove me to Cromwellsfort Road to hand it over to Robbie in D12 Motorcycles as part payment for my next bike - a Honda CB400 Super Four. The Super Four is another great example of a commuter bike from Honda.

It is part of the four cylinder branch of the CB family, as the name suggests, and it is a great all rounder. It revs very high, which makes it go like shit off a shovel, but it is well able for the high revs because it has gear driven cams keeping the timing perfect. It has a low centre of gravity and wheels the same size as sports bikes. The brakes are phenomenal for such a light machine - twin discs on the front with a disc on the back, all with two pot callipers and it has a tighter turning circle than any other bike that I ever owned - including the trailie style KMX! This made it second to none for flinging through gaps, stationary and moving, in traffic.

Despite the smaller engine, it was just as fast as my old CB, but because of the sharper brakes, lighter weight and better
handling it could be driven faster and more aggressively, which was perfect for a courier! The engine was also bulletproof and there were many stories among couriers about how long individual Super Fours lasted and the huge amounts of mileage thus involved.

I got a great little bike for my money and some credit off Robbie, an ex-courier himself, to get me back to work as soon as I was ready...or, actually, a bit sooner than I was ready.

My shoulder gave me lots of trouble during my first few weeks back at work.

Being in constant pain and grieving over my CB 500, I did my absolute best to hate my new bike, but couldn’t help but get fond of the little flyer as I got to grips with the machine, regaining the confidence that was lost due to the injury and learned to maximise the advantages it offered to city driving.

By the time the pain subsided to near normality and my confidence had fully returned, the Super Four and I were smoking around Dublin city accumulating dockets faster than I ever had on the 500 and I was buzzing off the fact that very few man/ machine combinations had a chance of keeping up with me as I went about my job.

“It’s not the bike, it’s the rider!’ This became my mantra whenever I happened upon a sports bike or a cruiser or one of the increasingly popular big new BMWs that were invariably driven by office staff that were sick of sitting in traffic and had the bottle for two wheels.

Sports bikes were usually ridden by brother (or sister) bikers, the vast majority of whom knew where it was at with the professionals on their slower but more manoeuvrable machines. Not that they gave way easily or anything, especially if there was a straight stretch or a distance of traffic free road ahead. Any cheeky monkey that zipped past them in these conditions should expect to be overtaken quite closely at speed very soon thereafter. In general though, sports bikers know to expect couriers to swing through gaps in traffic that they wouldn’t normally and respect the frenzied way that couriers drive, mostly just leaving us to it.

Cruisers don’t tend to be just about speed and drive the least manoeuvrable of all bikes, making them move more predictably and therefore less likely to delay a stressed out courier. The only thing to beware of with cruisers is gangs. All of the old style “Hells Angel” gangs drive cruisers. There’s nothing wrong with this, but these individuals would be more likely than usual to turn violent. When coming up on a cruiser with the intent to overtake, it is advisable to watch out for back patches, either on the leather jacket or, more commonly, on a denim jacket with the sleeves cut off worn over the leather jacket. Not that you have to get stuck behind these bikes, just exercise a bit more decorum when overtaking. I never heard of a courier having a run in with a Hells Angel, but I did hear first hand of an episode of violence involving Five Christy from Documents Direct.

On a hot summer’s day in ’98 he was heading towards town on Dorset Street on his little Suzuki GN 125 at the head of the inside lane of traffic when some dickhead in a Merc pulled out of a side street in front of him, cutting him off to head towards town also. Christy had to slam on the brakes and swerve to avoid a collision, beeping at the offending motorist at the same time. The car was stopped at the next traffic light and Christy intended to pull up to the driver and give out shite to him about pulling out in front of motorbikes, incorporating a speech that a pissed off biker will always catch a car driver. He heard the engine noise, but was still startled when the Harley, who had been heading the same way in the fast lane, sped past him and beat him to the stationary vehicle driver’s door. The Harley driver, a huge individual according to Christy, was sporting the back patch of a gang (Christy wouldn’t say which one) and gave out shite through the open window of the car for a few seconds before delivering three solid left jabs to the motorists head, rendering him unconscious. Christy, who had swung to the inside of the car on seeing the first blow, was as stunned as most people are in the face of sudden violence, plus the added element involved in the realisation that the violence was on his behalf. He told me that he dreaded making eye contact with the Harley driver, but felt obliged to.