Back in my undergrad days, my evil genius roommate coined the phrase “Homo cementis” as a term of deferential respect to anyone deserving “hard guy” kudos. Thusly, Homo cementis manhattanis is my turn of phrase for hard guy bike messengers, particularly those cheating death in NYC. You’ve got to love people who make a living on their bike whose sartorial selections are not lycra and space-age polymers but Home Depot work gloves, puffy, faux fur-collared jackets, straight-legged hipster pants, and old school adidas footwear. Plus, they’re absolutely hauling ass through city streets on an abused, iron constitutioned fixed-gear machine. And there’s a good chance they’re chain-smokers. I’ve done my fair share of riding on city streets in Boston, Brooklyn, Atlanta, San Francisco, Milwaukee, and San Diego and fancied myself a smooth and suave traffic veteran (mainly because I emerged unscathed), but nothing I’ve ever done compares to the insanity documented here (the files are huge, but be sure to check out “rumble through the bronx” or “drag race NYC” if you’ve got a fast connection). Way back in 1991 I had the opportunity to work as a bike courier in Boston, and on occasion in those Robert Frost retrospective fork-in-the-road moments I wonder what would have become of me had I chosen that career trajectory. I probably made the wise choice, having surely avoided either a) out-and-out death, b) a maiming “door prize”, or at the very least c) a bitter life of abject poverty. I’ve read a few books by bike messengers and the common theme is “I’m angry, I’m broke, I hate everyone”. I don’t know anything about the Eddie Williams book, but at the very least I’m curious to see if an old high school buddy of mine who worked, or may still be working, as a Manhattan courier ended up captured on film.