Bike Tribes

by Mike Magnuson

  The Bike Shop

  All Bike Tribes eventually converge in one place: the bike shop.

  That’s where the bikes are and where the bike parts are, and if you’re lucky, that’s where the spirit of any local cycling community lives. It doesn’t always happen that the shop has a community spirit, but in the best of circumstances, a local shop is as close as we will ever get to true understanding between the Bike Tribes. The person in charge of the bike shop, therefore, bears an incredible responsibility to the cycling communities the shop serves.

  The cyclists expect a lot from this person, too, almost to the point where no individual in the world can possess all the characteristics the cyclists want. To illustrate, here are 20 common attributes cyclists are looking for in an ideal shop owner/manager:

  Someone who knows everything about bicycles.

  Somebody who knows the local cyclists by name and also knows what they’re like as people off the bike and what they’re like as cyclists on the bike.

  Someone who is friendly and never condescending. Someone who doesn’t mind if you look and don’t buy.

  Someone who won’t sell you something you don’t need.

  Someone who is an expert mechanic and who knows the right bike for you and the right parts and accessories for you.

  Someone who will order anything you want and try to match the online retailer’s price.

  Someone who loves to ride.

  Someone who keeps the shop open late if you need it.

  Someone who likes all kinds of riders.

  Someone who is your friend.

  Someone who isn’t in the business to make money.

  Someone who volunteers the shop’s services to the community.

  Someone who leads the bike community.

  Someone who will keep his customers on the road.

  Someone who never gets frustrated or angry.

  Someone who doesn’t care if you hang out in the shop just because you like hanging around in the shop.

  Someone who loves hearing about your weekend rides.

  Someone in whom you have total confidence.

  Someone you can come to, with anything, and not feel ashamed to say what’s on your mind.

  Someone who can heal the sick.

  Well, I made up the last couple of items, but they’re not far from the truth. Cyclists want a saint to be in charge of a shop—a sort of priest/athlete who has taken a vow of poverty and humility. It’s a tough job, long hours dealing with people who aren’t always so cheery, and the pay isn’t great. Nobody gets rich running a bicycle shop. The profit margin isn’t high enough; there aren’t enough customers; and in lots of places, winter effectively shuts down the shop for several months a year. This means that to be that person at the helm of a bike shop, you have to be in it for love. In return, the best shop owners and managers are also loved and respected by their cycling communities in ways that few businesspeople are ever loved. In the often-fractious world of cycling, that’s no small deal indeed.

  the Big-Box Shop Mechanic: STEVE

  The key to the job is the numbers in the computer.

  Perpetual I-don’t-want-to-be-here frown.

  Perfectly organized work area, both the reason for and the consequence of the frown.

  THE WRENCH WHO KEEPS US ROLLING

  For Steve, wrenching is a means to an end. If Phil says something—anything—Steve has to agree with whatever he says.

  Look at the situation: Phil runs the shop, and the shop sponsors the road-racing team that Steve’s on, and what would Steve do if he were cut loose from that team? How could he afford to keep racing bikes at a high level?

  So when Phil stops in the repair shop and asks, “You have a good day back here, Steve?” Steve doesn’t pause to reflect. He says, “Heck yeah.” And he gives Phil a grin the size of first place at the United States Criterium Championships.

  “Excellent,” Phil says and returns to the sales floor, which is the best place for a manager to be, in Steve’s opinion.

  Truth is, Steve’s day has been a nightmare twice the length of the nightmare on Elm Street. His legs ache. He’s so thirsty he could chug an entire 5-gallon watercooler bottle and still be thirsty, and he’s so hungry that he has been considering eating the tube of waterless grease on his work stand. Sure, this is the life of an elite racer—tired, hungry, thirsty—but do elite racers have to spend 10-hour days turning a wrench in a bike shop? He should be spending his recovery time loafing on the couch with his legs elevated and an action-adventure movie on TV.

