CMWC 2012: A Messenger with a Broken Wing

Best party in the world, happens every year. Photo: @TAK_NYC

Chicago held the 20^th annual Cycle Messenger World Championships this past weekend (www.chicagocmwc.com), and every year it's held in a different city. Man, I love to travel to CMWC to see hundreds of messengers at the best party in the world. Oh ya, and there's a big race. When messengers travel, they don't do it like regular folk. My first time experiencing it was in 2006 at the Sydney, Australia CMWC. What usually happens is you sign up for housing and the race organizers arrange whose couch you'll surf for as long as they'll let you.

Sometimes, it works a little different. You might know someone in the city, or, like on my way to Sydney, my travel companion who'd won first place and a plane ticket with me (1^st girl, natch) in the Global Gutz alleycat sprung it on me on the plane that he hadn't bothered to investigate housing. My host at the time was already housing me and someone else, but still offered his garage and an air mattress. This is just how messengers do: we can make due.

Johncrow Battie + Bern = 87% cooler. Photo: Betty Rides

What I've learned by travelling like this is that not all hosts are the right host for you. Sometimes it's a guy who sees your picture online and just wants to get laid then changes the agreed length of your stay when he finds out you won't bang him. Sometimes your host has been hosting people for so dang long that by the time you get there they just want their space back. Sometimes the space is the size of your kitchen and has 5 messengers staying over. Sometimes, on the other hand, you get your own room with a former ballet dancer with a degree in astronomy who's roommate is an artist with a dry wit and an extra can of red spray paint. Sometimes you have a host with such a small space they just let you have it and they go to their girlfriend's place. It's really a mixed bag, but if you find the right host, you will have an amazing time. Not that the person letting you crash is there to hold your hand and play tour guide. Entertainment is your own responsibility because a lot of the times these people can't book time off work. But we're an independent lot, we can tour on our own, or link up with the community of visiting messengers and git'er done.

The downside to travelling like this is that sometimes, when you're dealing with such an unpredictable and impulsive lot as messengers, who couch surf, fly by the seat of their pants, love to party and get stoopid wit it, is that the shit can and does hit the fan. And with messengers, when the shit hits the fan, it can hit HARD. In times of crisis, you can have a host that leaves you to the wolves or one who empathizes and swoops straight to your side to hold your hand in a foreign land. Basically, when you're a host, you have a pet from aforeign, and it's your job to make sure they have a place to stay and scratchies behind the ear.

Shuji's the MAN.

When I was in Tokyo, Japan, my host Shuji let me just have his apartment for two weeks. It was amazing! The thing is, while I was out partying it up, I wasn't too picky about what I was eating. Sushi? Bring it! Sashimi? Yum! Squid guts with salty butter on mashed potatoes? Serve it up! There are two problems I didn't forsee with eating like this: raw fish is actually pretty rough on your digestive system if you're not used to it and it's all you're eating, and 2: you have to trust your cook. Now, I've had salmonella and gastrointeritis before, but let me tell you, the Gaijin Sushi Special of 2009 kicked my ass. At first that morning, I thought I was just jetlagged and hungover – a distinct possibility. But by the time 4pm rolled around, I was having sweats and chills, weird nightmares, could barely walk to the store, and then couldn't even express myself to ask the 7/11 guy where the soy milk was. I was determined to stick it out but before I knew it, I had collapsed on the floor of the apartment and thought, “I just need to rest, I just want to sleep...” Now, I've watched enough samurai movies to know that THAT is when the shogun dies because the evil clan's poison takes over. My eyes popped open and I thought “WAIT! That's how you DIE.” I had to get to a hospital.

I picked my ass up and hobbled to the nearest payphone, which costs roughly $1 per minute then abruptly cuts you off if you don't feed the sucker. Shuji was at work... and not answering his phone. I dug in my pocket and found the business card of a local messenger that I'd hit it off with. I dialled. At this point, all the Japanese I'd learned went right out the window, but fortunately, Yutaka knew enough english so it was easy to tell him that I was very sick, but * click * the minute was up, the phone went dead. I called back and he asked where I was. All I knew was, “I'm at Shuji's house.”

Yutaka replied, “where is Shuji's house?”

The Shogun lived: me and my Tokyo hero, Yutaka.

Ummm? Aw shit! I didn't think to ask Shuji his exact address and the thing is, even intersections are classified and labelled very differently in Japan. I read the english street signs but it wasn't enough information for Yutaka. Oh crap – suddenly we have a worst-case-scenario. * click * the phone went dead.

All the while, my head is spinning, I have chills, my legs are rubber and it's difficult to stand or walk, my limbs are weak and my guts are BUSTING.

