At first I didn’t realise I’d been punched. I’m not sure why my brain assumed a bird had flown into me, but I suppose a magpie attack was more likely than a random bloke lashing out at my ribcage, so it took a second to realise what was happening.
I was on my bike, waiting in a sidestreet for traffic to clear. The punch came from behind and by the time my mouth let fly a few expletives, the culprit was leaving. Then he caught wind of my colourful language and turned back to get in my face. He was a skinhead in a bad mood. Accusing me of being in his way, he told me I was lucky he didn’t do more damage. I paused mid-reply. This was the moment I realised he was ready to go to hell tonight, and the only thing he wanted to take with him was me.
When you deliver for companies like Uber Eats, no two shifts are the same. I’d say 80% of my deliveries are fast food – a combination of McDonald’s, KFC, Hungry Jacks and coffee. Lots of coffee. My new workplace couldn’t be more different than the grey blur of an office, surrounded by the same walls and same people week after week. The culture shock of going from comfy chairs and morning teas to trying not to get killed in traffic was significant.
After being made redundant four times in six years, months passed with hundreds of unsuccessful job applications. Bills needed to be paid. The big ones were still looming, but the small costs could be covered by delivering for Uber Eats. My Xbox was gathering dust so I sold it at Cash Converters and put the money towards a half-decent mountain bike.
The first thing that hits you riding is the feeling of independence. In between delivering Grey Goose vodka and KFC Zinger burgers, there’s the realisation that it’s just you out there. After four months, I haven’t talked to anyone at Uber Eats. I signed up on my phone, they sent me a fluoro thermal bag, and off I went. I don’t have to worry about anybody making me redundant because there is no anybody – there’s just me. If I want to spend hours in the park eating lunch, I will. Need more sleep? That’s between me and my doona. Granted, my wages are much lower, but what value can be placed on listening to Wu-Tang Clan with wind in my hair versus dreading another company restructure?
Just to be clear, my hair is secure underneath a helmet. Which was good for when I collided with a car and ended up with a face full of road. There are lots of bike paths in Melbourne, but far too many of them are squeezed in between moving traffic and parked traffic. They’re less than a metre wide and often occupied by wavering cars, massive trucks or in this case, part of a parked Ford Fiesta. Before I could react, a driver had opened their door into the bike lane without looking. I couldn’t do anything except stop my bike dead while my body crashed into the bitumen.
Things like this happen too often. I tore up my knee when my front wheel got caught in a tram track (a uniquely Melbourne problem) and my cheek laid against the road as I watched one of my earpods get crushed underneath a truck. A ute with aftermarket exhausts forced me into a gutter and my shins still haven’t recovered. It didn’t take long before I realised I could never relax on this job. My attention needs to be on 10 different things from one second to the next. My muscles are always tense, my brain always on alert. After a shift, it’s not unusual for my mind and body to immediately crash.
I always knew urban planning was designed around cars but now I feel it in my bones. Not only is the amount of space dedicated to cars immense, society focuses on cars first. Shopfronts and advertisements face the road, hundreds of car parks take up thousands of metres and I avoid countless potholes in bike lanes while the cars right next to me drive on pristine asphalt.
There’s also a stark difference between people in cars and people I deliver to. When I hand over my orders, most are friendly. They’re dealing with hangovers or excited to get their comfort food. I once said “Pizza time!” to some young kids and they cheered. On the other hand, if there’s a form of life that’s lower than cyclists in the eyes of cars, it’s Uber Eats bikes.
Some customers I’ve delivered to have been downright apologetic. I suppose they feel guilty for getting their Maccas order delivered when they live around the corner. No judgment from me; I still get my bonus for doing nine deliveries by 2pm. Uber Eats regularly gamifies their rewards for drivers: from week to week, they offer financial bonuses for set time periods. Let’s say you wake up on Monday and the app promotes an offer to do 30 orders before Thursday. Complete this task, and you’ll get $72 extra. It’s nice but unreliable. They’re random events based on demand and location. It can be a big bonus or a big nothing. Then it simply becomes how much effort you’re willing to put in. Another factor of being independent.
Ultimately, this job isn’t a long-term solution. It’s a Band-Aid on a broken leg. The jury is still out on whether it’s better than being stuck at a desk. Air-conditioning versus sizzling heat. Freedom of movement versus monitored hours. Meetings that could have been an email versus an outdoor activity that is improving my fitness but has a very real chance of causing my untimely death. The money’s not as good but I meet nice people, get to know my city and choose my own hours.
By the way, the skinhead left me alone. I kept my mouth shut because I wasn’t about to risk my life for somebody’s $5 Boost Juice.
