Metzger Bicycle Shop, Detroit City Gas Co, circa 1912. Photo: Detroit Publishing Company
There was a time when I held down ‘real jobs’. Jobs with (a little) stress, with (some) responsibility, but without soul. And while dealing with the great unwashed never held much appeal, I always envied the guys who worked at my preferred LBS. They seemingly had it all–an endless supply of cheap bikes and parts, hanging out and shooting the breeze with other riders, and getting the heads-up on the latest and greatest developments and industry gossip. It was the epitome of the dream job for a bike rider.
They weren’t just the guys who fixed my bikes and sold me parts at mates’ rates; they also became my friends outside of the shop environment. We’d go to the pub, to parties, and to see bands. We had more in common than the obvious bike factor.
One of the guys had started out as a shop rat straight out of school, then eventually branched out and started his own shop with another riding mate. While I was spending my nights getting trashed and playing in a punk band, my empty daytime would be spent sitting around in the workshop, swapping tales from the road and picking up some tips from the mechanics on how to tweak my bikes. When anyone was sick or had to go away for some reason or another, I’d be asked to fill in. It was almost a real job, but one that was just as much fun as jumping around on stage at night.
With business starting to boom, necessitating a move to larger premises, I was offered a full-time position. Of course I took the opportunity. After all, I was always spending my paltry band earnings on bike bits anyway. The more successful the shop became, the more time the boss would spend away from it, buying expensive clothes, driving his fast car and chasing even faster women. His business partner must have seen the writing on the wall, and promptly sold his share.
The brother of the now sole owner was recruited to look after the financial side of things, while me and the mechanic looked after the sales and service sides. Now, the brother, being an ex-used car salesman, had the gift of the gab. But he didn’t know a lot about bikes, and not much more about business as it turned out. Most mornings he’d turn up to work looking dishevelled, reeking of cigarettes and booze, complaining of another hangover. He’d gruffly send one of the BMX groms, who hung out in the workshop, down to the takeaway to get him a bacon and egg roll and a Coke. “Make sure the egg’s not runny,” he’d always bark at them. When the roll would inevitably contain a less-than-firm egg, the groms would hastily make their exit under a hail of abuse. One of the part-timers would gladly retrieve the discarded mess from the bin and scoff it down. The mechanic and I would get much entertainment from this.
By early afternoon, the hangover would be too much for him (and us) to endure, and the lure of the pub and its poker machines would be even greater to resist. We’d offer our helpful advice, encouraging him to take a few bucks from the till and go and enjoy the afternoon. His arm was easy to twist. We’d then be free to get the repairs done, play some music we actually liked and ride the scooters around on the concrete floor, honing our tricks and seeing who could wheelie the furthest and do the longest skids.
Thursdays were late trading nights, and usually they were pretty quiet, especially in winter. Left to our own devices, we’d invite mates and girlfriends around, grab a 6-pack or two, and have a little party before hitting the pub after we shut. The empty bottles littering the workshop combined with the aggressive music blaring probably scared any customers that ventured in, but we were usually too baked to notice, or care.
Meanwhile, the boss’s car was becoming way more pimped, his hair was falling out due to constant trips to the salon (and from the stress of his failing business, no doubt), and suppliers were reluctant to supply because they weren’t getting paid. We still were, but increasingly in cash, which was likely so they could avoid paying tax on our wages.
Not surprisingly, the shop went under only a few years after its inception, with the brothers returning to the used car game, never to be seen again in the bike industry. But looking back at those memories, I know that they were some of the best years of my working life, even if it was obvious our days were numbered and we’d soon be looking for alternative employment.
Today, the LBS is a dying breed, and only when it’s finally extinct will we realise that we helped kill something very special. I hope it doesn’t come to that, because the best memories aren’t going to come from hitting ‘Add To Cart’.
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good work Brett!
When I first started racing, I started hanging around our LBS owned by Hans, an old Dutch guy with a very thick accent. As time went on, I got to know the manager (became good enough friends I was a groomsman at his wedding), and the other wrenches. After a bit, I'd get to use their stands and tools to wrench on my own machine. Then a couple guys went off to college, and I was working 12hr shifts in the ER, so I would work the shop on my days off. Didn't pay me any money, but I earned "store credit", which meant I could work awhile, then order that fancy new set of Spinergys, or Scott Dropin bars all at cost. Need a new MTB? Work for a month or so. Learned how fix most everything, build wheels, all with Hans yelling at me with that accent. Good guy he was, and I was sad for him when the economy turned, and he had to shutter the doors on a business that had been in town for 30 years.