I ended up figuring that, if I brought my phrasebook to a nearby business, surely I could get someone to tell Yutaka where I was. I had a few choices – and God knows how much time. I could end up doing the funky chicken on the floor at any moment, so did I want it to be at a gas station, 7/11, or... an animal hospital? I stumbled into the vet, phrasebooked “I'm very sick” to the receptionist, pointed to Yutaka's card and asked them to call him and tell him our location in very broken Japanese.

Needing one of these overseas is SCARY.

Messengers can be pretty independent folks, and in my home city, I'm a ronin. I do my own thing, take care of my own business, earn my own papes, fix my own flats, get my own shit done. But in a foreign city in a time of crisis, I become as helpless as a little girl walking down the street in a driveby. When I need help, I FUCKING NEED HELP, because when I screw up, I FUCKING SCREW UP.

I've seen this happen, I've been on both sides of it. The thing is, though, real messengers come through. Real messengers are soldiers who empathize with the need for some genuine assistance, some level-headed thinking, some companionship in a time of crisis.

Yutaka came through for me like a champ. He swooped in like a messenger angel from heaven, locked up his bike and came with me in a cab to the hospital. He told me I looked “blue”, showed me that you can actually lie down on the benches in the waiting room (a novel idea! Canada – get on it), got me hot tea from the vending machine (whaa? Japanese have thought of everything), translated for me (“ummm... your shit. Doctor asks what's your shit? Like water?”), and stayed in the waiting room while the nurse set up my IV and let the antibiotics and saline what – save my life? Perhaps. He leant me the money for prescriptions because I forgot my travel insurance information at the apartment. Shuji came and met us at the hospital. They both walked home with me – very slowly – and then caught about an hour's sleep on the hardwood floor of the crib, probably the only hour's rest they'd had in a week as CMWC organizers. They didn't judge me, they didn't spread rumors about me and they checked up on me after that. To this day, I have a “Damzel in Distress” crush on Yutaka and I'd lay my life on the line at any time for Shuji.

But I'm not the only magnet for these crises. Once, a pet I'd hosted from NYC got himself in some trouble and had to go to the hospital. I had had some stuff to do earlier in the day so I'd left him on his own to entertain himself. When I was rounding the corner to link with him at the after party for the Toronto Bike Film Festival, my friend was looking worried at the corner of the street and told me that my pet had taken a major spill and everyone was waiting for the ambulance.

Embroidery detail on missing bag. Eyes peeled!

A good host gets in the ambulance like a family member. A real messenger doesn't squirm when they see horrific facial wounds or say “wow, man. That looks BAD”. A messenger helps fill out forms, translates if need be, doesn't sleep till her pet can sleep, arranges transportation, helps pay for prescriptions, finds an alternate couch to surf if she herself doesn't have anything for entertainment/distraction at her own place, helps re-book flights, delivers pudding and apple sauce while on standby. A real messenger has compassion, honour, respect, empathy, and NO FUCKING PLANS but to take care of their family in need. When life crashes hard into a messenger's face and knocks out some teeth, his true brethren will not leave him to pick himself up off the ground alone.

And don't get me wrong, when you're stranded in a foreign city in a time of crisis, sure, you could use a bit of loot, a hand drawn map to the Canadian consulate, a 6-pack of PBR and a couch alone for the night, but what really counts is the guidance and assistance of a fellow human being - who's local - to be with you and help you get your shit done, because believe me, it's scary when you realize you're at the bottom looking up at a of a mountain of it. When your host thinks money excuses them blowing you off when you need companionship and help, that's some straight-up BULLSHIT. A messenger in crisis needs more than a couple bux and a Google map search, she needs a babysitter and a friend and a hero, and unfortunately, not every host is up to task.

This past week, I lost my messenger bag the day I landed in Chicago. I pretty much did everything you shouldn't do, and the universe was even giving me hints. I was just riding this incredible high after having moved my apartment in Toronto, escaping a year of living with the neighbours from hell. I just taken a flight to the best party in the world and I'd over packed due to the distraction of moving on the same day. I went to a bar instead of going straight to drop off my stuff, and what's worst is that I asked my host to carry my smaller, lighter bag with everything important in it instead of putting the important shit in the giant heavy bag I was holding. I got drunk and thought my small bag was still being carried by the person who said they'd watch it, and when we both stumbled out the bar, my bag was still in there. My five-year-true messenger bag with all my race patches sewn on – the bag with my ID, with my money, with everything. How stupid can you get? Pretty f*n stupid, if you're me.

