Mommas, don’t let your babies grow up to be Messengers.

Some of you readers may or may not know that I got some schoolin as bike messenger in San Francisco. Fortunately for me, during my time of messenger career, my mom didn’t really understand what that meant due to her lack of schema for the term “bike messenger.” The man I was seeing a lot of then (a bike messenger also) and now dating (also not a bike messenger anymore), would recount tales of how his mom rightfully worried to no end about him being a bike messenger–so much that he would feel bad about telling her things related to messengerdom (unfortunately, she saw a Lucas Brunelle alleycat short). I listened dutifully, happy and thankful that my mom had no clue what my job meant to my safety and potential of becoming a vegetable. I was a messenger from the fall of 09 to the spring of 2012, roughly.

Then, Premium Rush comes out. And now I’m working an office job in the East Bay. I just got back from a weekend business trip for said office job, all the way in Minnesota. I got in at 11PM and didn’t get home until midnight. I was fucked-up-edly exhaused because of that terrible, “I-slept-on-a-plane-with-my-neck-all-craned-bad,” feeling and my body is really tired from pressurized-cabin-fever.

I came, I slept, I dreamt. Until 6:40 AM, Monday morning, when my phone rings. Waking up, not to my 7:20 alarm. It’s my mom. She called my google voice phone number and left this message. Then called my regular phone, which woke me up. Our conversation was pretty much the same as this except that I told her 6:30 AM calls are FOR EMERGENCIES ONLY!

Have a listen….

Well.

Photo by Austin Kamps … Here’s me as a Speedway messenger, chillin on standby at the Statue in the morning, waiting for jobs from Paul. These are also the friends I made.

Photo by Austin Kamps  …  Here are the stitches I got on my face from crashing during a messenger work day.

Photo by Austin Kamps … This is the worst job I ever accepted. It only was to go two blocks. Turned out, it was the worst two blocks of my career.

Photo by Tae Kim … Here’s the money I won in an alleycat because I was a fast messenger

Here’s the national ad I was in because of my messenger connections.

Photo by Some Lady … Here’s the trip I won (via a big alleycat) to the North American Cyclo-Courier Championships where I won third place in the womens division.

Photo by Freya … And finally, here’s my cool ass boyfriend of three years that I met when I started working as a messenger.

Photo by Rachel Marie Styer

That is indeed exactly what I did.

Look ma! No hands!

Photo by Austin Kamps

(I love you too, mom.)

-Somtimes Klassy

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2 responses to “Mommas, don’t let your babies grow up to be Messengers.

  1. *laughing so hard*

    I didn’t tell my mudda the time I rode a supercentury through Big Sur with no granny gear, mostly in the pitch dark. I just showed up on the door step with my bike. She asked, “Why do you have camp gear with you?”

    Oh Mom, I just rode my bike down to see you for New Year’s Eve. *wink*

    JORTZ!!!

JORTZ! JORTZ! JORTZ!

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