Bikes Without Brews?

Around 2010, a new kind of business emerged:  the bike cafe.  Some were established bike shops that added counters, stools and even tables and served coffees, teas, snacks, sandwiches and even light meals and craft beers.  Others, though, like Red Lantern in Brooklyn, offered bikes, accessories and repairs along with fuel for the ride (or re-fueling for after it) from the day they opened. 

About five years ago, Red Lantern closed.  According to its owners, Brian and Lena Gluck, the final nail in the shop's coffin was a large rent increase, although they noted that they started to lose business a couple of years earlier when a Starbucks opened two blocks away and the Citibike program rode into full gear. The bikeshare program wasn't the "gateway drug" to a bike purchase, Brian noted. Although Citibikes, like most other share programs' bikes, are heavy and clunky, people weren't interested in getting a nicer bike.  Rather, they liked "compromising between not getting stolen, not having to maintain it, and not having to lug it up four flights of stairs," he explained.  Also, many Citibike users are tourists who aren't going to buy a bicycle during their trip unless it's very different from, or much less expensive than, whatever they can buy at home.

He's not the only one who misses Red Lantern.

The factors Gluck cited upon closing the shop may well have led to other bike shop/cafe establishments ending their runs.  After Red Lantern, I noticed a few other such closures. At the time I thought it had to do with the things that led the Glucks to close their shop and, possibly, that Millenials--who were those establishments' chief patrons and sometimes the proprietors--were simply moving on to other things.

But now I am hearing of, and reading about the end even more such businesses, here in New York and elsewhere.  Still others--like Mello Velo in Syracuse, New York--are getting out of the brew 'n' bagel business.  I have to wonder whether the cafes of  Mello Velo and other such establishments simply never recovered from the COVID-19 pandemic.  While bike shops remained open, I can't help but to think that when masking was mandatory early in the pandemic, people didn't stay for coffee when they bought their bikes or had them fixed.  

If that is the case, it's ironic:  While the pandemic was a boon for many shops (though others closed because they couldn't get any more inventory), it was a disaster for almost anything having to do with hospitality--except, of course, for takeout.  

The Light Of The Red Lantern

This afternoon I wandered aimlessly from my place through Hipster Hook and along various side-streets in Brooklyn when I chanced upon this:

I simply had to stop.  After all, how often does one see old bicycles and wheels posted above an entrance to an estaminet with a Pabst Blue Ribbon neon sign in the window?

For years, I’ve been hearing about the “bike cafes” and “bike bars” in Portland and a few other places.  A few have opened here in New York during the past two or three years.  I’ve been to a couple such places.  It was a bit difficult to see inside the windows of Red Lantern Bicycles on Myrtle Avenue, just a few blocks from the Brooklyn Academy of Music.  But once I stepped inside, I felt as if I could hang out there all day.

At the bar, a friendly young man named Bradford held court.  I ordered a French-press coffee, even though I normally don’t drink coffee these days.  I could have ordered a cappuccino (which I occasionally drink) as well as other kinds of coffee- and tea- based beverages or a variety of beers they had on tap and in bottles.  They also make their own almond milk and other kinds of non-dairy beverages which can be added to your coffee or tea.

I parked my bike and sauntered around the store, where I met Chombo.  I did a double-take:  For a moment, I thought I’d stepped back about 30 years and met a young Frank Chrinko, the proprietor of Highland Park Cyclery, where I worked.  While his appearance was similar, Chombo’s demeanor was very different: Outgoing and articulate, he patiently explained why one crankset was more expensive than another and what, exactly, would be involved in the fixed-gear conversion a customer was considering for his Fuji from the same era in which I worked at Highland Park Cyclery.

One enters the store in the bar/café area; the bike shop is in the back.  But they seem to work together very well; while one or two customers seemed to be there strictly for one or the other, most seemed to flow between the two, as I did.

While I was there, a young woman named Raven entered with two of her friends.  “I’m not really a cyclist,” she demurred, almost apologetically.   I tried to reassure her that there was no need to explain herself that way:  She is riding a bike; that is what matters.  And, to my mind, no one with her sense of style has to apologize for anything!

Somehow it made sense that I would meet her and her friends, Zack and Mary, at Red Lantern.