Shop Dog
Words are seeds
that take root in the soil of a listener willing to grow. The time needed for a
seed to bloom has nothing to do with you. There’s no decision involved; in the
unfolding, life does all the work. A seed planted years earlier in the garden
of your mind eventually bears fruit. One day you see the result in front of you
and, pausing, smile because you recall the moment of insemination.
•
My wish to try
out a Lemond Sarthes led me to a bike shop in the state capital, a three-hour
drive. Lemond was at the tail-end of its alliance with Trek. Inventory was way
down, and it wasn’t a widely distributed brand in the first place. In my part
of the state, not one of the five shops in a thirty-mile radius stocked a steel
road bike. Production steel was dead. Lemond was one of the last name brands
with a steel line. Time for a day trip to the nearest store that had steel on
the floor and/or could get me the Lemond I wanted.
She drove. She
knew where she was going, having lived in this capital city for a few years.
•
Easy-going, one
might say affectionate personnel greeted us. The mechanics worked in stations behind
the counter, which ran the length of one side of the shop, dozens of
blue-handled tools hanging on the vast pegboard. Racks of bicycles occupied
most of the sales floor, flanked by clothing displays, tires, gloves, and the
like. Hooks high up on the walls held vintage racing machines, all of them
legendary Italian names save for the jewel of the shop, a seventies Merckx (technically Italian too, since it was built by Colnago). The
owner told me the story behind the acquisition of each bike, all full Campy of
course.
An orange Merckx.
Team Molteni. Wow.
(For a gallery of beautiful images of this classic bicycle, see http://raydobbins.com/75_colnago_merckx/bike-75_colnago_molteni.htm.)
•
I was happy, she
was happy that I was happy, and she was happy because she had made a friend. I
found her sitting on the floor with a large brown dog in her lap. She and the
dog, whose name eludes me, were the picture of content. The shop’s sweetness
was distilled in his eyes. He seemed to say, “I like you and I’m glad you’re
here and yes you may pet me all you want.” Maybe then, or maybe as we left the
store thirty minutes later, she said something along the lines of “a bike shop
needs a dog to be complete, and this shop was.” Her exact words don’t matter.
The sentiment, the idea, the insight—that’s what matters. What she said, as
well as the sight of her bonding with this beautiful, loveable animal, is what
I remember.
•
I’ve often
fantasized about owning a bike shop. The owner of the one just described kindly
sent us a detailed business model. The numbers were forbidding, the time wasn’t
right, and I have no business know-how. None of that stopped us from noticing
empty storefronts in our downtown, assessing locations for the very cool LBS we
dreamed about.
•
In time I found
myself living in a house with a two-car garage, the closest I’ll ever come to
owning or working in a bike shop. But an amateur home mechanic can do a lot with
the help of the Zinn guides, the Park manual, and YouTube videos. My “bike
shop” has an old receiver with little speakers usually playing NPR or CBS
Sports Radio, two windows for ventilation, excellent light, quality tools, two
good bike stands, a utility sink, storage, decent shelf space, three-door
access, and . . . the final touch.
She was right.
He's precious—and what a set-up!
ReplyDeleteThanks, Pat.
ReplyDelete