Takeaway Tales

The premise for the ride was beautifully simple, deliver take-aways by bike for 24 hours in a bid to raise as much money for Hackney Foodbank. It was a plan, like most this year, born out of boredom yet shaped by what I believe to be the more positive and progressive ideals of 2020 prospects and politics. The challenge would be located within my immediate geography, benefit the local community whilst on a more private and personal level allow the space to explore and confront my own privileges.

Ever since I relieved my brother of his pocket money some 20 years ago by overachieving in a sponsored swim, I have felt uncomfortable with the idea of asking those close to me for donation. Besides this fact, a charity bike ride is hardly the done thing when you make every effort to spend as much free time on one anyway. This being said however, 2020 has been a harder year for some than others and having watched the cracks in society widen from the comfort of our millennial abode this year, the gnawing urge to act greatly outweighed the two decades of childhood guilt. After passing the exam on courier etiquette, a kind of Deliveroo take on the countryside code, and registering my intent to ride on social media I was truly humbled by the support of friends, family and colleagues that reached out, sent messages of support and donated generously.

The day came and I began by running errands for friends around the city, making good on promises of pastries and pasties in exchange for sponsorship money that had been trickling in all morning. Thankfully their appetite for artisanal snacks was healthy enough to keep me busy throughout most of the day as there was little work on offer from the apps I’d signed on with. After a brief spell delivering a friend’s Christmas parcels, I turned the gps on and began to get orders.

With my route at the whim of phone algorithms and hungry Londoners I submitted to the flashing blue dot on screen and slipped into the underbelly of London’s fading light. The road network’s shortcuts lead me down graffitied underpasses and over ancient cobbles, quiet arcades strewn with the damp cardboard mattresses of the cities disenfranchised and past shopfronts papered up with instructions for use. Everywhere there was small huddles of people seeking some glimmer of festive frivolity, cups of mulled wine in hand and hushed excitement as plumes of chilled breath dissipated into the cerulean sky. I watched the last rays dance along terraces of umber brick and diffract through obelisks of corporate monuments stood empty since March. I grinned inwardly feeling like a rogue thread in the tapestry of London life being woven in front of me, a gawping bystander unseen and dismissed by nature of the uncomfortably large rucksack and fluorescent logo on my back. Those partial to long weekends tapping away in the saddle will know how easy it can be to plummet into deep thought, today the slow metronomic cadence of cold and careful circles was bringing about mild hypnosis. I began romanticising about the histories of the cities fabric I was crossing, a Dickens novel all of my own. I thought about the merchants who’d pedalled these streets before, stories of livings made and fortunes lost and the rich vein of culture that has flowed thick like the winding waters of the Thames I was traversing for the fifth time that hour. I traced roman walls, iron bridges and Portland stone stained by smog, I read the optimism in the architecture and the weight of societies changing ideals in the housing and noted with faint interest as the pink specks of granite clinkers designed for the metal shoes of horses merged into the blue tarmac of London’s compromised bike lanes.

The dazzling phosphorescence of the cities lights too quickly drowned the suns burning glow as I scrambled from sushi bar to taco hatch learning the efficiencies of the trade. Dinner times came and passed riding squares around London bridge, faffing and flapping through the complexities of concierges, security gates and lift access codes for mid-storey serviced apartments. On more than one occasion the time spent cycling on a job was eclipsed by the trials and tribulations of getting from a building’s entrance to a resident’s front door. The last straw broke when I was given a good dressing down by the recipient of a foot-long tuna melt for getting myself trapped between two ‘automatic’ doors. I apologised for my lack of experience with the Banham EL4000 system and scarpered back to more familiar roads out east where I hoped there would be less addresses that read as prose.

As the night drew on and the city’s charm waned, mischief and intrigue began to bloom in the dense patchwork of streets and squares reminding me of the details of a Hogarth etching where nefarious characters lurk in the details of every corner. The poet Charles Lamb once wrote of Hogarth’s work that ‘other pictures we look at, his pictures we read’ and as I waited for the light to change, I pondered what story he would have told about the scenes unfolding in front of me as three grown men struggled to rearrange the road furniture to allow the safe passage of a large sound system strapped to a shopping trolley. The fervent display of machoism had not just captured my attention and an impromptu procession of all ages had assembled behind, casting wild silhouettes under the street lamp as they moved to blaring soca beats. The light flashed amber and the taxis began their chorus, testing my bike handling ability and numb hands I manoeuvred around the dancing mass that had now stretched out into conger formation and as the music died behind me I took note that comedy, tragedy and romance shared remarkable characteristics.

The pubs closed at 11 meaning that the next hours were spent navigating Dalston’s kebab houses and buzzing doorbells for unsociable lengths of time to wake their inhabitants. It was much easier working these hours, the streets emptied and small rectangles of glowing curtain in dimly lit neighbourhoods clearly signalled the destination. By three o’clock only a handful of fast food shops remained open and the demand of drunken resident’s quickly outstripped supply. On otherwise empty streets in Camden and Westminster red and blue neon lights illuminated frenzies of haggling and protesting delivery drivers as frightened kitchen staff hastily shovelled chicken into polystyrene trays. I was reminded of an animal auction I’d been to back in times of travel where I’d quite accidentally stumbled into the clamouring midst of a foreign culture of passionately aggressive commerce. Immediately out of my depth I politely stammered at the back trying to catch the eye of the largest man who appeared to operate as some sort of fixer. My rookie poise did me no favours and I was naturally left waiting, there’s no tips for cold drumsticks.

Big Ben chimed its fifth and the gong resounded through a now peaceful city. It was a thrill to be pedalling the streets at this time, the gentle lapping of the Thames cast an eerie line of twinkling lights as far as the eye could see and I rode along its banks snapping tourist pics people travel the world to see. When the excitement wore off a deep yearning for warmth and sleep took hold and I pointed the wheels for home.

As the novelty cheque photo op had recently been ruled out in Tier 4, I contacted the foodbank to see how I could get the money across to them. They suggested that I came down to help with their Christmas preparations and to see first hand where the money was going. At this juncture I find it quite difficult to articulate my feelings from that crisp winter’s afternoon in a makeshift warehouse packing crates and crates of tinned food, dried pastas and rice.

I have toiled with this final paragraph as a way of concluding for far too long now and may continue to do so. I’ve added political sentiment about the scale of the foodbank’s operation and its proximity to my doorstep only to delete it and spent hours scribbling grandiose but hollow sentences about ‘what 2020 has taught me’ in a notebook I may now burn. In the end, this was one small act of kindness and I’d like to hold on to that feeling and what it has shown me going into one more year around the sun.

I want to add a huge thanks to everyone who donated and supported me with this one. I especially want to thank Jamie Fobert who generously matched the collective fundraising of £1035 to make the final total £2070. This has paid for the provision of over 2600 meals amongst other essentials such as toothbrushes and soaps.

Happy New Year. xxx