  But no such luck. And there are no races on his schedule today, so here he is, on a Saturday, at work. Because he doesn’t have a race this weekend, he has been piling on the miles all week—a couple of hours before work, a couple of hours after work, with intervals, too. He’s one hurting unit. Maybe it will pay off. Maybe next year he will be a full-on pro and won’t have to suffer the humiliation of this stupid job.

  Now Phil returns to the repair area. “Steve, I got a bike for you to look at.”

  Steve rises dutifully from his stool, his thighs aching beyond belief, and he shuffles toward the service counter. There, with a lower-end aluminum road bike, stands a middle-aged man with graying hair and a button-down shirt tucked into khaki Dockers.

  Steve gives the customer the trademark I-care grin and asks, “What’s wrong with her?”

  The customer points at the right brake-lever hood and says, “Won’t shift properly,” then he rolls the bike into Steve’s grasp.

  Steve says, “Nice bike.” This is a lie. Steve would rather ride a live elephant than throw his leg over the top tube of this piece of junk. He fingers the shifting mechanism and makes a cursory examination of the bike’s drive train and cassette. “How many miles you have on this bike?”

  Customer: “Don’t know. Had it a few years.”

  Steve says, “Looks to me like if you put on a new chain and a new cassette—probably new cables, too—she’ll shift as good as new.”

  The customer agrees to this, and Steve lets him know it will be ready in a few days and that’s that.

  Probably Steve could tweak the limit screws on the bike’s derailleur and the bike would shift just fine. But hey, why do a free repair when he can generate at least 200 bucks of repair work for the store?

  the Small Shop Mechanic: GEORGE

  Joyful expression.

  Shop appears to be a mess, but in fact the mechanic knows exactly where everything is.

  Middle of the afternoon at Big Ed’s Cyclery, George and Big Ed are taking a break by the sales counter.

  No customers are in the store, a lull after some hard-core roadies were in the shop around noon wanting tweaks to their bikes before heading out of town to the races. George has a backlog of bikes in the back room—this is summer and the busy season, and he’s been working 10-hour days lately, but he’s cool with the backlog. He’ll get around to it.

  George says, “Sure is quiet.”

  Ed says, “Not for long,” then elbows George in the ribs. “Buy you a sandwich?”

  George has never once refused a sandwich. He nods to Ed, and Ed heads out the door whistling a happy tune.

  Submarine sandwich. George would most certainly click “Like” on a submarine sandwich Facebook page, if there were one, and there probably is one. George would also click “Like” on pizza, TV, NFL football, Major League Baseball, and the Weather Channel. And Taco Bell, too! Don’t forget that!

  George, you see, isn’t a very complicated person. He knows this and isn’t too worried about this. He’s hardworking—that’s how he would describe himself—and not proud of it, really. He simply is what he is and has no ambition to be more than what he is. He’s been working at Big Ed’s since it opened 10 years ago, and he’s happy here. George has been married to his high school sweetheart—Candace—since he was 18. Thirty-five years of marriage now? Thirty-eight? Candace has been a bank teller since she was 18, and George has been fixing bikes since then. What can he
say? When he was a kid, he was good at tinkering with things—lawn mowers, furnaces, you name it—and maybe he could have been an auto mechanic or worked in a small engine shop and made a heck of a lot more money. But something about bikes, about the smell of a bike shop, about the people who come into the shop, made him choose to fix bikes. Here he is, 54 years old, in a bike shop. Not a bad life, really. He looks around at the bikes on the rack. He tweaked each one personally when it came out of the box. He’s built wheels for God only knows how many riders. For a moment, he thinks, Yeah, I’m an artist, all right. But then the front-door chime rings—a customer’s coming in.

  The customer is Tom, a schoolteacher in his midthirties who bought his road bike toward the end of last summer and since then has lost probably 80 pounds, could be 100 pounds.

  Tom says, “George, I’m sorry, but it’s just not shifting right.”

  George smiles and says he’ll take a look and does and can see right away that the rear derailleur is slightly bent on the hangar.

  “Take a look-see,” George says to Tom and guides him to a position behind the rear wheel, so he can see easily what George is trying to explain. “Derailleur is bent. See how the chainline isn’t straight?” George points it out carefully and gives Tom time to comprehend the problem.

