At this point I was an experienced courier, having survived street warfare without much more than a hundred busted tubes and a few bruised egos. As my time on the street increased, I began to acquire a certain temperament. My indifference and anger mixed together to form an unstable subconscious, one that would allow me to not only shoot faster than a speeding bullet, but to also imagine myself leaping tall buildings in a single bound. It was this pattern of thought that made it happen, and allowed it to all go to shit so abruptly. Day in and day out the feel of the pavement under my wheels, survival in a dangerous game played with so much pride.
Overconfidence is a courier s best friend and worst enemy.
The rush of the wind steadily moving across my body, the feel of my muscles tensing and flexing spontaneously as the fixed gear pushes the pedals around and around. Resistance is all I have to once again begin the repetitive motions of the streetlight approach. The sounds of the city blend and whirl inside my mind as I evaluate the situation for the millionth time and approach eleventh street where it crosses New York ave with all its high speed cars heading to the hill. At this point, I became mesmerized with loss of focus. Locking up being an impossibility, I let the cab flow through me and throw me off my bike.