My fav babysitter EVAR. Photo: Noah Normandin

I really have to thank the locals who came through to help pick me up off the ground and didn't leave me feeling alone and lost. An SOS went out from Allison Peck and Nikki Munvez, two of the CMWC Chicago organizers, who went looking for a local messenger to guide me in my “Shit This Sucks” Tour de Chicago. I really need to thank Nikki because she ended up linking me with Eric AntiFa, the most amazing babysitter in the entire city. He belongs right there on the podium with Yutaka and Shuji. You can download Eric's tunes here: And Dreamers We Were, by The Rust Belt Ramblers http://www.mediafire.com/?08dqp92dkpxx8cc No Soy Hemingway by Contranada aka Eric AntiFa http://www.mediafire.com/?wk4aq1sttafwtp9.
I looked at Eric stressed out, exhausted, frustrated, inarticulate, feeling stupid and alone and betrayed, and tried to explain exactly what needed to be done and where I needed to go. He knitted his brow, gave me the “aww shit, is she really being a jerk to me right now?” look and later said I was being “salty”. Ya, I probably was. Funny thing is, he didn't say anything at the time, he just rose up to task. I felt lost and alone and like my original host just hadn't come through in a way I really needed, like a messenger would. Eric was broker than I was, but what counted is that he made himself available after work that day and took me to get passport photos, took me to the Canadian consulate and waited with me, took me to get the passport photos re-taken properly, and took me to the library and chilled while I changed my internet passwords. His valiance didn't stop there, he also helped me get to wherever I needed to for the weekend so I didn't have to stress about navigation, helped convince bouncers to let me into all the parties, gave me a floor to crash on even though he'd just moved in and hadn't had a chance to set up any furniture, shared donated drink tickets and what little food he had, rode with me in the pouring rain and made sure that I didn't have to pick my broken ass up off the ground alone. Basically, he didn't leave me by myself in the city to sink or swim 800km away from home with some money, a hand-drawn map, and a 6-pack of PBR while he went out to party all night. Lady, get at me and I'll wire you back your $100.

Thanks for the map.

In any case, the CMWC this year was organized like a damn military operation. If there were any glitches, I didn't see them. I had a bunch of fun under the circumstances. Messenger Prom was way too short. The PBR truck is flyer than a limo. The Chicago messenger squad really raised the bar of what CMWC should be, great job! My love and support goes to the people from out of town who lost their stuff, got their car broken into, got their bag and bike jacked, anyone who got hurt and had to go to the hospital, and any other messenger in crisis. The way our community galvanizes to support each other in our times of need is really unique, it's what being a messenger is all about. Although the race definitely shows us who's fastest, and the parties unite us in celebration, to me the best of the best are the messengers who step up to the plate when they're called on to assist a fellow messenger with a broken wing.

Also: Sean Thompson from Bike Fix at Harbord & Bathurst in Toronto, thank you so much for the inhaler. Thanks to you I didn't need to go to the hospital on top of all this. Terra Heinrichs for the comfy couch and mothering I needed on my last night in town. Margaret Kizior for following up with the Boiler Room. Josh Walker and Team Bern for giving me a safe home base for the race, and the money to cover my Emergency Travel Documents. Kym Perfetto from NYC for the pep talk and Liv L'Raynge from LA for the support from afar. Aias Cienfuegos from NYC for a couple bux to keep me going. You guys are the greatest. Please get at me if I'm missing your photo credit, you know I love your photos!

Nature's Perfect Food

So, after my last couple posts were so serious, I thought I’d lighten shit up and take it to a more fun place and tell you about the best lunch in the world – the burrito. As a bike messenger, I’ve got a super energetic job, and I have to eat a TON of food just to maintain. A lot of people think I can eat “anything I want”, but this is not true. I really notice a lack of energy if I’ve been eating poorly and not sleeping right. I can feel my belly stretching the belt loops after too much fried food and beer, so it’s really important that I at least try to eat healthy. Thing is, it can be tough, because a lot of healthy foods don’t keep me full for long or they’re outrageously expensive, especially when you’re constantly on-the-go.

Chicken wraps are great, but I have to eat like 6 of them if I’m gonna feel full & satisfied till dinner, and a fresh-tossed spinach salad would be great for lunch but for $10? Not a chance. So for those reasons, my favourite lunchtime meal has become the burrito. Good God in heaven I could eat one every day for breakfast, lunch and dinner and never tire of it. I take mine fully loaded with absolutely everything on offer except for green bell peppers – yuck – and on a white tortilla. I’ve tried the whole wheat and it just has a funny funky flavour I’m not down with.

