Issue 164: Nowhere To Hide

Tom Simpson is not sure about the minimalist, clutter-free design of new bike shops.

Words Tom Simpson

Bike shops have always been a bit of a safe haven for me. Ever since stepping into my first proper BMX shop to pick out a proper BMX, they have become somewhat of a happy place, which goes a long way to me ending up working in them over the years when my “career plans” weren’t amounting to much. I’ve had so many deep and life-changing chats in bike shops with various staff over the years, when I’ve just popped in to buy a tube, that I wonder if most staff members double as self-taught therapists.

Maybe it;s the relaxed atmosphere that brings it out, with the like-minded individuals, but the vibe can be very disarming. It seems easy to spill anything out that may have been troubling you that week. Mind you, this vibe can do a complete 180 very quickly if the staff have been wrestling a Cushcore/carbon rim/ tyre combo that is so tight that shirts have come off…

The smell of the rubber in the air and whiffs of GT85 always triggers a sense of nostalgia for me. But something I’ve noticed over the years is the creeping gentrification. Much like our pubs and regular shops being turned in to soulless zombie-like shells, the retail planner has infiltrated our once-stocked Aladdin’s caves and taken all the mystery, character and adventure out of them. I like my bike shops to be organised chaos; one where I need to hunt and sift through the shelves to find what I need, and hopefully uncover any potential bargains on the way. I like bike shops to be like music shops in the 90s, sifting through boxes of stuff, and chatting to fellow customers about the stuff you enjoy, swapping stories recommendations. All while drinking a strong coffee.

While it all sounds very chic, there are dangers to this modern Bauhaus aesthetic… A shop I recently did a few shifts in had decided to simplify the look of the shop with much less product and with a more easily-identifiable look, giving it a much more open plan, airy feel. The tyres had been displayed behind the checkout desk, meaning that anyone wanting one for their desert-crossing needs, could ask the staff to decipher the hieroglyphics on the side walls. Next to the desk, was a workshop computer that could be used for searching for parts and diagrams, visible to the staff member but not the customer.

On one quite Saturday morning, a fellow customer came in for a chat and a tyre purchase, to which I was the pleasant fellow to help him find his perfect Stargate-travelling rubber. After a good chat about tyres and general life, some gold crossed our palms and goodbyes were said. However, unbeknown to the other staff member on the workshop computer, the customer had not yet left, and had stopped in the middle of the shop, after identifying something he really wanted on the new bike front. It was at this moment, while the customer was looking at a potentially very expensive impulse-purchase, and perhaps an early closing treat for ourselves, that the workshop staff member unleashed the most earth-shattering fart I ever had the displeasure of standing within blast radius.

Have you seen Terminator 2, when the nuclear blast goes off while Sarah Conner is holding the chain link fence, and the force and heat of the explosion rips her skin off down to the skeleton? That fart was the smelly equivalent. The smell filled the room quicker than a F1 pit stop, and trees in the street outside wilted as if autumn had arrived unexpectedly. Due to the new open-plan layout, the customer suddenly looked up and locked eyes instantly with me across the room, with not even as much as a helmet display to block the stare. Still in total shock at what my colleague had just unleashed, I could do nothing but stare back, hoping that my fellow employee would step forward and apologize. To which the bugger did not. And with that, the customer swiftly turned around, keeping his money in his pocket, leaving me with the reddest face ever, and fits of absolute hilarity coming from the workshop.

Beware gentrification. There’s nowhere to hide.