Find a good shop, and treat the guys right, and who knows what you'll learn.
while waxing poetic in memoriam, here's my memory of the LBS
it was the late 80's, the lights dim in the LBS, it was small, and cram packed with bikes, layered on top of one another in single file, on the walls, as you narrowly entered the front, and the shop seemed now wider than 10ft or so. At the back is the counter and the owner, and wrench and sales dept all in one. Greg was cool though, soft spoken, articulate, a good listener, and with panache. His oakley reading glasses (yes, in the 80's) automatically ran him up the food chain, and as a repeat customer, and getting to know him, he was interesting to know. College educated, he did nothing he was really prepared to do, he ended up running a bike shop. But he smiled at the end of the day, he understood relationships, he was a teacher really. Query's of all things related to the bike, were answered with a Masters level response, with the 'schools of thought' on the matter, the pros, the cons, and then his opinion; sometimes fixed sometimes open to mine. He always had the projects, many of them in the back, like orphans, little bike children waiting for his attention and a brighter future than their prior plights that landed them up thus far. Wheelbuilding, he was a journeyman builder. Thread count, check, thread pitch...much different, to the 1/25000th, done. He knew it and he knew where every single nut was in that shop, and never needed to do inventory. He would introduce each year with spring classes, teaching bike tuning, wheelbuilding, truing and the like. He was afterall the teacher, and despite whether it was to the loss of his bottom line...afterall, if you think about it, he wasn't into that, he was into the bike, and growing his business, his clientelle, us...
Many weeks, many nights were spent in the dimly lit shop after 8-9pm, learning lacing patterns, how to's and...well, the Rules of cycling. He was the consumate pro-LBS. Having bought a frame up ride, it took 2months to consider each part on the bike, and once it was decided upon, it took a week to build up. Try swallowing that now adays, with our instangram nation and fix it now complex, but..it was righteously built and lasted me 14 tender-loving years
And all that changed in the blink of an eye one day, as I entered in. 'Hey Dan' and he called me back, we had the customary talk, and he mentioned to me what he mentioned to others that he had an 'opportunity', to join in to a 'real' job, with benefits, insurance, retirement...you know, to support his growing family, who was in high school and all....we all have it, and we all know the balance and who can blame him.
And he sold the shop, its still there, and I go by...thinking of the day, but its sterilized now, like the carbon on the shelf, its as authentic as the Chinarello on aliexpress
I recently had a steel frame and fork made locally , this was a labour of love by the frame builder , I treasured every moment of the Worksop visit , the measuring , the tube set choice , the colour , the change of mind on the colour , even the 5 month wait for the finished frame was part of the experience , then the final visit for pick up and the joy of discovering it was even better than I thought it was going to be, I paid full price for this, willingly.
Then I ordered all the parts online , it was considerably cheaper , this only works if you have the experience and confidence to be sure of your choices , then it was off to the LBS to have it all put together which they did happily , result was my dream machine , all good.
I can't understand how brick and mortar retail businesses stay above water; the margins are so low and the overheads are so high.
But having an LBS is one of the most cherished pieces of La Vie Velominatus. Branford Bike is a perfect example; I go in there for a reason - a pesky little issue I wasn't sure how to fix - and after 5 minutes we're all laughing, Doug is joking that I don't measure my seat post in mm, but in stories, and an hour later I walk out with sore cheeks from smiling and laughing. There is a camaraderie that only a bike shop can give, no online store ever will.
And then you've got the bit about walking into the workshop, smelling the grease, and learning a trick or two that you'd never thought of even though you've been doing this for 25 years.
Yep, love my LBS, Pedalero. The guy runs a little bike courier business, too, and he just has a tiny shop-front and then a workshop with buckets and racks and walls of stuff, and he seems to love actually talking to people who aren't there complaining their rusted up drive-train 'isn't shifting right for some reason'. My wife will be in there tomorrow to see if he can help straighten a drop-out.
The local chain-store has the shiny bikes and the big investment in electro-power (it's the hilliest city in Germany...), but I hope he can stick around.
I wouldn't want to start a shop these days, unless the location was perfect. The two more successful shops I know of are a Trek shop and a Specialized shop. They are both independent but they have aligned themselves with those brands and seem to do well. And they run very tight ships, both Campy Pro shops, good mechanics and cater to everyone.
Being a completely independent shop not in the ideal location would be a very tough sell. But then again I have no business sense and I would run any shop I ever owned right off the cliff.
@Souleur
Beautiful story there, Mate. Learning is beautiful. Economics can be a bitch.
I was trying to think of other shops/stores I got into, but I think these are the only I go into. Ranked by frequency.
1) beer store
2) grocery store/farmer's market
3) LBS
4) postal service/local independent shipper (selling off bike parts I don't use).
I really can't think of any other shops I ever go into.
I miss having one of the best shops in the country as my LBS. they made it very inviting to stay and hang out while working on my bikes. now in a small town I am left with going to the " best" shop in town. They get stuff done but I dont get the impression that people hang out there.