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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Spot on piece !
Ive posted this article link before, but it seems even more relevant under this post.
The elusive "3rd place" is sadly dying under the weight of overheads and big corporates.
http://www.ridemedia.com.au/ride-features/the-bike-shop-a-valuable-space-in-society/
Have a read,
gone are the days of the dusty wooden floorboards and the coffee perculating away and the smell's associated. Its all pretty sterile and clinical now.
Check all the phonographs, records and cylinders in the lead photo. Apparently even in 1912 a LBS had to diversify and sell the hipsters some vinyl with their fixed gears.
@RedRanger I have the same feelings every night. After the LBS ride I have a 10 hour overnight shift to look forward to. I sometimes wish I could work on bikes, but then the bike mechanics say they wish they could work on planes.
@unversio
We do, don't we. Apologies all round, that was mental laziness on my part.
@infinity87
If you saw the state of some of the bikes that come into the shop, you'd probably be pretty stoked to be working on planes that haven't been either pissed/bled on, ridden through dogcrap, or doused in a litre of wd40 then cleaned with a pressure hose and the customer wonders why his wheels stop going round.
I do think the death of the bike shop, like the death of newspapers are somewhat overstated. Cycling is ludicrously expensive, even for the frugal cyclist and much of what we deal with is people who are time poor and asset rich who don't want to learn how to fix a bike when they can pay someone to fix it. And, some companies are becoming aggressively anti-online discounting, basically by setting their wholesale very high for the product they sell - so the LBS doesn't make much on it, but they pay the same price as the internet store for the product. Saving 20 bucks for a Garmin online isn't worth the wait and inconvenience.
Great read, Bretto. I like how every LBS in the world smells the same. Such a great smell. The Twin Cities are full of great shops. From large chains, to sole owner shops with incredible knowledge and expertise, to co-ops that appeal to gauged-ear, single speed riding hipsters. There's a good scene in the cities that doesn't show much sign of dying, thank Merckx. Where I live though the LBS is about the size of a moderate living room and only stocks what "bike riders" need to keep their steeds on the road. I get that and don't expect anything else from it. I try to shop there as much as I can. I use it for tubes, cables, lube, SPD cleats, and Gatorskins as she gives me a good price on those. Unfortunately, she's not open this summer as her hubby is gravely ill. It's a good little shop and the owner has done a lot for cycling in our non-cycling town.
@unversio
I do have to say, my LBS did take great care of me when I came in to bitch about my Mavic shoes coming apart. I pointed out that a high dollar shoe was about to be rendered useless on account of the $0.02 thread, and no shoe smith would attempt to repair it.
I got a brand new pair, (and now a Rule #9 pair) So the full MSRP game paid off for me on that transaction!
@Marko
Good post. Maybe LBS's should be judged on smell. My formative cycling years were spent engaged with Dooley's Cycles in Paisley. A dark wee place in the lee of a railway viaduct. Most of the stock was hidden away in the back. You asked for it, the staff (Willie or "the old man" - his father) would disappear and retrieve said item. There was a door to the right of the counter that led to the back shop. It was like a door to another world and you knew you were special if you got to got "through the back."
The shop's gloom was suffused with an intoxicating smell of oil, rubber, plastic, and lubricant. The outside windows (often covered in condensation) were filled with an assortment of bikes and bike related stuff. Most of the serious expensive stuff was in the left hand window, the "regular" items in the right hand window. To me, the left hand window was like looking at the crown jewels. Campag parts, the odd Italian frame, posters featuring foreign riders. Most modern shops just lack character IMHO.
I know it was the dark ages of retailing, but I just can't connect with a modern bike shop that has no smell. It's that indefinable cycling miasma that I remember and cherish.
The shop is still there, run by Ian, nephew of Willie. It's brighter, a bit more spacious, but still has "that" smell.
@wiscot
It's probably a surprise that those of us above a certain age actually survived childhood with all the smells we had to sniff (in the nicest possible way) that are now banned or available only behind the poisons counter - plastic glues that were probably chloroform based, dope from shrinking tissue on balsa aeroplanes, solvents that used to be in things like evostik, overhead projector cleaner that was actually carbon tetrachloride etc........or maybe that's why we of a certain age are all a bit loopy.....
@frank
I bought my first pair of cycling shoes, Diadora's, at Branford Bike, when they were in Branford, CT in the early 80s.