I LOVE to bicycle. I’m one of those people who tootle around wearing the lycra, black shorts with the padded butt. Sometimes you will see me wearing those garish-colored jerseys meant to keep motorists from slamming into my back wheel.
I HATE bike shops. I’m all for supporting local, small businesses but DAMN, bike shop personnel have no customer service training whatsoever. They are like every snobby bookstore and record store clerk you ever met in your life, all rolled into one.
Case in point:
Around late March/early April I drop my bike off at the local shop for a tune-up. You know…check the tires, replace the chain if need be…stuff like that. The experience is never pleasant and this year was no exception.
I dropped it off. No problem. A few days later I received the call to pick it up.
I walked into my local central Massachusetts bike shop on a Saturday afternoon. At the counter was a man in his early thirties. (I’ve dealt with him on more than one occasion.) He was typing something on the computer/register. About 10 feet off to his right were three grease monkeys, all in their mid-teens.
I was the ONLY customer in the shop.
The man at the counter didn’t even look up. At this point the three teens were poking each other, whispering
“Are you going to help? Are you?”
Finally, I broke the tension and said,
“I’LL TAKE ANYONE. ANYONE!!!”