By Peter Chisholm - bike shop owner in Colorado Like many bike shop owners, I sometimes view working in retail as being “in the trenches.” It’s not the mud, blood, death and suffering of the trenches of the Great War, but sometimes it dishes out its own brand of blood loss and suffering. Most days, working in bicycle service and sales is all about problem solving. The keys to success are having the item the customer is looking for in stock (or, if not, selling them what you do have), and fixing what is broken so they can participate in our beautiful pastime. Bike shops that are successful identify their market segment, and then aggressively pursue that market segment. They try to be the experts, whether it is in service, custom wheel design, price, selection, or whatever a particular shop’s focus may be. Bike shops that try to be everything to every cyclist often fail in all areas. A “pro” shop shouldn’t sell cruisers, just like a BMX shop shouldn’t bother trying to repair Campagnolo Ergo levers. The occasional day in the shop is made interesting with odd conversations, mixed messages, and at its worst, downright angry people. Every once in a while, a potential customer will come in with an agenda. It’s either “I’m gonna stump the bike shop guy,” or something along the lines of “I have a preconceived notion of why the new ‘whizbang component’ is great, and I’m happy to argue with you if you disagree.” I really don’t get this mentality. Bicycles are wonderful, simple machines that offer so much, so why be the person making it feel like I’m in the trenches, fighting for my life? Bicycles are both efficient transporters and wonderful escape vehicles. They don’t have to be carbon fiber or expensive, complicated or competitive to do their job. And the people that ride them don’t have to be that way either. Don’t get me wrong; I admire beautiful, exotic bicycles. Few things are more satisfying than assembling a De Rosa or Colnago with Campy SuperRecord, complete with a beautiful tubular wheelset (ideally hand built by me), made specifically for the rider. It’s like assembling a Ducati for Casey Stoner. But unlike Casey, you still gotta pedal the bike. Going up your local climb can make a child of any of us, complete with whimpering and pain. Remember, your bike exists to get you there. It should disappear beneath you. The objective is the ride, not the bike. A $15,000 bicycle won’t get you there much more quickly than a $10,000 bike, which won’t get you there much more quickly than a $5,000 bike. Making it work everyday is my job, pedaling it is yours. There are no guarantees, no promises made. So when you go into your local bike shop and want to talk about this wonderful thing called a bicycle, remember, it has different meanings to different people — a tool, a toy, a means of transportation — but for everyone, it’s a self-propelled vehicle, not some mystical material or technology. And also remember to be good to that guy who owns the shop, the one who always seems to have that worried look on his face. He likely faces low margins and slow times of year, and has to deal with hassles like missed shipments and mispriced invoices. He’s probably just trying to keep the lights on, and to have a place where he and a few others can congregate around that beautiful machine called a bicycle. So take care of him like he’s trying to take care of you. In spite of the countless hours on my tired feet, in spite of those who think spending more will make them better, and in spite of some bizarre new designs and the occasional unreliable and expensive piece of equipment, I love to ride. And I love to make that bicycle — any bicycle — work, so that you too can enjoy this wonderful, simple, elegant machine. So please, don’t force me in into the trenches. This is the best and worst job there is at the same time. But I’ll still come to work tomorrow. Hell, I’ll probably ride in.