  Tom says, “Dammit. Will I be able to ride today?”

  George says, “I’ll show you a magic trick.” He grabs the derailleur and bends it by hand back to where it should be. “Pretty cool, no?”

  Tom laughs and asks, “Is that it?”

  George says, “It’ll shift perfect now.”

  “Thanks, man. How much do I owe you?”

  George shakes his head. “Are you kidding me? You don’t owe me a cent. Now get out there and ride your bike.”

  The Mechanics

  Because a bicycle is a simple machine—and in terms of the pantheon of machinery throughout history, the bicycle is a simple machine—we might assume that the person who repairs bicycles professionally is a simpleminded, living-in-the-shire type of soul.

  Mechanics can indeed be simple souls, but they can be complicated geniuses, too. They can be people who never ride bikes at all or people who only work in bike shops because they want to buy bikes and parts at cost. They are, like the cyclists who require their services, a varied lot.

  One thing is for sure: About the only time cyclists will mention their mechanic is when they feel the mechanic has done a crappy job. That’s the nature of cyclists, especially the more serious ones: They are better at complaining than they are at praising. And when things aren’t going right on the bike, what better to blame than the bike itself? And who’s at fault for problems with the bike? That would be the mechanic. Obviously, it’s not usually the mechanic’s fault, but in the shit-flows-downhill world of cycling, the shop mechanic tends to occupy the lowest portion of the valley floor.

  What’s worse for the mechanic is that the cyclists are looking for qualities in a mechanic that in fact far exceed the saintlike qualities of the ideal shop owner/manager. We’re talking about someone who is timely and accurate and personable and passionate and honest and never makes mistakes and never makes the customer feel stupid and is always happy about everything and really appreciates working for a low hourly wage or, better yet, will do several hours of work on a bicycle in exchange for a $9 six-pack of Belgian beer.

  Anything could cross the mechanic’s transom. People come in and want their flat tires fixed or they want their chain lubed or they have found a 1978 Schwinn Continental in their garage and want it fixed up and ready to ride by the weekend—or, the worst, a fanatical road racer type will show up on Thursday evening, just before the shop’s about to close, and announce that he has a big race on Saturday and needs about 5 hours’ worth of work done on the bike before 10:00 a.m. Friday!

  The bicycle mechanic really has one behavior option with regard to the person whose bicycle needs fixing: “Yes,” the bicycle mechanic must say. “I can do that for you!”

  This is not the way it should be, of course. Bike mechanics rarely make much money, and in the summer season, they’re sometimes working 10 hours a day, 6 or 7 days a week. What the cyclists should do when they deal with their mechanics is say, “Thanks! I love everything you do!”

  the BMX Racer: RANDY

  Full face helmet.

  The boy flies through the air with the greatest of ease.

  Beer.

  Cigarettes.

  The crowd watching something other than the race.

  BMX

  This Thursday night under the lights, Randy feels like he’s a coiled spring in the starting gate.

  That’s what his dad told him a few minutes ago. “At that starting line,” Randy’s dad said, “you gotta be a coiled spring. Then when that gate comes down, you gotta unleash all your energy!” Randy’s dad is standing behind the fence next to the track right now, smoking a cigarette and drinking a beer with a cooler sleeve wrapped around it. Randy makes quick eye contact, and his dad nods once. That means it’s go time.

  Randy presses his front tire into the gate and adjusts his helmet. He puffs out a long breath and gazes forward, down the ramp and over the short straightaway and then into that first banked left-hand turn. That’s the tough part, to get there first, to get the hole shot, and Randy by God is going to take that hole shot in this moto if it kills him.

  In the first two motos tonight, Terrell, the kid in the gate next to Randy, has been faster down the ramp and more fearless into that first corner. Once Terrell gets ahead, he stays ahead the rest of the race. That’s just the deal with Terrell. Kid’s good. Randy’s good, too. That’s what his dad keeps telling him. That’s what Terrell keeps telling him, too.

  Like now.

  Terrell says, “You were fast that last moto.”

