Monday, August 13, 2007
Recognizing Your Demons
The bike shop is a place of good friends and goof balls alike. It takes all kinds to mold a shop into the resilient crew that we all know and love. While many on the outside looking in think we have it made in the proverbial shade, it's not quite the cake walk you might think. We have our crosses to bear just like everyone else out there. The characters featured below are only a sampling of the multitude of freaks and losers we cater to on a daily basis.
The Blame the Bike Shop Firster
The BBSF'er favors the crude tactics of intimidation and incredulity to achieve his devious ends. Their goal is to never pay for anything. To do so would insult their twisted views of justice. There is no common ground to be found, only finger pointing and brazen accusations. The BBSF'er views the world as a battleground where everyone is out to get them.
The One Word Answer Man
Talking to OWAM is like trying to force a conversation on the works of Hemingway with Ivan Drago. OWAM enters the shop with wheel in clenched fist and jams his deflated trophy into your unsuspecting hands uttering one gutteral vocalization: "tube". OWAM is grim faced and avoids friendly banter like the black death.
The Skeptical Magazine Whore
The SMW views his exchanges at the bike shop as debates. Thus, he walks into the shop armed with the "facts" he's gathered from Bicycling, VeloNews, and everyone's favorite, Consumer Reports. The great thing is that SMW always gets it wrong eventually and sulks around the shop for ten minutes thinking of a hopeless response before finally limping out with his pride masterfully rebutted up his ass.
The Weaver of Tales
There is no PRO that he hasn't partied with, no speed he hasn't attained, nor race he could have won. This pygmy Mark Twain of the bike shop world sows the seeds of comic relief with deadpan sincerity. Sure, the sorry dipshits spin yarns that are as believable as me growing fangs in my bunghole, however, the reason we let them carry on with their intricate tapestry of lies is every bike shop's best kept secret: They are the unknowing jesters performing for the multitudes of dour, underpaid bike shop brothers and sisters worldwide. And, we merrily recant their amazing exploits over countless beers and long winter days.
The Expensive Car Driving Cheapskate
The ECDC is no doubt the biggest bastard to walk the earth. Not only do they not "get it", but they complain every step of the way. To them, a bike is a toy. A tawdry mix of gears and metal to allow them the honor of pointing to the name brand bike like Lance's in the garage with the shitball ride that comes with rock bottom level Ping-Pong bikes (I'll explain Ping-Pong in a later post, it's time the word got out). Because with them, it's all about image. I always have to laugh at these douchebags when they sigh aloud about the price of a car rack and then jam their two wheeled turd into the back seat, gear side down, to go home and "think about it".
The Brain Picker Who Buys Online
BPWBO feigns interest in buying high end parts from your shop only to waste three hours of your life by using the information he deviously extracted to buy them online. The only positive is the fact that he also fancies himself a mechanic and usually mangles the new part to virtual uselessness in his frenzied attempt to install it.
The Hand Wringer
The victim of fearmongering run amok. The Hand Wringer lives in a perpetual state of worry and dread. Fielding the panicked querys of HW is akin to having your ears slowly chewed off by a horde angry poodles. Is my seat too high? Handlebars too low? What about tire pressure? Torque settings? What's that noise? My bottom bracket? Chainring bolts? Headset? AAAAAAAAAAAAUUUUGG!
The Inept Retardo
Everything he does is wrong. Your children would be safer with a deranged grizzly bear as baby sitter than the IR. The only thing he is good at is breaking stuff. And when it comes to explaining how to operate a quick release skewer or lube a chain, it's something best done in semesters.
Nothing throws new employees into a psychotic frenzy faster than the suffocating obstinance of the CEO. He's used to having subordinates grovel at his hooves all day, so he expects the same treatment wherever else he prances. However, don't let the pompous attitude fool you. The manicured nails and faggy smell of boutique cologne spell it out pretty clearly. P-U-S-S-Y.