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!