quicksilver

I want to be a bicycle messenger.

I see these guys (and almost as many gals) zooming all over the city. On their bikes riding fearlessly between cars, the wrong way down a one-way street, effortlessly blowing red lights while slaloming around 30 mph cross traffic. This has got to be the best job, and the best-kept secret career, ever.

Even better than even my original choice of fallback career, cab driver.

I used to think that being a cab driver would be the best thing for me. You get to meet lots of people. You are your own boss. And, you get paid to drive fast and aggressively. I don't know about you, but I usually drive fast and aggressively for free. I love to drive, but I like to drive fast even more. Sure the money is crap, but who needs to live in a big house with lots of fancy towels? All you need is a small place, a little food and an internet connection (taxi blog?) and you're all set. I am a huge fan of the Night Cabbie. Read up...

Then one day it struck me. I want to be a bicycle messenger. It has all the benefits of being a cab driver. But more. You get to be outdoors all day and you get lots and lots of exercise. The bad thing about being a bicycle messenger is that after about 15 seconds on the job, you smell like a goat. And don't even get me started on the uniform. What's with the studded belt and the lopsided capri pants they're always sporting?

Fashion faux pas aside, I have to admit that the allure of being a bicycle messenger hit me years ago after seeing Quicksilver for the second (OK, twentieth) time. I was in college at the time and I was about to enter the rat race that Kevin Bacon was losing so badly. I was (and still am) wary of joining the rat race to begin with. Maybe it was because I grew up as a latchkey kid, but the whole nine-to-five thing never quite sat right with me, even though that's exactly what I was training to do in college. And then one day, I was lounging with my roommate watching the USA Network or something and there it was, right in front of me, lose the rat race, quit, get a hot girlfriend and ride a 10-speed until your ankles fall off.

I'm certainly not losing the rat race now. I am doing just fine. And no self-respecting messenger would be caught dead on a bike with gears. It's fixed gear all the way nowadays. But every now and then I get a twinge of existential angst. Is this all there really is? This can't possibly be what I was meant to do with my life.

And then I see him, the messenger, zooming down the street passed my office, and I catch myself staring, with my mouth ever so slightly agape.