Motorcycle Courier Diary: “Third and Lenora”

It’s one of the most shameful and humiliating feelings: fuming and cursing about the traffic obstruction on the road up ahead, only to find out later that the obstruction was caused by a friend and co-worker who is lying on the pavement, traumatized and broken.

The first thing I saw this morning was a news video of a mother going into labor in the middle of all the earthquake rubble in Haiti. She’s young, she hasn’t had food or water for a week, she faints, gets taken to a hospital by the news crew, and the doctors barely save the child. I’m still thinking about that baby as I put on my riding gear for work, preparing for another day of dodging traffic.

Haiti is far away, and it’s going to be a beautiful day in Seattle to ride a motorcycle.

Riding down Lakeview towards Eastlake at about 9:00 AM, I hear the dispatcher chirp me on the radio. “Meet me at third and Lenora. ASAP.”

It’s typical to RV (rendezvous) at an intersection and exchange deliveries, but Third and Lenora is unusual because we don’t have any clients nearby, and it isn’t a handy spot for jumping on the freeway. Still, ASAP means as soon as possible, so I downshift and accelerate, maneuver through the traffic on Stewart, then poach a little bike lane before hitting a red light at Westlake.

By the time I reach Third avenue and Stewart and hang a right, I can see a huge clusterfuck up ahead of emergency lights, idling buses, cursing commuters and a cop re-directing traffic back onto Virginia. I can’t see what the problem is. As I’m looking around for an opening to zip through, one of the the bus drivers yells through his window, which I can barely hear over the Suzuki’s exhaust noise:

“A car hit a motorcycle up there!”

It actually takes me a second to get it, and then my stomach kind of flops over. It’s somebody on my crew. I realize that I will have to go around, via First avenue to Blanchard to Third, and I fumble for the clutch lever, wondering if its Lee, or Dean.

When I finally jump off the bike at Third and Lenora, I run up into the middle of a swarm of paramedics and firemen, surrounded by a group of scabby and disheveled gawkers from the assisted living building, and a sidewalk full of everyday people hoping to get a glimpse of blood or guts, something to talk about later by the office water dispenser. There is a cop directing traffic, and other cops filling out paperwork. There is a front bumper from a car lying in the middle of the road, and just beyond that I can see Dean’s colorful SV650 on its side, with numerous parts broken off, lying around like severed appendages. Crouching next to the bike there is a hooded, punk-rocker looking guy, rifling through Dean’s messenger bag. It’s Art, our dispatcher. I run up to him and ask what can I do, is Dean OK.

“Fucked up, right? Dean’s OK, he’s in the ambulance already. He’s talking. Sounds like his hip is broken. Here, grab this rush to Bellevue, then go pick up a Dubs to T-Mobile, one-hour.” Art hands me a large manila envelope, and then continues gathering up the debris that has broken off of the bike: a turn signal, a passenger peg, a chunk of fairing. A guy runs up to us from the sidewalk audience with something in his hand.

“Hey, this came off of there too.” It’s one of Dean’s weird, homemade frame-savers.

Just like that, it’s time to get back to work, even though it feels like the city should stop for a few minutes and observe a moment of quiet. For some reason, my mind drifts back to that Haitian baby, and I almost start to choke up for a second.

Later we will find out that Dean is up at Harborview with a broken pelvis, but no other major damage.  As I’m getting back on my bike to hurry down to Dubs, a FedEx driver walks up to me and asks,

“Was that a friend of yours? Is he OK?”

“It’s my co-worker. He’s going to be OK it sounds like.”

He shakes his head, “Motorcycle courier, huh? I guess that’s not too uncommon for you guys, huh?”

“I guess.”