'The King' of Bike Messengers Dedicated
by Bill Donahue, The Oregonian, 07-17-1988

Wearing tight, black shorts seemingly sprayed onto his tanned legs, the guy with the mirrored shades jumps his mountain bike off the curb-- and swerves in front of you.

Then while you're still skidding, the long haired guy cycling beside you-- the one with a tattooed neck and no shirt-- is reaching for your door handle so he can hitch a ride up the hill.

All Portland bike messengers, you decide, should audition for the next Mad Max movie.

You probably didn't see Lynn B. Meyer-- a withdrawn elusive 135-pound messenger who wears a navy blue suit, obeys all the traffic laws and looks a bit like a 1930s milkman who turned up in the wrong decade.

The 39-year old Meyer, who rides a well-maintained, solid steel, three-speed he bought for $20 at Goodwill, is an anomaly in a field which, it seems, is dominated by muscled jockish, mountain bikers and daring street punks.

Although he's hardly the most visible messenger on Portland's streets, Meyer, the oldest cyclist for American Messenger, is known to many riders as "The King."

Meyer didn't come by his title because he pedals quickly, or even because he can glide from the street to the sidewalk and into the elevator in one fluid, practiced swoop.

The six-year messenger veteran is "The King" says Raam McDonald, an ex-American Messenger now riding for Cascade Blueprint, because he's intrepedly dedicated to his job.

Meyer, of course, wins praise from his clients, who describe him as courteous and extremely laconic and from his boss, who granted him exemption from a rule requiring all American Messengers to ride mountain bikes.

His dedication exceeds pleasantries. Last year, he lived in Forest Grove, which is 25 miles away, and rode his bike to and from work. The 1-hour, 50 minute commute, Meyer said, shrugging, "hyped me up so that I could ride faster and faster."

A March collision with a car broke Meyer's leg in two places-- and forced him to spend three months in a nursing home. But he refused to give up bike delivery. He moved to Portland and, while still recuperating, remounted his bike, relying on a collapsible cane, stored in his bike basket, for walking.

Why did Meyer, who has published fiction in national journals and is one term short of a bachelor's degree, limp back to a job that earns him $260 a week at best?

"It doesn't seem like work at all," he said. "It's fun!"

And, it is perhaps a bit addictive. When riding, Meyer constantly checks the second hand on his watch to ensure that he is making his deliveries on time-- and feels "like a white rabbit in Alice in Wonderland."

Meyer's mention of rodents isn't coincidental. His current extracurricular passion isn't writing. It's mice. He keeps about a hundred of the furry creatures in his Danmoore Hotel room, where he breeds them selectively and subjects them to his favorite kind of music, heavy metal.

"I play it loud and the mice mice sing," he said. "It's scientifically proven that they sing like canaries. They squeek in ultrasonics to each other. They're musicians.

Meyer is at his most talkative when he's talking about mice. That is to say he mumbles a few chosen words, sparks another Camel-- he smokes two packs a day-- and slides onto his bike. Then standing on the pedals, he rides off in third gear, his blue-clad legs pumping slowly, laboriously as he ascends West Burnside-- and, gradually, becomes invisible in the melee.

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American Messenger Service was a local courier company in Portland, Oregon. Corporate Express purchased it for $6,000,000.00 from a married couple. They said they had paid $180,000.00 for it. All the corporation bought were the customers, the employees, and some used office equipment. AMS was located in a rented office. Corporate Express later sold AMS to Velocity Express.

Read the testimonial by a former AMS courier:
http://voip-forum.tmcnet.com/forum/forum_posts.asp?TID=3580&KW=meyer

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