ENCOUNTER: In the saddle with the chain gang

Lauren Mentjox | 10th July 2010

He's one of the remaining few - racing against the email. But golden years or not, he still loves the freedom of the ride. Lauren Mentjox talks to this two-wheel devotee.

WHO: Mike Naylor
WHAT: Bicycle courier
WHERE: Bike Central
WHY: To find out if bike couriers are crazy

Mike Naylor belongs to a select few you might see whiz past in the city as they race down hills, zig-zag through traffic and run red lights if they have to.

Up there on pedals, lungs pumping, bike couriers are paid to deliver. They are not paid to follow the road rules. Getting from Parnell to Kingsland in 15 minutes won't happen if you have to stop at every red light.

Mike - known as "Old Mike" to  other couriers - has been a peddlie for about 12 years, the last five in Auckland.

With piercing blue eyes, wild grey hair and rough Jersey accent, his philosophy on life is as freewheeling as his chosen profession. "Work is metaphysical for me," he says. "My bike is like a magic carpet. It takes on a reality of its own and I don't know I am riding it half the time. If they send you work you have to have a positive outlook.

I meet him at Bike Central on Britomart Place, a one-stop shop and cafe where couriers (and cycle commuters) chill out and drink coffee, take a shower and keep a change of clothes in winter.

It still looks new, with bright orange and black vinyl chairs, bike paraphernalia hanging from the ceiling, and a glass counter laden with energy-filled gourmet pies, sandwiches and brioches.

Mike showers here most mornings after he's picked up his bike from a locker at Pier One on the quay.

"It gives me rhythm in my day," he says. "I get off my ferry every day and I say, 'Good morning, downtown ferry terminal, ready for work'."

Mike lives on Waiheke Island, but he is originally from Jersey in the Channel Islands. He lived all over the world before  coming to New Zealand.  He once travelled through Europe, Iran, Afghanistan and India by bus, playing clarinet with a band of Danish hippies.

He became a bike courier in Perth. "I was riding my bike and I figured I could make a living out of it. Then, a month or two later, I lost my job and a friend suggested cycle couriering.

"It really is a fun job," he says. "It's elevatory. There are sides to it that I don't like, but there are sides to anything you do that transcend any form of verbal description. You have your bad days, obviously."

Like the time he was hit by a bus.

That was two years ago and Mike says the accident was 95 per cent his fault. "I just turned in front of a bus. It was only starting up so I was okay. It wasn't going flat tack."

It was the bike repairs that kept him away from work the next day rather than any injuries.

He was lucky. Land Transport New Zealand statistics show that about 100 bicycle crashes a year are reported in Auckland City.

Couriers have to be constantly on the lookout for drivers who turn without indicating, pedestrians stepping out into traffic, or doors swinging open from parked cars. But it's as dangerous as you make it, says Mike, who says he stops for red lights.

Faithful to two wheels, he has never owned a car. "Never had the need for one," he says. "The poor old four-wheeler has to find somewhere to park, pay a meter and [you have to] get out of the car and back again.

"I realise we have to have a combustion engine, but the way we use it is absolutely absurd."

His bike isn't much to look at: "It's ASB," he says. "All spare bits. I just put it together as it falls apart. Like Lance Armstrong says, 'It's not about the bike'."

Looking back, the years leading up to the late 1990s were the golden age of bicycle couriers. Email hadn't caught on in a big way and business was booming.

In the mornings, gangs of couriers would hang out drinking coffee on Vulcan Lane and, in the evenings, their pub of choice was Margaritas on Elliott St.

Back then, a top rider could earn as much as $2000 some weeks, and plenty were pulling in $1000. Now they're lucky if they make $600.

Couriers have had to diversify into carrying things like head gaskets and ride further out for jobs - to Newmarket, Grey Lynn and Parnell - to survive.

As a result, there are fewer of them, about 20 in Auckland these days.

Those who stay on do so because they're not nine to fivers. They love the outdoors and the freedom that comes with the job.

It's difficult to imagine Mike doing anything else.

"It's an addiction and like any addiction it's hard to kick," he says.

"If you give something up then you are  pre-empting the cosmic finger. It sounds superficial but it ain't. It's all about event flow."