I hand Mandy a tenner. He nods in appreciation and exits out the back door, Hemsworthy blonde locks billowing behind him and he heads to the coffee shop to grab us a couple of drip coffees. Mine black. His, wonderfully sweet though he is, with cream and sugar. He’s not thankful for the coffee so much as the fact that I’m taking one for the team. It’s a small price to pay, financially and functionally, to have him turning wrenches at full throttle for the rest of the day.
His job is to fix bikes, and he’s f*cking good at it. Not simply a parts swapper, but a creative problem solver. My job is to keep the shop humming and in those days when my patience and passion matched my persnicketiness, I was pretty decent at it too. And the fellow we could recognize out in the parking lot, about to come through the door? If being the most entitled asshole with superfluous cash to ever ride mountain bikes was an Olympic sport he’d have more gold medals than Michael Phelps.
As buddy crosses the threshold, my imaginary traps and wards fizzling away to nothing, I look up from my mountain of paperwork and offer a greeting. No reply is granted until he arrives at the thin barrier separating the sales floor from the workshop and realizes I’m the only employee in the store.
“Where’s the mechanic?“
As I explain that it’s just me to serve him, he flashes that degrading and dismissive look that absolutely everyone who’s worked in a shop who’s been referred to as “just a salesperson” knows very well. In my more hopeful days, long past, I’d have been tempted to riposte the attitude through some characterization of my mechanical competency but I’d long ago learned it’s pointless.
Instead, I suggest that I note down, word for word, the work that he needs to be done, so he can be certain that it’s performed to his expectations. So that he can get on with his undoubtedly busy and important day. He looks at his watch and a détente is reached.
As his car drives out of sight, Andy affects his perfectly timed return to the shop with my coffee in hand. Thanks. Mechanic-Andy, Mandy, goes back to expertly servicing a Hammerschmidt and I return to my paperwork, still hopeful, back then, that the acidic bite of the bitter black coffee washes a bit of the tar off of my soul.
The other day I was asked if I’d consider going back to working on the sales floor and managing the backend of bike shops. I was thinking, yeah I could do that. I met a lot of awesome folks I still know today selling bikes and P&A. And then I thought of this story, and too many like it, and realized I’d rather service Hammerschmidts all day than deal with even one Gold-medal asshole.
Other Tunnel Talk:
TT.0 Welcome To Tunnel Talk
TT.1 #1FG Oval Obsession
TT.2 Mountain Biking Happens
TT.3 International Standard Brake Mounting IS Better
TT.4 Tool Free Admonishment
TT.5 “Is That Andrew Major’s Bike?”
TT.6 Tubeless Install 101
TT.7 Building Wheels With Used Rims
TT.8 Renting Performance Hardtails For Kids
TT.9 “Fifty Bucks,” Missed Bed Times, & Bike Mechanic Crimes
TT.10 Mechanics On Parade
TT.11 Bio
TT.12 Tips & Bribes