I can't work in an office. I don't like wearing suits. I like to ride. Fixed gear, steel frame, no brakes. The bike cannot coast. The pedals never stop turning. Can't stop. Don't want to either. There are 1,500 bike messengers on the streets of New York City. You can e-mail it, FedEx it, fax it, scan it, but when none of that shit works and this thing has to be at that place by this time, you need us. Some of us get killed out here. Pedestrians are a menace. Cabs are killers. One time or another we all get hit. Sometimes we gotta hit back. And we stick together, 'cause most people just wish we'd get off the street. "Go get a haircut. Take a shower. Get out of the way." They have no idea why anyone would risk their lives in a death maze for 80 bucks on a good day. But if you're out here thinking about the money, you're not gonna be around to spend it.