■ As a teenager in Whakatāne in the 1960s, one of my first responsibilities was delivering newspapers. Looking back, it was much more than earning pocket money, it was almost a rite of passage for many local boys, writes David Hick

I was fortunate enough to have both a New Zealand Herald run in the mornings and a Beacon run in the afternoons.

The Herald was our window to the world.

The Beacon was our window to ourselves. Together ,they quietly recorded the everyday stories that, without anyone realising it, would one day become the history of our town.

Getting a Herald run was something of a privilege. In those days it seemed almost every household had the paper delivered.

There was no television, no local radio station and certainly no internet. If you wanted to know what was happening in the world, the newspaper was your connection.

Six mornings a week, before seven o’clock, around 15 of us gathered outside Mahy’s Joinery in Domain Road, where the Z car wash stands today.

The streets were almost empty. On frosty winter mornings your breath hung in the air as we watched for the headlights of the van arriving from Tauranga.

There was never any pushing or shoving. The bundles were handed out in the order we arrived.

Turn up early and you were first away. It was an unwritten rule that everyone respected.

A staff member from Stringfellow’s Bookshop, the Herald agents, made sure each of us collected only our allotted number of papers,usually around 70 of those great broadsheet newspapers that seemed almost as big as we were.

They arrived tied in bundles of 50, so, if your run was 70, you counted out another 20 by hand.

Heaven help you if you miscounted. Along with the papers came the dreaded little notes: cancellations, restarts and, worst of all, “missed yesterday”.

There were no mountain bikes with 21 gears back then. Just sturdy one-speed bikes with canvas saddlebags to hold the papers.

For me, it was a mad dash down King Street, past the intoxicating smell of freshly baked bread from the bakery where the Pak’n Save car park now stands, to my run through Salonika, Halberg and Crete streets.

Halberg Crescent always seemed a little grander than the rest.

The BNZ bank manager lived there. In those days, bank managers were among the town’s most respected citizens.

Every morning his dog waited eagerly at the gate, grabbing the newspaper and proudly carrying it to its master.

Next door lived our local MP and Minister of Works, Percy Allen.

His was one of the few papers I delivered right to the front doorstep.

We knew every house on our rounds by heart. There were no printed route maps or delivery apps.

The real satisfaction came at the end of the run when the numbers worked out perfectly - no frantic search for a missing customer and, just as importantly, no lonely newspaper left sitting in the saddlebag with nowhere to go.

Like every paperboy, you developed your own techniques. We learnt to ride one-handed or often no-handed for a few seconds while folding those enormous broadsheets into just the right shape to slip neatly into a letterbox without stopping.

It probably wasn’t the safest thing in the world, but after a while it became second nature.

Every paperboy had a favourite side of the street. You planned your run so you crossed the road as few times as possible, saving precious minutes before school.

Wednesdays and Saturdays were the toughest. The papers were much thicker, and if it rained, keeping 70 broadsheets dry while riding a bicycle became an almost impossible task.

By the end of the run, the newspapers had the consistency of papier-mâché, and the paperboy wasn’t much better.

Plastic sleeves were still years away, so you simply pedalled faster and hoped for the best.

Every now and then the van never made it through. Floods, slips or breakdowns meant the papers arrived hours late, and we would end up doing our deliveries during the school lunch break or, worse still, after school.

I never once slept in. You simply didn’t. Seventy families expected their newspaper, and somehow you always managed to be there.

For all that effort, the Herald paid about one pound (two dollars) a week.

Then, on Monday, Wednesday and Friday afternoons, it was time for the Beacon.

We collected our papers from the Wairere Street office, straight from the printing room. I'll never forget the smell of hot ink or the warmth of the newspapers as they came off the press. My run covered Douglas Street and a couple of nearby side streets.

The Beacon paid us 10 shillings (one dollar) a week … not exactly riches - but it all added up.

Christmas was always something to look forward to.

A few customers would leave a Christmas card, others a small gift or perhaps a tip tucked inside an envelope.

Nothing extravagant, but enough to let a young paperboy know his efforts were appreciated. Those little gestures meant far more than the money.

Looking back, it wasn’t really about the wages.

We probably didn’t realise it then, but delivering newspapers taught us mental arithmetic, time management, balance, reliability and responsibility - all before we were old enough to drive a car.

Long before social media, we were the ones bringing the day’s news to Whakatāne.

Today, the headlines appear on our phones before we've even climbed out of bed.

But I still think there was something special about waiting in the dawn for the Herald van, smelling the fresh ink at the Beacon office, and pedalling through a sleepy Whakatāne as the town slowly came to life. Those were different times.

And, if you were one of those paperboys, I’ll bet you can still remember every street on your run.

If a few details are slightly out, please forgive me. Like an old newspaper, memory has a habit of fading around the edges, but the headlines are still there.