Lycra-clad, perma-tanned and superfit, cycle couriers cut an enigmatic dash through our grey city streets. When the sun comes out, the gloves - and rain gear - come off, making their progress across the city all the slicker.
Yet, aside from a quick signature and the wave of the hand, they receive little personal reward, even if they do bring a certain youthful blush to the cheeks of many a receptionist. Their charm? That they're unaware they have any - or so it seems.
"Couriers are usually very polite, but they're often cool dude types with dreadlocks and piercings, a bit too young for me," says one coy, unassuming Fitzwilliam Square-based office worker who, at the grand age of 28, insists she's too old for such fancies.
But before dismissing them entirely, she adds, "God knows where the piercings are - perhaps you'd have to look through the Lycra. Come to think of it, they're incredibly fit, lean, mean, cycling machines . . ." Steady on there, miss.
Couriers are dishevelled mannequins who have broken free of the shop window. They are 21st-century, virtual-reality video game characters who pass us by in a blaze of colour. They are modern-day, quasi-silent movie stars with just one line - "Sign here" - and then they're gone, leaving pasty-faced office workers holding the package.
While we savour our lunch hour eating a soggy sandwich in the park, couriers are enviably free, with no-one to watch over them. They are unmissable in their multi-coloured, mix-and-match leisure wear. From Tokyo to New York (and Dublin, of course), they have inadvertently inspired a Renaissance in fashionable accessories.
Drugs are out. Gaunt, unhealthy club culture has had its day. Athleticism is in. Anyone who can bring wraparound sunglasses, polka dot bandannas, odd socks and beat-up runners back onto the high street deserves respect. Not to mention their calf muscles, which frequently resemble two legs of Sunday ham.
The sling-back, hip holster bags used to be the ultimate in urbane camp - perfect for holding a young man-about-town's mobile phone, keys and wallet. But couriers (and postmen, of course) gave them mainstream appeal. Yesterday's hold-alls are today's backpacks by Louis Vuitton and Prada.
Their global influence on popular culture is far-reaching. They even spawned a movie in Japan, appropriately entitled Messengers, starring some of that nation's hottest young stars.
Their bikes are fashion items in themselves. Brands such as Peugeot and Bianchi are, according to some over-zealous writers, the equivalent of Chanel and Gucci. The bicycle industry commonly uses strong but ultralight materials recently declassified by the US Department of Defence.
Some cost £1,000, but you can get a decent bike for about £500. Tyres cost upwards of £20 a pair, a price tag not to be sniffed at, considering they may burn 60 miles of rubber a day. Not everyone has that kind of stamina.
There are around 200 bicycle couriers on Dublin's streets, according to Kevin Oliver, managing director of Cyclone, a firm which was set up 12 years ago exclusively as cycle couriers. This was seen as folly by rival companies back when the traffic still moved.
"Students do bring great enthusiasm during the summer," says Oliver, "but they buzz off back to college in September, when it's busiest. The real old hands usually come back from overseas in winter. They eat a lot of carbohydrates to keep them going."
The incentive to fly like the wind is huge: couriers get paid per delivery. Some can earn more than £280 per week.
"People always think the guys whizzing between lanes of traffic like kamikaze pilots on two wheels are couriers," Oliver adds. "That's not the case. The couriers who perform best are the ones who stop, take the information down and keep calm. Having said that, those who complain about them are probably the same people who say `I don't care what you do, just get this package there NOW!'."
Cycle couriers are not difficult to find, except in cities outside Dublin, where faster-moving traffic means their usefulness is limited and smaller vans soak up their trade. But even in Dublin, they are almost impossible to catch.
Finally, I chased one down Leeson Street. But was he willing to commit himself to paper? "Forget it," he told me. "I'd be surprised if anyone would give you their full name. A lot of couriers won't want their name or face in the paper." That's, er, weird. "No, it's not weird at all because we're already kind of known by members of the public and even police officers."
Police officers? "We have a reputation - true or not - for cycling on paths or down one-way streets." Bottom line: this courier did not wish to be noticed. So, true to his word, he was off - clad in shiny pink Lycra.
But never say never. Meet Max Krzyzanowski (29) who has been a courier for four years on and off. He also models, acts, performs music and is studying psychology at TCD. His bike is currently a write-off, after skidding on a 150-yard oil slick that looked like rainwater. He has previously dislocated his shoulder and was hit by a bus, which split his back wheel. But most accidents - or their cause - are, he believes, out of his hands. "We are the most vulnerable road user, so we obviously go to great lengths to ride safely," he says, adding that pay does not increase during winter.
He wears a three-quarter length singlet - part wrestling outfit, part Victorian bathing costume. "It's also quite common to have piercings," he said. "Couriers tend to be extroverts, outdoor-oriented and some can be image-conscious. That all goes with the territory. And there's nothing like being a courier to keep you fit."
Bicycle couriers are often into intense sports such as rock climbing, while others are DJs and, like Krzyzanowski, play instruments. As we may have guessed from watching them flash by our office windows, he adds: "They go out and grab life. They don't wait for it to happen".