Recently in Toronto, there’s been a real burrito boom in the city. Lots of places have popped up, each with their own take on this fantastic food. Starting with Burrito Boys on Peter Street – since changed to Burrito Banditos – places have popped up all over the place in food courts and street corners. Here’s my review of the best.

Heavenly - I'm getting hungry!!

Burrito Banditos – 120 Peter Street, and others

http://www.burritobandidos.com/v2/

These guys were the original bad boys of the Toronto burrito scene. Originally owned by two dudes as a partnership called “Burrito Boyz”, they were smart and opened a burrito joint in the heart of clubland and kept the sucker open late-ass for all the hungries stumbling around at drunken rush hour. This burrito is pretty awesome. Refried pinto beans, fresh fixin’s, rice and yummy secret burrito sauce make it awesome. I’m bruk-pocket so I’ve never tried the fish burrito, but I still love the chickens and steaks. Best bet is to call about 10mins before you go so the pick up goes quickly, lines can stretch out at lunch time. Thing is, lately it seems like they haven’t been draining the grease from the meats before they add seasoning, so before you know it, you have a see-through paper bag. All well and good if it’s cheap nasty pizza you’re after, but kinda gross in a burrito.

8.5/10

Burrito Boyz – 218 Adelaide Street West, others

http://www.burritoboyz.ca/

Once the partnership dissolved and the Banditos sold their share in the Boyz, these guys opened up in the heart of clubland to satisfy all the drunk zombies after the clubs let out. Smart as hell business decision. But last time I tried these guys’ burrito, it was soggy and greasy. As far as burritos go, the refried pintos were on point, sauses top-notch, but the grease and limp tortilla were a real turn-off. Pretty good over all, but toast that shit a little longer, would ya?

8/10

Big Fat Burrito – 285 Augusta Avenue, others

http://www.bigfatburrito.ca/Contact.aspx

As mentioned before, I’m pretty broke most of the time, and these guys can get expensive for their meat burritos, so I usually order the sweet potato burrito. They can chinse on the fresh stuff inside, so it ends up being pretty mushy, sometimes bland. Perhaps it’s that they don’t spice up the sweet potato much and just scoop out a baked one and that’s that. Overall, pretty “meh”. 

5/10

Ew! Green peppers and unmelted cheese!

Quesada Mexican Grill – 2221 Yonge Street, others

http://www.quesada.ca/

My usual lunch spot when I get some standby at Yonge and Eglinton, these guys know my face, but oddly enough don’t know my order by now. No matta, they do it up right. Though the artistry of the burrito varies from location to location, generally the ingredients and sauces are damn fantastic. The thing I love about them is that they offer not refried, but cooked beans and your choice of black beans or pinto. I’m a big fan of the black bean option. Fully loaded with everything (but green peppers – yuck) I’d recommend medium or mild salsa with all the sauces. The smoked chipotle and the habanero mayo together set off all the fresh ingredients like a fireworks display of flavours in your mouth. Mmmmm I’m getting hungry as I type. The only thing is that the rookie burrito rollers don’t quite know how long is long enough to toast the outside. Soggy tortilla is just a let-down. Recently, I stopped in at the King Street West / Church Street location and was super impressed with the skills of the girl behind the sneeze-guard. Overall, my favourite in Toronto.

9.5/10

Chipotle – 2323 Yonge Street, others

http://www.chipotle.com/en-US/Default.aspx

Apparently this joint uses locally-sourced meats and veggies and hails itself to be socially responsible and environmentally conscious. Though I’m all for it, their prices are FUCKING OUTRAGEOUS so I’ve never even ordered that shit. Take a hike.

Too Bougie For Me/10

Moe’s Southwest Grill – 35 Eglinton East (closed), others

http://www.moes.com/

See “Chipotle” review regarding price. GTFOHWTS

Forget It/10

It's like blasphemy! I'm gonna barf!

7-11 - Various Locations

http://www.7-eleven.com/ 

Pop the shit in the microwave and it's just mush and plastic cheese. IT'S AN ABOMINATION!!

NOT ON YOUR LIFE/10

What On Earth Would You Choose To Do That For? (part2)

Let me just say it straight: everyone else knew I was a rapper before I did.

I’ve always been a writer, mind you, even skipping recess in grade school to stay in and type out a story at a computer terminal.  When my tumultuous preteen phase kicked in, I discovered “poetry” and wrote down my feelings in the most awful prose, filling notebook after notebook. I think I may even still have them in a box somewhere.

This is the bonafide real deal right here.

The first rap tune I ever heard was on a dubbed tape my sister brought from God-knows-where. All I remember was the chick rapping “BITCH! Go change your Kotex!” I couldn’t believe it! It was so raw and rude, I begged to tape it, but my sister wouldn’t let me. “Hell no. If mom finds out where you got this from, I’m dead,” and that was that. My lil’ 8 or 9 year old ass was out of luck.

