I'm taking a moment to reflect. In less then an hour I turn forty four an age when I said I'd hang up my cleats when I would be a messenger no more. I've got chronic pain in both shoulders. A sane man would ........ Me I wanna get all Charlton Heston and hold my bike over my head and shout. "From my cold dead thighs, from my cold dead thighs!!" Come to think about it I read about some messengers catching some cat stealing one of their bikes. They beat on him a little but he could still walk away. Some folks thought that was a little much. I say fuck those over-privileged whiny pussies they have no clue what it's like to have something you've worked for, that's become a part of you as well as being a tool you use to feed yourself taken from you.
Feel the pavement when you bounce from it, hear the engine of a car roaring behind you, answer the static coming from your two-way, embrace the corner of the box that craves your spine while you´re carrying it in your bag, taste the cold and yet sweet taste of beer when it sparkles in your mouth.