Waiting For...Murray?

I waited nearly a year for Dee-Lilah, my custom Mercian Vincitore Special.  At least I expected as much:  When I ordered her, the folks at Mercian were advising customers to anticipate such a lag between the time they placed their deposits and received their frames or bike.  

If I recall correctly, I waited about the same amount of time for my first Arielle, my dear, departed first Mercian. For ten or twelve months to pass from the time someone puts down a deposit and takes delivery of has never been unusual when ordering a bespoke frame or builder.  But, until the pandemic, the longest I can recall myself or anyone waiting for an off-the-shelf bike was three months, in the heyday of the 1970s North American Bike Boom.  That's how long it took for me to get my Schwinn Continental in 1972.  To be fair, though, I wanted a color that, I'd heard, Schwinn was offering in limited numbers.  

But I don't recall a situation like the one that's developed during the COVID-19 pandemic:  People have had to  wait a year for a bike.  And I'm not talking about a Mercian or a custom frame from someone like Richard Sachs.  Rather, folks are standing in line for Murrays and Huffys from big-box stores.  That has to do with the supply-chain disruptions you've heard about:  Factories closed during lockdowns and ship and dock workers, and truck drivers, either couldn't go to work or quit their jobs.

So it's particularly galling to see this:

 

 Why, in the middle of a bike shortage, is Target tossing brand-new bikes into a dumpster?  One would expect that if those bikes didn't move during a shortage, perhaps they could have been discounted or donated.  But no.  For all that the company, like so many others, likes to tout its philanthropy and environmental objectives.  It doesn't, however, donate merchandise under any circumstances. 

To be fair, many other companies have similar policies. They also, like Target, try not to sell merchandise at significant discounts:  If Target sells Schwinn or H&M sells a sweater, for example, at 50 percent off, the regular price seems much higher.  As for donations, some companies cite the tax and other legal implications of this practice.  Call me a cynic, but while I am willing to grant that companies find that it's too difficult or costly to give their stuff to Goodwill or a community bike center, I can't help but to think that tossing brand-new stuff comes down to the only two words I remember from the only economics class I took:  supply and demand.  Retailers want to keep the former low and the latter high to prop up prices.

I wonder whether the dumpster-diving mom who took the video had been waiting for one of those bikes for herself or her kids.

Black Friday Bicycle Shaped Objects

"Toys come in boxes.  Real bicycles come assembled and ready to ride."

I don't remember who said that.  I'm guessing it was the proprietor or a salesperson in one of the bike shops in which I worked.  And I'm guessing the proprietor or salesperson was admonishing someone who brought in a department-store bicycle for assembly or who tried to assemble such a bike and made a bad thing hopeless.

I'm recalling that bit of wisdom, if not the sage who imparted it, because today is Black Friday.

For those of you who are not in the US, this day--the day after we give thanks and exchange heart-warming stories (or get into fights) with people with whom we would not sit at the same table at any other time--and give thanks for, well, whatever.   This is the day on which stores--mainly the big-box variety--run "sales" on some of the worst junk imaginable, much of which will end up under Christmas trees four weeks later and in landfills four years--or even four months--later.

The boxes full of stuff meant to be assembled into bicycle-shaped objects are among the sale items I'm talking about. One of the "big-box" retailers--which, thankfully, does not have a store anywhere near me--has offered, on each of the few Black Fridays--a "freestyle BMX" bike with pegs and helmet for $49.99 and boys' and girls' 20 inch bicycles for $29. 

If you're a vegan,  bear with me for a moment as I use an analogy most people (Americans, anyway) will understand.  It's scarcely possible to get a steak dinner, let alone a good one, for $29.  Add drinks and dessert and you'd be hard-pressed to keep the tab below $50.   At least, that's the case here in New York.

Now, you might be thinking that buying a cheap bike for a kid isn't such a bad idea because he or she will trash or outgrow it within a couple of years.   Or you might be on a tight budget (Trust me, I understand!) and are shopping for a few kids or grandkids.  I don't have kids or grandkids, but I understand the joy in seeing a kid's eyes light up on Christmas morning.  (I've experienced it with my nieces and nephews as well as the children of friends, if that counts.)   However, I'd think about what I'm teaching kids when I give them disposable junk.  

More to the point, though, I'd be concerned about giving a kid (or anyone) something that's potentially unsafe.  In bikes, as in most things, you get what you pay for (up to a point, anyway).  Cheap bikes are made cheaply, from cheap materials.  Now, if I were buying such a bike for a kid (which, of course, I wouldn't), I at least have some residual level of skill as a mechanic and could at least ensure the bike is properly assembled.  However, not everyone who buys such a bike can make such a claim. Nor can some of the "mechanics" employed by some stores that offer assembly.

If you were to bring such a bike to a shop to be assembled, you'll pay enough for the service that it, combined with the price of the bike, will total not much less than the price of  a bike shop bike.  Shops don't charge what they charge out of spite or to gouge customers:  Proper assembly and repair (which bikes in boxes sometimes need) takes time and therefore costs money.  And a mechanic in any bike shop worthy of the name wants to take the time to do it right because the shop's reputation rides on the work done in it.

So...If you really, truly, must participate in that orgy of consumerism called Black Friday--which has been likened to the running of the bulls--don't buy a bike, especially one for a kid, in a big-box store.  If you're a regular reader of this blog, I don't have to tell you that.  But you might want to tell your less-informed (about bikes, anyway) friends and relatives what I've said--or pass along this post.

Methode VTT (Velo Tout Terrain)

On New Year's Day, you may have shared a bottle of "champagne" with friends or family members. 

Chances are, though, that it wasn't Champagne.  More than likely, it was probably a sparkling wine prepared according to the Methode Champenoise.

Now, I haven't drunk very much Methode Champenoise wine--or, for that matter, Champagne itself. So, I don't mean to be snobbish or condescending when I make the distinction between sparkling wines. I mention it only because  someone who drinks, makes or sells Champagne, though, would probably be upset if you used the name of their product for the bubbly you drank over the holidays.

What got me thinking about that distinction?, you ask.  Believe it or not, it was a bike parked a couple of blocks from my apartment:

Now, what does a bike from which a Huffy would be an upgrade have to do with a drink some blind French monk invented by accident?  

Take a look at the downtube:

It reads "ATB Style."

I guess it's supposed to mean that the bike is an ATB-style bike.  In what sense, though?  Sure, it has fat tires, upright handlebars and gears.  But it also has the wretched cheap long-arm sidepulls found on so many bad bike-boom ten-sppeds.  Worse, the brakes are supposed to do their work on steel rims--which means that in wet weather, they will hardly work at all.

And, of course, the bike is twice as heavy and about half as strong as a real ATB.  

What I find interesting is that All-Terrain Bike was coined because Joe Breeze, one of the early builders of bikes in this genre, patented the term "mountain bike" and wasn't too happy when Gary Fisher, Fat Chance and other fat-tire pioneers were using the term.    So, one might say that "ATB" is the methode champenoise of off-road bicycles.

Then again, for all I know, ATB might be the monogram of a fashion designer or clothing store.