When I was 14, I fell hard for a Rapper Dude in the ‘hood. To this day, I’ve never seen anyone who could freestyle like him. The guy would just throw it down and it was amazing. No stutters, just rap rap rap and at the end of the improvised verse, it all came together like a story he’d been plotting the whole time. Needless to say, things didn’t work out with him, but the impression his raps left on me remain to this day.

I kicked my first freestyle back then too. It was just a joke between me and my girl, talking about our reckless adventures. I didn’t have the confidence to kick it in front of anyone else, and it remained that way for years. When I saw Rapper Dude spit, I just thought that if you didn’t have skills like that, you shouldn’t even try. I didn’t understand that everyone starts somewhere, that talent plus practice leads to skill.

Years went by, I still filled up notebooks, and from time to time I’d kick a freestyle. I was hanging out with a group of people who could be really critical, mean and negative towards me – sometimes it’s like that when you’re the only girl. One of the guys freestyled whenever he had the chance. He was pretty good, but I would NEVER rap in front of him. Why would I want to invite that kind of comparison, negativity and criticism? Even to this day, my self-esteem can be pretty fragile.

When I was in my late teens, I discovered the rave scene. For a few years, from time to time, a person would come into the skate shop I worked in, and when I started talking, they’d ask, “wait a minute – did you go to Syrous Champions of Champions at Cinespace?”

That wasn't my first rave.

“Yeah, I was there.”

“I KNEW IT! The emcee on stage sucked so bad you got pissed and you were rapping in my ear the entire night. You were great!”

“Are you sure? I don’t rap.”

“Well, you did that night. I’d know that voice anywhere.”

I couldn’t argue, my voice is pretty one-of-a-kind, but I honestly couldn’t recall the night, and this wasn’t just an isolated occurrence. For something like two years I had at least five people come up and say the same thing. So I guess I can freestyle. shrug

Even the way I talked made people say I was an emcee. In my late teens/early 20s, was chilling with a girl who roomied with two emcees and a b-boy in a one-bedroom apartment. Her emcee friends would just shake their heads and tell me I’m a rapper. I just wasn’t really trying to hear it.

Time went by and my sister and I were going to poetry slams from time to time. Have you ever been to one? Geez, some of the hot garbage that gets performed is unreal. I think it was even at the first one we attended, I just happened to have my writing book handy so I was like “fuckit. Watch this,” and I entered the competition on a whim and came in 2^nd place overall. I stuck with it for a bit and it helped me to get comfortable being on stage.

Around about the same time, I was also going to Sneaky Dees on hip hop Wednesdays, and the Beat Junkie on Saturdays. Kardinal Offishall had just come out with Bakardi Slang (http://youtu.be/a1Q_E3jEVEQ) and when the DJs threw it down, the clubs would go INSANE. This was before 8 Mile came out, and ciphers that happened outside the club were real, they were heartfelt and a show of skill, not just “yo I’ma shoot you cuz I’m so hard, just like my cock-” offs. It was also before the digital music revolution, before any idiot with Garage Band and a Shure mic could be a trend, before everyone their cousin and their dog was a rapper. I was hypnotized by the emcess that threw down in the back of the club and the alleyways behind it after last call when the patrons spilled out into the streets. But I noticed that something was missing – girls. The chicks that would wiggle their way into the circle were just there to watch, maybe there to bag a rapper dude - the chicks with the open toes and short skirts 2 sizes too small. Shoot, I went to Sneak’s and the Junkie because there were SICK ASS DJs and no dress code. I’m just getting off work, yo. I’m in runners, jeans and a t-shirt, and I probably smell. I never went for the meat market, I went to while’ out to the music – my heart was always in the mix.

So one night, after wiggling my way into the cipher, I decided it was time. I had a responsibility to girls everywhere, and to the guys who were rapping in the middle of the circle - I WAS taking up space – so I kicked a little rap that I wrote in high school that goes a little something like this:

My style is untestable, this face just ain’t arrestable, you try to talk shit, I’ll eat you like a cannibal

But after it’s all done, I’ll spit you out, cuz violence – honey – ain’t what I’m about

I kick it like I know it, gimme a rhyme I’ll flow it

I got brothers runnin up to me and beggin me to show it

But shit like this you gotta keep under cover

Cuz Sunny Delite just ain’t your average LOVERRRRRRRRRR!

