Riding Back From the Sunset

A single brown flip flop, a blue track jacket, 82 empty beer cans, and a black leather belt were just a few of the items scattered around G and Sue-per Brevis’s homestead after our most recent employee going-away party. This most recent employee going-away party was to honor two of our favorite fellow employees, Chuck and Chinch Bug, and it was the greatest employee going-away party we’ve had all year. In fact, it was so fun, and the reveling reached such a height, the Brevis’s, knowing that this party could never be topped, proclaimed that they will never host another employee going-away party again.

Despite the good time had by our gracious hosts and by all, there was an undercurrent of sadness flowing like a cold river. We were losing two of our best employees, and even a thrilling team obstacle course challenge and a rousing tournament of Beer Pole couldn’t completely distract from the real reason we were all there. But we were happy for them, and we took comfort in knowing that Chuck and Chinch Bug are following their dreams and heading out west, and that this is a positive step in the right direction for them both, and that most likely, in only a few short months, they will have found that the grass is actually quite brown on the other side of the fence, and they will come right back home and ask for their old jobs back.

The boss likes to say that they always come back, which is very often true. I am no exception, having made the big break a couple of years ago. I was the General Manager/Service Manager/Marketing Director/Event Coordinator, and after a seven-year run, I could no longer summon the galaxy-sized amount of energy required to enjoy it any longer. “There just has to be something else I can do,” I said. “I have an English degree, and I need to use it,” I said. So I gave my notice, we had a big employee going-away party, and I rode off into the sunset, leaving behind countless empty beer cans, all of my favorite fellow coworkers, most of whom I had personally hired, and one very good job.

Two months later, at my new job, miserable and disheartened, I sent an email to my old boss asking if he needed anyone to sweep the floors. Within a week, I was back as Ryan 2.0, a new and improved version of my former self. Although that new job had been a horrible nightmare straight out of the deepest pit of hell, it was the best thing I could’ve done. In only two short months I learned how important it is to have fellow coworkers who you like. I learned how critical it is to have a boss who likes you. And I accepted the fact that the bike shop is where I belong, apparently.

Chuck and Chinch Bug, meanwhile, are still gone. Chuck is fulfilling her dream of living in Montana and writing, while Chinch Bug is in school learning how to put shoes on horses quickly and effectively without getting kicked or bitten. When they were working at the shop, Chuck graced the sales floor with her warm, friendly personality and vast product knowledge, and Chinch Bug hid out back and ordered bike parts and bike accessories and did bike repairs with the precision of a ginsu knife in the hands of a sushi chef. Unlike Chuck, his outward personality was a bit more on the cool side, but inside, he was a warm as a freshly baked dish of homemade macaroni and cheese right out of the oven. I hired them both, and over the course of their time at the shop, they ended up falling in love. And it was Chuck, recognizing a possible love connection, who introduced me to her “tall, beautiful, and smart” friend, whom she felt I might get along with, and whom, three years later, I married. We appreciated her work as matchmaker so much, that we asked her to marry us, and just about everyone from the shop was there as witnesses.

We have a truly amazing staff and the world’s greatest boss, and we are very fortunate. We become great friends. We fall in love. We ride bikes together. We descend upon our favorite watering hole together. We buy houses. We have babies. We sometimes go away. We often times come back. If Chuck and Chinch Bug are reading this, we miss you both, and we hope things are going great. In case they aren’t, don’t fret. We just so happen to have two openings for floor sweepers.

Pint of Beer: $11. Rental Car: $547. Best Honeymoon Ever: Pricey.

One of the hardest things about my job is, and will always be, the re-entry into the workplace after a vacation. It’s like waking up from a beautiful dream by falling out of the top tier of a bunk bed onto a cement floor. Eventually, the pain goes away—or just simply blends in—and you settle back into your routine, and life in the real world rolls along at a steady 55 miles per hour.

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My most recent vacation was our honeymoon, and armed with that as justification, I got away with taking three weeks off in the height of summer without getting fired. It also rationalized having spent outrageous amounts of money on things like an $11 pint of beer at the airport and $427 for 300 euros at an ATM in France. Upon realizing the rotten exchange rate, my heart sunk all the way down to my queasy stomach, but after a few transactions, I was able to sweep the shock of the dreadful Dollar-to-euro conversion under a rug woven out of apathy and honeymoon bliss. Not until I got back did the shock re-emerge, covered with dust bunnies and sharp teeth.

