Gurriers (84 page)

The rest of the poem didn’t fit this scenario, but I kept saying that verse over and over as I watched the tears and snots roll down my face and drip off my chin. I was just so totally and absolutely overwhelmed by the injustice of these wonderful people going through such horrifying torment. And I thought I had problems. Selfish bastard!

I caught a look of contempt twist my face into a snarl before everything suddenly went all blurred on me. My face seemed fuzzy and multiplied into a myriad of hybrid forms in an instant, an instant in which I was aware of a crashing noise accompanied by a pushing feeling against my forehead, followed shortly by mixed up sensations of pain. It was not until I felt blood trickle down into my eyes that I realised what had happened.

In a moment of emotional turmoil that I had never experienced before (or since), in sheer desperation of helplessness and genuine anguish at how unfair the whole stinking world was, I had smashed my own forehead into the mirror on the wall. There was a gash on my forehead that was going to need stitches. At least I was in the right place for it!

Ten minutes later I arrived back at the ward doors with some blood stained toilet roll pressed against my head stopping the flow of blood. I don’t know why I did it, but I paused and looked through the small glass pane in the door. In the fading late summer evening’s light I could only see silhouettes, but that was enough to wrench my heart even more than it already was.

My knees weakened almost to the point of buckling and suddenly I felt dizzy and nauseous. Tears flowed freely with a pinkish tinge to them as they mixed with the blood residues still stuck to my face. Paddy hadn’t moved, but he wasn’t alone any more. I couldn’t mistake the silhouette of dear, dear Elaine as she stood beside the wheelchair with her arm around his shoulders and her head lowered to touch his. Even at this distance and in the fading light I could see her heaving with the sobbing she was doing. I would have to get my helmet later.

Cursing the cruelty of this world one more time, I turned on my heel and headed towards accident and emergency to get my head stitched. On my way to there, one thought dominated the rest: this life sucks.

“I didn’t cross the unbroken line, garda; I stayed on the wrong side of it all the way along!” Mick had everybody’s attention immediately after bursting into the canteen and bellowing out his quote, a precursor to the tale of how he had heroically put a porno faggot in his place that morning.

His rhetoric was positively received and he was applauded by all, though I’m sure that the entire audience factored in the element of exaggeration, as did I.

Garda harassment is a fact in our job. Every now and again you are going to get pulled over for speeding or dangerous driving or any of a multitude of motoring offences.

“It’s more bad shit that ye have to deal with from time to time, just like punctures!” This had been said to me many times. Also, just like punctures, the negative effect of this shit varied greatly from courier to courier.

Some couriers - particularly the ones on old bikes with spoked wheels - found themselves in a whole world of shit whenever they got a puncture. With a spoked wheel you had to find the cause of the puncture, remove the nail or whatever, take the
tyre off one side of the rim of your wheel, pull the tube out from under it, find the hole in the tube, patch the tube, wait for the glue to dry, replace the tube, replace the tyre and reinflate your tyre, hoping that you have done a good job and that it stays inflated. With the modern tubeless wheels, you find the puncture, remove the nail, plug the hole, reinflate the tyre, hoping that you have done a good job and that it stays inflated.

I would equate having a bad attitude with the Gardai in the instance of being pulled over with having a spoked wheel in the instance of being punctured. It just doesn’t make sense and wastes a huge amount of your time.

Gardai are trained individuals going about their duty when they pull you over and they practically never pull you over without a reason. If you have a bad attitude in this situation the training will kick in and the incident will be processed in the way that they are trained to process it, normally ending in punishment for the infringement that you have committed. That’s without factoring in the negative element of pissing off somebody with power over you, and never be under any delusions about this - Gardai do have power over all motorists. Often, the extent of the punishment can vary significantly with the mood of the individual garda, yet another reason for the courier to exercise self control.

I found that the best way to begin proceedings in these situations is to try to connect with the garda as a person. In most instances my first strategy was to act as if I was only delighted to meet them, greeting them cheerily as soon as I had my helmet off; best to get that done early, without having to be asked (or told!) to do it. After a quick assessment of the mood of the gard - this was usually quite obvious, with their approach to me ranging from slow and calm to stomping and screaming - my next ploy was more often than not to ask them what appeared to be the problem. The choice of words here is essential. ‘What appears to be the problem?’ implies, quite effectively, that whatever I have been pulled over for is either justifiable or not as big an issue as originally thought, as I will soon be explaining articulately. That was my next defence against severe punishment: eloquence. I am more educated than people expect couriers to be and use that fact to confuse any gard that pulls me over if possible. Whenever I get pulled over I find myself explaining about my momentum or drawing analogies between my job and the emergency services or whatever scientific terms or fancy language comes to mind in my efforts to diffuse the situation. This is best done without actually disagreeing with the garda if possible, bearing in mind that most of the time they are convinced that they are punishing you for your own good. I will say, “Yes gard” a lot whenever I am pulled over, only occasionally adding a “but” at the end if I suspect that some more input is required to prevent me from being punished and never losing my cool. This approach can catch them off guard (excuse the pun) and result in me being let go with just a warning to watch myself -the best possible outcome to being pulled over.

I remember one fairly young garda that pulled me over for doing a silly speed heading towards town on the Long Mile Road mid-September in ’98. He was angry as hell, so I quietly let him blow off steam for a few seconds before launching into a well worded rhetoric about how it was safer for professional motorcyclists to move at a slightly higher speed than your average motorist. This led him to scoff at me not to pretend that I was educated, which led me to outline my education and previous employment, having the desired effect of stunning the gard.

