There is an undeniable sense of them against us with bikers in general. I think it’s fair to say that other road users view us with considerable contempt. Bikers watch out for each other on the road, with couriers it's like a brotherhood.
Red.
Check I'm clear. Throttle back hard, lean right, knee down, second, straighten up, third tuck in, fourth, moving now, left a little, right a lot, the wind whips as I pass traffic to the left and right. An impenetrable wall of traffic in front. I brake hard and squeeze the bike across the path of two slow moving cars, I ignore the blaring horns and bounce the front wheel over the curb onto the pavement. Engine off. Several junkies look over from where they are sitting outside the methadone clinic. I see the junk greedy gleams in their half opened eyes.
‘Can't park it here’ I jump off the bike and push it to the lights and around the corner. I can see the back wheel of a bike flat against the ground. The rest of the bike is obscured by a green double-decker bus. I put my bike on the stand and move forward. I don't really want to see what's there but I’ve got no choice. I round the front of the bus and see Tony lying on his back. A man is standing over him and on the other side of the road a fresh faced Garda is talking into his handset.
“28” I called into the radio.
“28” the controller replied.
“There’s no ambulance here”.
“I’ll call one”.
I knelt down beside Tony. He was conscious and there was no sign of blood. He was however clearly distressed and in pain somewhere.
“You OK?” I asked.
“My bike” Tony groaned.
“I’ll get it”.
I went to pick up the bike. Black oil was leaking form a crack in the engine casing.
“You can’t do that”, it was the man who was standing over Tony. I looked him up and down noting for the first time his bus driver uniform
.
“This is pissing oil” I called over to the Garda “can I put it on the path?”
“Yes” he replied, “there's a van on the way for it”.
“Any chance of an ambulance?”
“On the way” he replied.
“He was flying” the bus driver babbled as I was struggling to pick up the heavy CBR.
“Give me a hand”.
We pushed the bike to the path and I pulled a newspaper out of a nearby bin and put it under the oil leak.
“He really was flying” repeated the driver.
“And you saw him and just kept going” I snapped.
“I couldn’t stop in time”.
“Sounds like it was you who was flying…. Look”, I relented “leave that shite for later, this is Tony, let’s take care of Tony”.
Tony wanted me to take his lid off but I wouldn’t. I thought he was drifting a little and might have banged his head. Tony was upset, it was understandable. One second you’re throttle back, the next address your next destination, and then, bam, you're lying on the damp road, conscious and in pain if you’re lucky, stone cold if you’re not. Even a minor injury can take weeks to heal well enough to go back to work. Some injuries won't heal in a lifetime.
“Keep your head still” I told Tony. I could hear an ambulance siren somewhere nearby.
“He jumped the light” Tony groaned.
Two ambulance men arrived. I gave one of them Tony’s details as the other fitted a neck collar on him. They put him on a stretcher and took him away. I saw the bright blue Securicor satchel on the ground in front of the bus. One of the ambulance crew had cut the strap. I carried it back to my bike as Tony’s bike was loaded into the back of a battered old Garda van.
The base was quiet when I pulled in five minutes later.
“Is he alright?” the controller asked.
“Probably not” I answered “here’s his bag”.
“You’re going to the IFSC, anything in there going that way?” he asked as he looked in the bag.
“Nothin’”.
Chapter Two
Stonewalled
Being involved in a road traffic accident was not a matter of if; it was a matter of when. I'd spilled a number of times but never suffered anything more than cuts and bruises. My luck couldn't hold out forever and I knew it. My number finally came up in November 1999. I was left with a herniated disk, soft tissue damage and a broken finger on my right hand. I was lucky. It was a slow speed impact and only one other vehicle was involved.
The worst way to come off a bike is to high side, that's when you and your machine part company with you sailing out over the handle bars. My bike was a write off and I was going to need some time to mend. The day after I was released from the Mater Hospital I telephoned my local Social Welfare Office. I had never claimed illness benefit before and I wanted to know how to go about it.
“You are not entitled to anything” the anonymous woman on the other end of the line told me.
“Why not?” I asked genuinely surprised. Without some kind of income I was going to be in deep shit.
“You haven't got enough stamps”.
“You're mistaken” I insisted.
“I've been working in the same job for two years, PRSI is ducted every week”.
“That may be” she agreed in a supercilious tone “but it’s not A rate”.
“Explain?” I asked.
“It's a Revenue matter” she sounded defensive.
“So what are you saying?”
“You'll have to contact the Revenue Commissioners, it's nothing to do with us”
“So let me get this straight” I said “the deduction of PRSI is nothing to do with the Department of Social Welfare”.
“In this instance, it is not” she repeated as firmly as she could muster.
“I don't believe you, you're feeding me a line to get rid of me”.
“That is not true” she insisted “PRSI is generally a Social Welfare issue but in the case of couriers it's a Revenue matter”.
“I'll
