Mail-order Vs. Your Local Bike Shop


by Ben Tiffany

I was leaning over the counter at the bike shop, looking out into the street and the cars that splashed through the brown slush. Days like these were bad for business. The only people interested in visiting the shop during the winter were the most serious of roadies, the year-round bike commuters, and the mail-ordering-types. I wondered which faction would walk through the door first.

<>The serious roadies are a curious bunch. Like puppies, they spill into the shop in litters of 3 or 4. Staring in awe at the hand-made componentry, they ask questions in hushed, reverent tones. But they’re generally speechless in the presence of so much Italian art assembled in one place. And the roadies looked at me, not so much as the manager, but as the curator. I was always down with the roadies.  <>Then there were the year-round bike commuters. They all had their reasons for cycling out into the cold every day. But most of them were simply terrific drunks who’d has their licenses revoked. They still had their late night run-ins: swerving into traffic and running into the back of parked cars. But at least they weren’t driving. They were only killing themselves.

I was wondering which one of our commuter friends would di next, when the front door swung open. A tall, blonde, Nordic-looking monster was charging at me with his face pinched into a bitter knot.

He slammed his open hand on the glass counter, shouting, “Road forks!”

“What about ‘em?” I asked.

“Do you have any?”

<>“I dunno. Let me check.”  <>I walked into the back room and poured myself a cup. Who did this guy think he was? Here it was, not even 9 A.M. and dude’s shouting about road forks. I pulled my nail clippers out of t in box and gave myself a trim over the rotting garbage barrel. The barrel was never washed and rarely dumped. And like a Petri dish, it took on a life of its own, growing a remarkable number of colorful fungi. It was always evolving, always growing. We didn’t throw trash into the barrel. We fed the barrel. 

“Excuse me, young man.” He called from the showroom floor. “There are a bunch of road forks right here.”

“Oh, yeah,” I said, shuffling into the showroom.

“How much does this one weigh?” he asked.

“It doesn’t really matter, does it?”

“What?”

<>“I said ‘I don’t know’. But I’d be happy to look it up.” 

I must have drank three cups of coffee in the time it took me to find that damn weight. I sifted through stacks of catalogs while dude tried on jerseys, massaging his belly in front of the full-length mirror.

“These Pearl Izumi jerseys are cut awfully tight in the gut. Don’t you think?”

“No,” I said not looking up from the catalogs, “It’s your belly. It’s enormous.”

“What did you say?”

<>“”Here it is!” I sang out. “440 grams. Right there on page 91. 440 grams.” 

“Oh great! That’s 5 grams less than the other one I was considering.”

“Terrific.”

<>“Well then I’ve made my decision,” he said. 

He spun on his heel and marched out the door, no doubt heading back to search through his mail-order catalogs one more time before ordering his fork over the phone. So not only had I lost another sale, but I’d also spent 25 minutes ensuring that a few hundred bucks would be sent to a warehouse in Minnesota. Somehow I felt dirty.

Now, I’m cool with capitalism. After all, competition only strengthens the finished products. And despite what some people may tell you, there is nothing wrong with wanting to save money. But you might want to consider some of the pros and cons of mail-ordering vs. working with your local bike shop.

<>Mail-order companies, which include the internet variety are great for those of you stuck in the Yukon with nowhere else to go. And for the hardcore rider who works on his or her own bike, there’s no point in buying anything but tubes from the local shop. 

But mail-ordering isn’t all it’s cracked up to be. You still need to pay shipping and that cuts into your savings. You have to know exactly what it is you want because more often than not, the gearhead answering the phone has the social skills of a soap dish. He can’t tell you what you need. And when you start asking about parts for the Campagnola derailleur you bought in 1981, dude’s eyes will glaze over, his hands will start trembling and he might even hang up.

<>You can’t see what it is you’re buying with a mail-order part—can’t hold it in your hands. You also can’t have someone size up your bike and tell you whether this super tech part you want is going to (1) fit your bike or (2) make any noticeable difference. So you really need to have intimate knowledge of the products you’re considering. Unfortunately, your knowledge is usually based on a brief review that was written by the very same people who are pimping the part. 

Your local bike shop is certainly more expensive. They don’t buy parts in volume so they can’t be expected to compete with the big boys. But what they can do is offer good advice.

<>If you’re ordering a backpack online, installation isn’t an issue. But bike parts are a whole different story. When they install parts, a good shop will take care of you until you have it just the way you want it—until it’s absolutely dialed. Mail-order can’t do that. When you have wheels built up, they keep truing them fro free while the wheel breaks in. that way it will stay true (straight) and problem free. Mail-order can’t do that. And if you’re thinking about buying a whole bike, a shop can not only help you break it in properly but they can help “fit” you to a bike to ensure that you walk away with the right one in the first place. Mail-order sure as Hell can’t do that. 

Keeping the local bike shops alive helps our sport. They sponsor races and teams. They also help organize group rides and provide valuable trail info for visiting bikers. They are the pillars of the biking culture. And without them, we’re a scattered community, ordering parts from faceless button pushers in Colorado and California. We’re a mass of individuals without a home, without a family, without tradition. We are orphans.

Don’t shy away from the bike shop for fear of meeting arrogant bastards like me. My type never last long—too bitter for good business, I guess. In fact, just two weeks after my run-in with Nordic road fork boy, I was fired for a list of charges that included consistently correcting the customers’ grammar and refusing service to men with mullets. Yeah, my kind doesn’t last long. So feel free to get to know the employees of your local shop. Typically, they’re good guys. And believe it or not, they’d be glad to have you tag along on the next group ride.

Better still, avoid the younger set altogether. Hunker down with one of the old salty dogs you’ll find bumping around the shop. Let him go on about the good old days when his shop ruled the roost and everyone still wore wool jerseys, when everyone still shaved their legs, when tattoos were for prisoners and pierced nipples were for freaks. He might be a little behind the times. But he’s the best link to our past. He’s passing on the great verbal history of our cycling tradition. And while the warehouse in Colorado might save you a bunch, guys like him are keeping our wonderful sport alive. Guys like him are fathering orphans.


 

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