“How come you ended up as just a courier with all those qualifications?” he asked, aghast. I knew that I had him where I wanted him. All I had to say was that I had come upon hard times to leave me here as he saw me, previously someone he could look up to but now just a lowly courier, playing the sympathy card to get me off.

Just a courier.

I looked away reflectively for a moment and then back at him straight in the eyes to spit out the chosen reply in my strongest possible voice, “I suppose I’m just lucky!”

That was one on the spot fine that I could easily have dodged, but it was worth the 50 quid to see the look on that fucker’s face
when he realised the high standing that this lowly courier held himself in.

One of the best let offs that I ever had was on one of the rare country runs that I did. These big mileage jobs just didn’t really appeal to me too much, which suited Aidan because he had so much pressure from couriers who liked them. I calculated that you really only benefit leaving the greater Dublin area when you have a good long distance to cover, for example Cork, which paid £200. If you got a job to Carlow, worth £50 to the courier, you would be better off with a run of ten jobs to Tallaght with five coming back in. This run would pay more, take less time and use less petrol. If, however, you managed to have something extra to deliver as well as the drop to Carlow, you were in for big bucks. That was the appeal to those who liked country runs. That and the fact that if you got them in the afternoon they added up to wages on top of your day’s pay, although that meant you getting home bolloxed tired at all hours, which was a bit like overtime to the greedier couriers.

I liked the Gizzard’s attitude to mileage jobs; he put a 50 mile limit to the mileage away from Dublin that he would normally go and a condition that he must also get a run with them. In our Tallaght versus Carlow example, he would have taken the ten jobs around Tallaght and bashed them out before heading to Carlow, leaving the five coming back to town for a lesser earner to cover. He rarely took on mileage work in the afternoon stating, “I’m too fuckin’ old for four hundred mile days.”

Anyway, this day I had one on board for Naas, along with six jobs for West Dublin. Shortly after noon a screamer for Tralee came in from IT Solutions, which was offered to me because Aidan couldn’t afford to send two couriers out of the greater Dublin area.

I had reservations about going that far on the Super Four, but I still owed £200 on the machine, which this extra work would cover, so I took the job. There were a few delays on my way, nothing major, although it was approaching two o’clock by the time I left Naas. The one for Tralee had to be there before five, so the pressure was on.

I fairly smoked across the country from there, determined to make the deadline that our clients were paying me so much to aim for, reaching Castleisland in County Kerry by twenty past four. I know that I got there then because that’s the time that I was pulled over for speeding, dangerous overtaking and driving without due care and consideration for others.

I had been stuck behind a BMW, who was anxious to get past a Nissan Primera, and had been for several miles while his erratic swerving in search of an overtaking opportunity had me condemned to stay behind- due to the added danger for me to attempt to pass him. The BMW might or might not swerve out at exactly the worst possible moment had I moved to overtake and it was just not worth the risk. That’s not to say that I was dealing with the situation with any amount of serenity. I was freaked and becoming more agitated by the second. Both cars were moving quite fast - about 70 mph - but I would have been going faster if they weren’t there. They were delaying me.

Finally, the road opened out to a good long straight, slightly downhill, stretch and the BMW moved to overtake the Nissan. Instead of leaving him to it before moving, I said, “fuck it” and nailed the throttle wide open, overtaking the two delaying bastards in one go, which meant moving very fast way over on the very wrong side of the road. I had just completed the manoeuvre by cutting across both cars at something akin to top speed when I noticed the garda walking onto the road ahead of me with his hand up.

I had no problem stopping because he was so far away on this very long, very straight stretch of road; this favourite stretch of road for speed traps - unbeknownst to me - though I should probably have been extra wary with the road being so enjoyable and the weather so good. I found myself pondering whether or not Vinno or Shay or the Gizzard would have fallen into the trap as readily as I had while I was coming to a halt beside an elderly garda, who seemed to be equally outraged and entertained by the example of dangerous driving he had just witnessed.

“Wha’ the... wha’ sort of drivin’ d’ye think tha’ was?”

“Sorry, gard, I’m just under severe pressure to get to the of
fices of Tralee Town Council before quarter to five.” (always shave some time off your deadline when you’ve been pulled over for speeding to make your mission seem that bit more urgent).

”I know that I was going for it a bit there, but I could see for miles ahead and knew that I had room to complete the move.”

“Move? More like attempted suicide! Have you any idea how fast you were goin’ there?”

“Probably a fair bit above the speed limit but-”

“A fair bit all right! And you were double overtaking, which is always dangerous, not to mention driving without due care and consideration. By rights I should just take that bike off you right now and have you brought to the station for processing.”

“Ah, now, please gard, it’s just the pressure of this urgent package for your County Council; they really do need to get this in a big hurry for the sake of the smooth running of things in this whole area, something to do with their computer system. It cost our client a whole lot of money to have me come all the way here just for this package - that’s how important it is!”

“You came all the way from Dublin?”

“Yes, just for this. You don’t really have my sort down here, gard, but in Dublin we’re kinda like another emergency service - vitally important to the smooth running of business and government whenever something needs to go somewhere fast.”

“Are you tellin’ me tha’ you’d be allowed drive the way you just did there up in Dublin?”

“It’s not a case of being allowed break the law, gard, but up in Dublin they appreciate the pressure and urgency of the job. They also realise that I’m a professional on two wheels and make allowances for the fact that what’s dangerous for most bikers might not be so dangerous for me.”

“You’re not in Dublin now, boy-”

“No, but I’m on just as urgent a mission as any of the ones in the Big Smoke. Please let me carry on to get the job done.”