Note for anyone just starting to read this thread: Since I started this in 2008, a number of other couriers from around the world (and even a motorcycle cop) have added their stories. This began as a thread about one guy. It's become a thread about many people, some far crazier than I ever dreamed of being... Enjoy. The Background: From 1980 to 1982 I worked as a motorcycle courier in downtown Washington, DC. I was nineteen, twenty, twenty one years old, immortal, and quite the wild hooligan on my Suzuki SP400, a dual-purpose thumper that would carry my then 150-pound self absolutely anywhere (more on that later (the "anywhere", not the weight I've gained in the years since these stories took place). This was in the days before e-mail. Before faxes. Before cell phones and before the internet (yes I know some of these things EXISTED but they were VERY scarce or in their infancy). I thought some of you might get a kick out of hearing what it was like to zoom around town, oblivious to and pretty much immune to things like traffic laws, security concerns, personal hygiene and common sense. Sadly, no pictures exist, so this will have to be a RR sans photos. I have some general observations, and a few specific stories that may be of some interest. I'll save the best for last, where I was a witness to, and in a very VERY small way a part of, our nations history. First off, we were BUSY! Press releases were delivered to the various newspaper offices by courier. Lawyers sent documents for signature by courier. Letters that couldn't wait for what we now call Snail Mail were sent by courier. Video tape, legal briefs, court filings, pictures, House and Senate resolutions, architectural drawings, airline tickets – you name it, we delivered it. I might make 35 or 40 drops in a day. Many more if there was a big press release that went to every single occupant of the National Press Building. I've been to most of the Embassies, the White House, the CIA, the FBI, the Watergate and was such a regular at the Capital building that most of the guards recognized me (as well as some of the other couriers) and would let me park on the sidewalk right next to the private entrance reserved for members of Congress. And then let me use that entrance. Speaking of sidewalks, that's where we parked. Always. No exceptions. Things are different now but back then, we were motorcycle Gods. The cops would sometimes scold us, but the corps of maybe 40 or 50 motorcycle couriers (working for three different companies) who constituted the "regulars" had essentially a free pass. Parking on the sidewalk. Splitting lanes. Forty-five in a twenty-five zone. Wheelies at green lights. U-turns wherever the hell we felt like it. The cops knew us and just looked the other way. I even drove the wrong way on a one-way street for an entire block once as a shortcut and nobody said anything. Maybe it was because I was coasting downhill. On the sidewalk. Stay tuned.