Bike Shop Bros

As I wheeled the bike into the shop, I thought back on the red carpet that had been rolled out for me a little over 800 miles ago in Stevens Point, WI, when the shop owner had stuck around after closing to see if I’d show up in need of repairs. I wasn’t sure if this broken spoke was the same one he’d replaced, but I figured if I could make it 800 miles between spoke replacements, maybe this rear wheel would make it after all. The clanging of the bell above the door got the attention of the guys working there. Both in their early twenties and unconcerned with hiding the annoyance that their conversation had been interrupted by a potential customer, they just stared at me. 

“Hey! I broke a spoke on the way into town. Could you guys replace it?” I asked. 

“Oh man. Bummer. We could probably get to it tomorrow. Maybe in the morning,” said the guy with dirty hands and wearing a greasy apron. He was clearly the mechanic.

I glanced around, trying to identify the invisible line of customers that were in front of me. I knew how bike shops worked and I understood that service was often scheduled in a way that walk-in customers like myself couldn’t always be helped right away, but I’d also been in bike shops all throughout this trip, and when I told the mechanic my story, they typically snuck me in to keep me rolling. So I gave these guys the elevator pitch on my trip, hoping to win some empathy and get my wheel in a truing stand. 

“That sounds like a cool trip. I mean, we’re just pretty busy right now,” he replied, his tone unaware of the visual irony in the comment. “If you left it overnight, I could probably sneak it in first thing in the morning.” 

I was really trying hard not to respond in a way that indicated these guys owed me anything, because they didn’t. “What time do you guys open?” 

“10 a.m.” 

“That’s kind of late. I’m generally on the road by 7 or 8 a.m. and I have a pretty long day to Williston tomorrow. Starting up that late might make it tough to get there before dark.” I hoped the scale of my next day’s ride would appeal to some place of empathy in these guys, but all I got back were blank stares. It appeared we were locked into some kind of negotiation strategy where these guys thought whoever spoke next would lose, so they were staying silent.

After a long pause, the mechanic turned back to his buddy, leaned on the counter, and they picked their conversation back up where I’d interrupted when I’d walked into the shop. This was frustrating, but I realized I had no leverage. It was obvious I could plead with these guys, but nothing was going to get done. I’d stood by and watched as each previous mechanic had swapped out a broken spoke for a new one. Though I’d never done it myself, I thought I understood the mechanics of the operation, and rather than dicking around with these two clowns anymore, I resigned myself to just buying the spoke and trying to fix it tonight. 

“I just need to be on the road sooner than that. Can you guys just sell me the spoke?” I asked, no longer trying to hide the annoyance I was feeling. 

The mechanic cocked his head in my direction. “You’re going to do it yourself?” he chuckled. 

“I imagine if you can do it, I can figure it out,” I snapped back. 

“Okay. Whatever dude,” he replied while walking toward the bike to determine what I’d need. After his quick assessment, he came back with a single spoke and handed it to his buddy to ring me up. 

They obviously didn’t sell a lot of individual spokes because this guy had no idea how to ring it up. “How much are these things?” he asked, looking confused at his friend.

“I don’t know. Five bucks?” He shrugged.

“Alright,” he said to his friend. “Five bucks,” he said back to me.

I handed over a $5 bill and headed for the door. Even if I couldn’t figure this thing out, I wasn’t about to ask these guys for any tips.