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You can always buy a new car, or a house, or huge tracts of land, but you only get one shot at an extravagant honeymoon. Ten years from now, when we pay off the last of the credit card debt incurred from our trip, will we regret having taken it? I’ll let you know. But until then, I will stand by my assertion that we most definitely will not. Let me tell you a bit about our honeymoon, and perhaps you can decide.
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Our first destination was Ile de Porquerolles, a Paradise-Island-kind-of-an-island located in the Mediterranean, 12 miles off the southern tip of Hyeres, France. I owe a world of thanks to the couple who came into the shop and told me about the place years ago. Back then, I was going on my first European trip, and they insisted I go there, but I never made it. This trip however, I did, and, after 24 hours of traveling on two planes, three buses, one train, and one ferry, we arrived. The place was as amazing as they had described: seven miles long and three miles wide of nature preserve, vineyards, glorious beaches, mountains and cliffs, all caressed by a gentle breeze and the constant pulse of cicadas, which from sunrise to sunset relentlessly chirp with the rhythm of a freight train carrying a cargo of zippers and baby rattles.

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For five days, we would rent bikes and cruise the canopied dirt roads around the island, eventually settling down at one of the beaches, where we would break out a bottle of wine, bread, cheese, and of course, olives. Our favorite beach, La Plage Blanche, had umbrellas, comfy beach chairs, and towels available exclusively to the guests of Hotel de Langoustier. We were staying in Hotel les Medes on the opposite side of the island, but if anyone from Hotel de Langoustier ever asks, please say that we are indeed the Boulet couple from room 450, and that we really appreciated the amenities.
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The next stop was Marseille and the start of stage three of the Tour de France. The thousands of people that lined the street near the start line were held back by four-foot-high barriers that were as easy to step over as mounting a horse on a carousel. Once inside the VIP area, we made our way to the Astana team bus to catch a glimpse of Lance Armstrong. We waited outside the bus for 45 minutes, and finally, after almost being run over by team cars and crushed by the fan/media circus, the bus door opened. The anticipation of seeing our hero was at its zenith, and there, in the flesh, in living color, only an arm’s reach away, with the reflection of camera flashes lighting up his face, was none other than Ben Stiller. The guy we were really waiting to see came out last, and as he was making his way to the start line, I managed to pat him on the shoulder. The debate continues as to whether my shoulder pat was the good luck he needed to hold onto third place, or the bad luck he didn’t need to lose his first tour in eight attempts.
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After Marseille, we traveled to Arles and finally Nice, which were both very amazing and very French. On our way back home, we swung by Ireland for four days. The verdant countryside, the English language, the delicious Guinness, the cool, overcast weather, and an abundance of ATMs capped off the best honeymoon ever. Who needs a house anyway?

Things Change. People Change. Pass the Cheeseballs.

Recently I did something that would make my younger self roll over in his wave. The wave being that of blissful ignorance and youthful exuberance upon which he surfed. After a particularly long and exhausting day at the shop, a nightmare kind of day of trying to make dreams come true, I went home and took a walk with my lovely wife. We held hands and talked and made our way to a nice spot where we sat down and watched the sun set behind the Adirondack Mountains like a giant electric cheese ball sinking into a wool blanket. My younger self would cringe and possibly throw up if he could have seen me sitting there, illuminated in the warm golden light of maturity, especially considering how content I was to be doing exactly that. Horrified, he would then rush back into his time machine and b-line it back to 1995.

My younger self, the single guy who worked at the bike shop, drove a beat up car, didn’t have his finances in order, and drank a lot of beer—compared to my current self, the married guy who works at the bike… well, let’s not get off track from the story here—would have no interest in pleasant strolls and all that lovey-dovey mucky-muck. As soon as he punched out from a long day of trying to keep dreams from turning into nightmares, he would ride his mountain bike until he was a sweaty, dirty, bloody mess. His only concern regarding the sunset would be trying to get out of the woods before it occurred, so as to avoid riding into a tree.

But quality time with my nice lady is something that I enjoy a lot these days, and if I don’t ride my bike every single night, then so be it. People change and things change and that is okay. My younger self was too dumb to understand that—compared to my current self who is… well, no need to get off track again—but these days, a pleasant walk with my lovely wife is not the only excuse I have for not riding my bike every night after work. There are other forces at play. One of them involves throwing Frisbees at trees, a game we call Frisbee Golf. The other, the thrilling game of Bike Polo, involves riding around on a clunker bike chasing a ball with a mallet. Even if it is a stretch, Bike Polo can at least be called bike riding, technically.

If you’re not aware of the exciting game of Frisbee Golf, it is played a lot like regular golf, only with Frisbees instead of golf balls, trees or rocks or the doorways of sheds instead of holes, and instead of a bag of golf clubs, a bag of beers. This is not to be confused with Disc Golf, where instead of Frisbees, they use regulation “discs,” instead of trees or rocks or doorways to sheds they use official looking structures made of chains and metal, and to further separate them from hacks like us and to further legitimize Disc Golf, or “Disc,” as a legitimate sport, they carry around much fancier bags for their beers.