  Randy shakes his head but doesn’t say anything.

  Randy and Terrell are both 10 years old and both about the same size, and unless Terrell crashes, which almost never happens, Terrell always beats Randy. Randy is always second, which means Randy is faster than the other kids, and that’s pretty cool except not nearly as cool as coming in first. The only reason Randy never beats Terrell, according to his dad, is he lets Terrell get into his head.

  Terrell says, “But you still ain’t gonna beat me.”

  Randy doesn’t answer. His dad says don’t talk to Terrell till the race is over. His dad says to pretend Terrell isn’t there at the gate.

  Terrell asks, “Is your dad racing cruiser division tonight?”

  Randy keeps it buttoned up. His dad will be racing in the cruiser division—that’s the race for dads who used to race BMX when they were kids—and Randy’s dad will beat Terrell’s dad because Randy’s dad always does. Randy thinks about this and decides, for psych-out purposes, to break the maintain-radio-silence-in-the-gate rule.

  Randy says, “My dad will totally beat your dad in cruisers.”

  “Yeah, he will,” Terrell says, “but that don’t mean you’ll ever beat me.”

  The starter says it’s time to get ready. Randy tenses, and for a moment his eyes drift to a light on the pole over the first turn. Moths swarm around the light, and birds fly through and pick them off. It’s like a World War II dogfight video game or something. Wow. Must be tough to be a moth going against those birds.

  The start light turns green, the gate drops, and it’s already too late. Terrell is ahead of Randy before they hit the bottom of the ramp. Randy gives it everything to catch Terrell and beat him to the first turn. His world becomes bumps and hard breathing and jostling shoulders with Terrell and straining every part of his body to push past him. In what he will always remember in slow motion—with clumps of dirt in the air and the bright lights on the poles above the track and a hard-charging sound deep in his heart—Randy breaks first into the corner and gets the hole shot over Terrell. Randy’s going to win this moto—no doubt—and he promises himself, while he gives it full gas the rest of the way around the track, that he w
on’t let Terrell get into his head ever again.

  BMX

  BMX might be the original cycling melting pot, the primordial stew where racing-type cyclists originate.

  When you arrive at a BMX track and hear Ronnie James Dio or Kid Rock blasting from the loudspeakers, you would do well to keep in mind that many celebrated champions in professional cycling have had their beginnings in BMX—the great road racer Robbie McEwen, for instance, or the mountain biker Tinker Juarez. Maybe even you got your start in BMX. Sure enough, BMX requires steel nerves and raw power and excellent handling and the ability to get knocked down in one moto, then get up and win in the next. Think about it: You fly down a ramp and charge full blast to win the hole shot into the first corner, and people are crashing behind you—or they could be crashing in front of you—and that’s only the first few seconds of the race!

  BMX is tough. It’s rough-and-tumble. It also possesses a cultural element missing from most other forms of competitive cycling. At the track, we see proud parents and relatives who are not always in possession of graduate degrees from prestigious universities—and not always the type of folks who follow strict exercise regimens. People smoke cigarettes and drink beer and Mountain Dew with sugar in it. In a word, if there is a true working-class route into the sport of competitive cycling, BMX is that route.

  But just because a kid races BMX doesn’t mean the Tour de France looms in his future. You have small bikes here, even in the cruiser division, that are basically useless for doing anything other than BMX racing on a curvy, bumpy track. Sure, you occasionally see somebody pedaling a BMX bike hither and yon on the streets of your town, but nobody looks comfortable pedaling a BMX bike to the grocery store. Even though it is now an Olympic sport, BMX doesn’t get much respect from, say, century riders or road racers or triathletes. Those are the people who spend their cycling lives on the road and who get squeamish at the mention of the word dirt when it appears in close proximity to the word cycling. To road riders, comfort and safety are key concepts. On the other hand, any self-respecting mountain biker or cyclocross racer can see people racing BMX and know that it takes amazing skill and strength (in the cruiser division, racers routinely snap crankarms in half), and consequently, mountain bikers and ’crossers think BMX is cool.