I was scared shitless. I mean, let’s face it, I’m not black. I’m not male. I’m not from the projects. On outward appearances, I’ve had everything in life handed to me and I’ve never struggled a day in my life with the poverty, oppression, racism, classism, lack of opportunity and general despair that birthed the culture. On outward appearances. In any case, the guys in the cipher, in true Toronto fashion, gave me my space, gave me my 10 seconds to spit my little limerick and they actually liked it. Damn, son! An emcee is born!

One fateful night, after a few friends who dabbled in freestyle and grafitti told me about this open mic night on Thursdays, I finally went with them to In Divine Style at the Hooch, just to check it out. I saw what I usually see, there were a few really talented dudes who got up, some garbage, and then I saw this girlie girl get up on stage with two backup girls (who did nothing but hold microphones) and she proceeded to SUCK BAWLZ. She was probably rapping about dicks and sex, I can't remember. I couldn’t believe it. THIS was who was repping us on the mic? Ugh. My late homie Greg (RIP, bro) turned to me and said, “you could kill this chick. You need to get up there.”

Well, I didn’t that night. I was too scared. But it didn’t take long before I did. And let me tell you, that expression “knock-kneed” is true. I’d never been so nervous before in my life – not even when ripping open my emotions in plain language at a poetry slam. I was terrified of the potential boos, the negativity, the condemnation. At that point, I’d even had mics snatched out of my hand while I was rapping, as any burgeoning emcee should, mind you, but it’s downright discouraging. I’d also never been so exhilarated, though.

"Witty and wicked rhymes... one of our open mic favourites"

I told the crowd I had stage fright, so I hopped over the barrier at the edge of the stage and just went for it in the crowd. It didn’t take much before the hosts of the night – Mindbender and Alexis – took notice and gave me great reviews and encouragement. In Divine Style was just like that. It was difficult to come up with excuses not to rip it because everyone was so supportive and accepting. Even still, if I didn’t wake up in the morning and psyche myself up for it the whole day, I just couldn’t get on the mic at first. I needed to gear up for it.

My first show was at the inaugural, once-a-month, all-female She-Style night at In Divine Style. I got to open for Toronto’s hidden gem Eternia (www.therealeternia.com, http://eternia.bandcamp.com) and since then, I’ve done a TON of shows, ciphers in basements, backyards and alleyways, put out two EPs on my own (http://redsonia.bandcamp.com), performed at the Code of the Cutz side tent at the Vans Warped Tour in Toronto, Pontiac Michigan, and Buffalo New York (much thanks to @AddVerse and @JenniferHollett for the hook ups), Cycle Messenger World Championship events in Sydney Australia, Dublin Ireland, and Tokyo Japan (mad love to the BMAs and messengers who gave me a chance). I also hosted a moderately successful open mic/DJ/bike-themed party - with little help on the organization side - once a month for about 8 months or so (risspeck to Toronto Bamboo Studio's Zef for the assistance http://bamboobikestudio.useful-arts.com/toronto/).

But to be honest, it’s been really tough. Trying to put out my music has been a struggle from day 1. The first producer I tried working with would show up an hour and a half late for booked studio sessions – if he’d show up at all. When he did show up, he’d roll his eyes at me while I was in the booth (like I couldn’t see him), rushed me through the process because he “only had an hour” after he wasted two of mine, and erased our tracks before I could even tell him about the money I had for him in my pocket, because I brought up how much of a dick he was being. And that was the FIRST of them.

Whenever I tell someone I rap, or if someone outs me, all I get is “you rap? Rap now," or "what was the name of the first single to ever chart that had rap in it?" or "you haven't heard X song by Y rapper? I dunno man..." Dude, this isn’t Canadian Idol, you’re not a judge, you're not Alex Trebek, you’re not an opportunity, you’re not going to give or make me any money, if you do want to work with me it's so you can take my money, and you’re just waiting for me to fuck up so you can judge me. I’m not a goddamned show dog trained to jump through flaming hoops on demand. I don’t even do what my mother or my doctor tells me to do, what makes you think I’ll do what YOU tell me to do? I even had a guy tell me to freestyle “right now” after I just GOT OFF STAGE. Are you fucking serious? Of course, dude wasn't going up to any of the male performers to ask for a freestyle.
You've got the bullshit shows. I've had to tell a DJ to turn their cab around and go home to pick up their equipment after I got to the venue because the promoters fucked up and didn't provide it as we agreed. I had a promoter book me with violent gangster rappers that my friends were afraid of, had the show not start till 11:30pm on a Thursday because the sound guy had to snort some lines of his girlfriend's tits in the bathroom, then not get paid because I was one person short of his designated attendance quota. I’ve had a headliner back out of their own show the day before and then had to carry it to a crowd of 9 people. I've had to ride home from shitty shows in the rain and caught a flat tire. I've consistently paid my DJ more for a set than I get paid.

