Sound Repairs

If a restaurant doesn't post its prices on its menu, I probably can't afford it.  

I learned that lesson the hard way on my first trip to Europe.  On a wonderful day of riding through the Loire Valley, I was ready for a nice meal.  So I stopped at an utterly charming restaurant where the staff were oh-so-friendly and attractive and the food was even better than I dreamed they'd be.  I would have enjoyed the meal and the ambience, I think, even if I hadn't been hungry and spent the day pedaling.

I was in Nirvana or paradise or whatever you want to call it...until I got the check.  That meal didn't cost much less than my budget for a whole week!  At least I didn't have to worry about a tip:  In France, that's included (service compris). 

Now, I must say that the rule about menu prices doesn't necessarily apply to bicycle shops.  Some post "menus" of repair prices.  Of the shops in which I worked, none followed the practice.  The reason was that, very often, repairs turn out to be more complicated than they seemed at first glance:  The flat tire might have been caused by protruding spokes, which means re-truing or re-building a wheel (or even replacing it) rather than simply installing a new inner tube.  Or that creak or other noise might come from a crack in a frame tube caused by a fall that the rider might not have given a second thought because he or she rode home after it.

(I can honestly say that, in spite of the fact they didn't post "menus", none of those shops charged more than others in their area for repairs.  Two of them, however, advertised "tune up specials" where, for a fixed price, cables were replaced, bearings and chains lubed and adjustments were made.)

I got to thinking about "menu" pricing after I came across this:

Imagine if we could determine what needed to be done, and what it would cost, simply by listening!   For all I know, at least one mechanic with whom I worked may have been doing that:  He used to work with a stethoscope hanging from his neck!  Then again, he took substances that may or may not have been legal at the time, so he may have heard things I never would have.

My Princeton Education From A Guy Named Fritz

Four decades ago, when I first became a dedicated cyclist, we didn't have the Internet.  So we learned about cycling from the few books and magazines that were available in the US at the time.  Often, they contained misinformation:  I recall an article that dubbed the Campagnolo Gran Turismo as the perfect derailleur for bicycle touring.  I couldn't help but to think that the author of that article had never actually ridden Campy's white elephant.   After all, much better wide-range derailleurs from SunTour were widely available in the US, and they quickly became the most common upgrade for folks whose Simplexes snapped in two, Hurets (or, more specifically, Allvits) that snapped cables or Campagnolo Valentinos and Veloxes--and Gran Turismos--that shared only the Campagnolo name with the then-vaunted Nuovo Record.

We also learned about cycling from each other:  In those days, the few longtime cyclists I met always seemed willing to share what they knew as well as some entertaining stories.  I'd also talk with other cyclists when I went on the few (at least, compared to today) organized rides held on weekends or at meetings of the clubs to which I belonged and for which I would later organize and lead rides. 

And, of course, there were shops.  Some were Johnny-come-latelies, while others were "family" shops where parents bought kids bikes for Christmas, birthdays and such.  There was nothing wrong, really, with those the second category:  They at least had some working knowledge of what worked with what.  Most of them sold some lightweight bikes; some, like the first shop in which I worked, might keep one high-end bike on display but if you needed a different size or wanted a different color--or different model--it had to be ordered.  The first shop in which I worked--Michael's Bicycles on Route 35 in Hazlet, NJ--kept a Schwinn Paramount on hand but, among the bikes they regularly stocked, the most expensive was a Raleigh Super Course.

Then there were the few shops that dealt in high-end racing and touring bikes, even during the Dark Ages of cycling.  The nearest one, in those days, was Kopp's Cycle in Princeton.  The proprietor, Fred "Fritz" Kuhn was one of those gruff but friendly people you might expect to find in a coffee shop in a working-class neighborhood in, say, pre-hipster Brooklyn.  But the man was a veritable encyclopedia of cycling knowledge:  He was a six-day racer in the heyday of that sport and became a coach for Olympic cyclists as well as the Princeton Cycling team, one of the few such collegiate squads at the time.

Fred "Fritz" Kuhn

In fact, it was he (or someone in his shop) who built my first set of custom wheels, which I mentioned a couple of days ago.  Even though Japanese bikes and components were rapidly gaining popularity in the US, he did not stock them.  He thought Japanese designs and manufacture hadn't stood the test of time. "Best to stick with the tried and true," he'd growl.  By that, he meant Campagnolo and other European makes.

I would later learn that the real reason he wouldn't stock Japanese goods was that his son was killed by a soldier from that country.  Ironically, the fact that he never shared that made him a natural fit with the Princeton gentry.  But as I came to know him a bit better, I realized that it was a manifestation of something people often said about him:  "He's a gentleman."  And, as I recall, he didn't bad-mouth anyone, not even those who were his competitors in cycling or in business.  He even said the company that produced the Excel Dynamic--believed to be the first US-made derailleur and a copy of the by-then-obsolete Huret Allvit--was a "good company" but that they "should have stuck to what they do well. "

Kopp's Cycles, more or less as I remember it.