Bike party once a month!

And then there's the haters. I’ve had people diss me to my face while I'm trying to promote my shows and my Velosocial club night. I’ve had people tell me I was great on stage, ask for a CD then look at their toes and hand it back to me when I tell them it’s not free. Of course, they then head straight to the bar to get a pint. I've seen one of my promo CDs abandoned on the ground at a festival. I’ve had people tell me I’m not a real emcee because I don’t freestyle every waking moment, I’ve had entire online forums dedicated to dissing me. Even recently, while listening to my tunes for the first time, I had a friend say to me, “damn, you’re actually pretty good at this. I mean, I was like ‘Sunny’s a great person but it’s too bad her rap sucks.’ But you don’t suck. That’s cool.” REALLY?!?

Nowadays, I don’t even really hang out with any emcees, so practice has been hard to come by. I know people say “do it by yourself” but I just can’t, or don’t. It’s like being in a band, I feed off the energy and ideas of people. If those people aren’t there, then I just feel like my fuel and my ideas aren’t either. I feel like I don’t know where to start or how to continue. The regular freestyle ciphers were the basis of my energy, the foundation of my house. I’ve never had a team or a mentor. I just used to hit up open mic nights all the time, sometimes two in a night, connect with and be inspired by rappers and just be on it all the time. I’m older now with a steady job and bills to pay, I can’t be out till 4am on a week night and biking like a maniac all day the next day from 8am-5pm. Now that that’s all gone, the foundation is crumbling. Without regular practice, skill reverts back to talent, which ain’t much if it’s still unrefined.

Lately, the international responses I’ve been getting to my tunes have been great, and I’m grateful for it, but I’m afraid it’s just been frustrating as a whole. It’s been like a money, effort and emotion pit for me. I’ve become really discouraged, so I’ve been suffering from creative stagnation. I get writer’s block something fierce, and I’ve been working so hard, full-tilt as both a messenger, and as an emcee, that I’m about 2 ½ years past the burn out point.

Which leads me to the question I’ve been asking myself a lot lately, What On Earth Would I Choose to Continue to Do That For?

What On Earth Would You Choose to Do That For? (part1)

Reflection in Toronto City Hall, fall 2011

The truth is, I wasn’t always a bike messenger. I wasn’t always a cycling advocate, and I didn’t always care so much when I heard about a cyclist that was maimed or killed by a driver. I didn’t always know how bikes work, or how to change a flat, or even how to cross streetcar tracks properly.

Before I made my money as a messenger, I was a snack bar attendant at a movie theatre, a salesperson at a skate shop, a waitress, and a co-op co-ordinator for an illegitimate Chinese business school. Most recently, I was a data entry temp for a huge insurance company in Toronto.

Yep, I had the chance to be making $20+ per hour with benefits, but I chose the unstable life of a contract courier who plays fetch on a bike in all weather – rain, sleet, snow, hail – five days a week all year round.

I remember that spring back in 2004, after I spent what would have been my first winter as a courier working for the insurance company, gazing out at the springtime from my cubicle, and wishing I was riding. My manager hated me, and I hated him – he seemed pretty friendly to other people, but he just didn’t talk to me for months and only noticed me when I fucked up. My supervisor hated me, and I hated her – I called her “Nominy” behind her back, because that’s how she pronounced the word “normally”. The temp company told me I would be working “temporary to permanent” for a three-month contract. If they kept me for 3 months, chances are they’d hire me on, but I knew one lady that was working there as a temp for two years before they decided to hire her. The work was tedious and mind-numbing, and when I looked out the window, all I wanted to do was ride my bike. The cafeteria sold dinner food for cheaper than lunch prices and I gained 20lbs that winter. They wouldn’t let me use the employee gym either, because I was just a temp. There was a girl in another section with the same job as me, hooked up through the same temp agency, making more money than I was. I knew I’d be applying for grant money for music so I stole as much paper and office supplies as I felt I could get away with. One of those grants – that I’d delivered during my lunch break during a rainstorm – netted me $5000 and helped me write my second EP: http://redsonia.bandcamp.com

I didn’t have a TV at the time and all the office drones could talk about was the first season of American Idol. I was so not interested. I remember this one lady on the floor, she was so nice. She’d just come back from maternity leave, so legally the boss has to give her back her old job. I’d just really started to get to know her as she was being trained to change positions. She was under a lot of stress and she’d confided in me that she’d been trained to do her job the wrong way, and she was pretty sure it was on purpose. Every time she went to execute some task, the boss (that I hated, that hated me) would reprimand her, and she was getting frustrated because there was no one she could ask for help. Who could she turn to? The cubicle-heads who trained her wrong?