I am thinking about Fritz, his shop and the cycling scene of those days because I recently came across a few articles mentioning Kopp's Cycles.  It's still in business, as it has been since 1891.  Fritz bought it from the Kopp family, for whom it is named, in 1948.  I recall his daughter, Marie, and son, Charlie, working there while in high school and college.  Now Charlie is in charge of the shop.  While he has updated the shop's offerings, it still has the "old world" atmosphere I recall from so many years ago.  I'm sure that whoever goes there will come away educated.  And, oh yeah, there's a university in the town, too!

The Bike Shop Moves Away From Memory

The other day, I stopped in a bike shop I used to visit, and buy from, quite frequently.  That was when I was the "before" photo, and I was riding off-road with a few other guys.   The shop was the nearest one to Forest Park, which is to Queens what Central Park is to Manhattan and Prospect to Brooklyn.  The difference is that there's more wooded area that is, if not virgin or wild, at least less sculpted.  And more remote.  What that meant was that, as often as not, we'd encounter spots that looked as if a Santeria ritual held been conducted--or that a baby had been conceived--on it.


But I digress.  We often stopped at the shop in question because, as often or not, one of us needed an inner tube or chain, or even a pedal or derailleur.  And I would sometimes go there when I was riding solo, particularly if I was riding to or from Rockaway Beach.  They had a good selection of components, and the proprietor, now retired, was a Frenchman.  That gave me the opportunity to talk about my experiences in his home country as I practiced his native language.


But I wondered how long the place would endure.  Of course, I was thinking of how long the shop as I knew it would last.  I guess I feel about bike shops the way I feel about favorite cafes or bookstores:  I don't want them to change, but I know that they must.


And so it is with the bike shop in question.  The former proprietor's son, who was in junior high school the first time I visited that shop, has taken over.  He is married and has a kid.  One of his riding buddies has become a business partner as well as a husband and father.  And a couple of young men who weren't yet born the first time I went to the shop are working there now.


So far, that sounds like normal progress.  But other changes may be more ominous, at least to me.   There are no road bikes, and only a few mountain or comfort bikes.  Those bikes are at least a couple of years old.  And much of the cycling equipment is even older.  In a way, I don't mind, for I've often been able to find a discontinued or "obsolete" part there.  And I still get good deals on them.  


The few new bikes are those small-wheeled wonders meant for BMX.  So are the new components and accessories.  Again, that may just be a consequence of time marching on.  The same may be said for the new clientèle, all of whom seem to be kids in their early teens.  Again, that may just be progress, in the literal sense of the word.


I have to admit to some amusement I got from the kids.  They peppered their speech with profanity, as boys that age are wont to do when they're amongst themselves.  (That hasn't changed,  believe me!)  What I found ironic was that the riding buddy-turned-business-partner admonished the kids, "Watch your language!" and glanced in my direction.  One of the kids turned toward me sheepishly and whispered, "Sorry, lady!"


Their banter continued, and the profanity returned.  I intoned, "Could you please clean up your language."  They apologized in unison.  And, a couple of minutes later, one of them yelled, "Shut the..." before glancing in my direction.


As I said, they are not such unusual pubescent boys.  But, as I am growing old and conservative (!), I couldn't help but to wonder where their parents were.  All along the street where the shop is located, and the streets of that neighborhood, no-one who looked the right age to be their parents was to be found.  There were only other kids like them, who seemed to have even less structure in their lives than those kids had, and older people, who were living those kids' futures.


It occurred to me then that it was a wonder the shop has survived as long as it has.  The neighborhood around it has been a blue-collar enclave for the better part of a century; relatives of mine grew up and raised their kids there.  So it never has been a neighborhood with high incomes or people who rode bicycles after they started to work.  It's always been a place where the men take the train that rumbles overhead to their jobs until they can afford a car, and the women stayed home to raise their kids and cook for large gatherings that included other people's kids.  They rarely, if ever, emerge from the shadow of that train, and the neighborhood grows dirtier and sadder.  


And now "nobody has any money; everybody's out of work," according to the now-proprietor.  He is happy to be "making it," although, he confided to me, he never could provide his kid the standard of living his father provided for him if his wife didn't have her job.  He also intimated that he hardly rides anymore and that he spends more of what free time he has on his skateboard.


As the shop is along a couple of routes I ride, and requires only a slight detour when I ride to or from work, I am sure I will stop there again.  I just wonder what will be there.