Eventually, the situation came to a head and she was fired. Her husband was a street salter, spring was upon us so he was supposed to be Mr. Mom for the baby’s second year in life, while she was the breadwinner. I couldn’t believe it. The American Idol bitches had this lady fired, and for what? I just couldn’t see it, and I sure as shit couldn’t abide by it.

At least on the road, I knew what I was in for. If someone wants to tell you to fuck off, that’s what they do. They don’t talk shit for endless hours, plot and scheme and get you fired when you have a new baby to take care of. I mean, some people do sit around and gossip for endless hours, but they have little bearing on your job performance. Out there, you’re on your own. Your work ethic, how you perform, where you fit in the team shines through to your boss. He’s the only one who has any say on whether you stay or go.

Things are straightforward when you’re a messenger. You keep your head down, do your job, don’t mouth off to clients. Your boss asks you to double back for something, you say “yes sir”, “ten four”, “no problem sir” and you just do it because after you put in your time, you earn your stripes, you gain the respect of your crew and you start making the money that goes along with it. Sure, you’ve got the poseurs, the ones that start out with the sexiest bike and the biggest, cleanest one-strap bag that mommy and daddy can buy, the ones that care more about how they look when they’re playing fetch than actually being any good at it. Thank heavens, those ones rarely last. Or, I guess, on the opposite end of the spectrum, they blink and 10 years have gone by and they realize that even Tim Horton’s wouldn’t hire them now so they become bitter, jaded old men. Either way, I don’t let them bother me.

See, I started my first messenger job in the spring of 2003. I didn’t have the right bike (Infinity Telluride girl’s mountain bike from Costco), I didn’t have the right clothes (that keep you comfortable in all weather), I didn’t have the right gloves, the right socks, I didn’t have cycling tights, I didn’t have any of that. All I had was $1 stretchy gloves, a long-brimmed army surplus cap and a will of steel.

I started on one of these. Costco Infinity Telluride ladies mountain bike.

The day I was fired from that job, it was 2 degrees Celsius and had started raining – hard – at noon. By 2pm, the plastic bags I’d put on my feet to keep them dry had filled up with water and burst. I was on a south-bound run around St. Clair and Christie and one of my co-workers got on the open radio and whined, “boss, can I come into the office? I’m soaking wet and freezing.” Well, that’s just great, homeboy. How about I just keep working and pick up your slack, I thought. By 3:30pm the entire crew was AWOL except for me, the lone soldier for the next hour. I finished downtown, with a 20 minute ride home, at 5pm.

All the way, I talked to myself to keep myself from I don’t know what – falling over? Collapsing? Giving up? Being defeated? I was reminding myself of what rewards I had waiting for me at home: “warm shower, warm blanket, warm boyfriend, warm puppy.” I repeated it aloud, over and over and over again.

By the time I got home that day, my feet were cold and numb and felt like bricks, my hands didn’t work and my boyfriend at the time had to help me get my jacket and wet clothes off and get into the shower. I’d never been so cold before in my life.

The next day, the forecast was the same. I called my boss and told him I couldn’t handle it for a second day in a row, seeing as I was the one holding things together the day before. So he fired me.

At the time, it was easier for me to get another temp job than to try and find a decent messenger company to ride out the winter. So there I was, sitting in the insurance company cubicle, looking at my bike parked below, hearing the office bitches in the next cubicle talk shit about other ladies on the floor for the umpteenth hour in a row for the umpteenth day in a row. I was absentmindedly watching the birds on the windowsill when I made my decision right then and there: “fuck this shit.”

That day, I decided that I would suffer  - Buddha himself said that life was suffering for everyone, so it’s unavoidable in the end of things, isn’t it? I decided I would work hard at the toughest easy job in the world and I would suffer at it as an offering to the most high. I would do my best and earn an honest living and every time I caught brick-foot, I’d just give that to God and keep moving. From that day forth, I would make that decision, eyes wide open, and I would own it. I would be strong, proud, and I would not accept anyone's pity. Don't feel sorry for me when it rains or snows. I actually enjoy it, so please, don't tell me "I don't envy your job today," because I don't envy your job ANY day. I’d do auditions, I’d do shows, I’d rap, I’d record my first EP, book as much time off with the boss as I wanted, I’d get good at this messenger thing and I’d plug away at this rap thing and sometime, someway, somewhere in the middle it’d all come together. Right?

My longest relationship, 7 winters, is with Kirin the Kraptastic Kuwahara - Bike Love.