The slightly more active game of Bike Polo was introduced to us by Bart, one of my favorite fellow coworkers, and has since become very popular with all of us and our group of hardcore mountain bikers. Only a few short years ago, we would all be racing to the woods to hit the trails after work. More often these days however, we are all racing to the beer store on the way to a parking lot to hit a duct tape covered ball around the parking lot with a piece of plastic tubing bolted to a ski pole shaft. Like Frisbee Golf, it may be viewed as a shameful thing to do on a glorious summer night, while the singletrack waits for action like a snowmobile buried in tall grass, but at least we are turning pedals. And as Chinch Bug pointed out after a game the other night, it is a good workout, especially when after two or three games you’re the one chosen to ride down to the beer store for more beer.

To Bart’s credit, although he is responsible for the Bike Polo craze that has swept us all off our mountain bikes, he is the most dedicated when it comes to riding bikes for real. But people change and things change, and it won’t be long before he is spending more evenings taking sunset walks with his nice lady. Only in his case, he’ll be pushing a stroller. His younger self would most certainly cringe, but his not-in-the-too-distant-future self may enjoy it, warm golden light and all.

Ruining Your Vacation Ruins My Day

Without fail, every year a few customers come into the shop, their heads hung and their shoulders slumped, to tell us that they did something that they feel is so stupid they are ashamed to admit what it is. After looking around to make sure no one else can hear, they fess up and explain what they’ve done: they drove into the garage with their bicycle on the roof of their car. Sometimes, this tragic event occurs on the very day they purchased their shiny new bicycle, before it even went on its first ride. Within an hour, a brand new bicycle went from hanging from its front wheel on a display hook in the shop, to hanging from a bent handlebar wedged between the garage and the garage door.

In these situations, it is up to us, the friendly shop employees, to tell them how much it will cost to replace that bent fork, that mangled brake lever, that crunched roof rack system, or that their bicycle and rack system are regrettably destroyed beyond repair. But a more important role is to try to make these customers feel better, while their bicycles and their hearts are in pieces.
I have a method that has proved to be quite reliable. I just tell them that I, too, have done the exact same thing. Three times, in fact. Doing it once is a bit careless, maybe a tad scatter-brained, but not stupid. Doing it three times, I tell them, as I have done, is remarkably stupid. And, as a result of three times having my racks ripped off the roof of my car, my roof is so dented you’d think someone went up there and practiced juggling bowling balls while hopping on one leg. I also tell them that aside from having driven my car into a garage with my bicycle on the roof multiple times, I’ve also driven my car out of the driveway with my bicycle under the rear wheels, and have twice driven away from a gas pump with the nozzle still in the gas tank. At this point,if they still feel bad, it’s because they now feel bad for me.

Trying to placate upset customers is just one of the many things we shop employees do in the name of good service. And delivering good service is something that we try as hard as possible to do with every customer, every single day. Sometimes, however, it doesn’t work out that way, and despite our best efforts, we end up causing a tremendous amount of grief, and profoundly affecting, in a negative way, someone’s life, such as ruining his or her vacation. And nothing makes us feel worse than having a customer say that because of us, his or her vacation was ruined. How does this happen, you ask? Well, let’s say Mr. Smythe brings in a bike that needs a new handlebar and rear shift lever because he drove into his garage with his bicycle on the roof of his car. He needs the bike fixed by Friday because he’s leaving for vacation, and he wants to take his bike with him. In order for this to happen, many, many things have to go right, and sometimes one of those things can go wrong. Maybe we didn’t have the proper shift lever in stock when it came time to work on his bike. Dinosaurus Rex assumed we’d have the part in stock, so he didn’t bother to check inventory to make sure. In an attempt to meet the Friday deadline as promised, Chinch Bug orders the part from the only distributor who has it in stock, which, of course, is in Seattle. He pays a premium (please don’t tell the boss) to have it shipped over night, but when it arrives on Friday morning, it is the front shift lever instead of the rear shift lever. And just like that, Mr. Smythe’s vacation is ruined. And someone gets to call Mr. Smythe and tell him so, and that someone is usually me.

I feel lousy when a customer is upset due to something having gone wrong, or for any other reason. Occasionally, a customer will be insulted because of the way I said a certain something and will refuse to ever step foot in our shop again, regardless of whether or not I am even there. And this can happen to the best of us. Recently, one of my favorite fellow coworkers, Chuck, who is so sweet she makes a sweet pea taste like a lemon, caused a customer so much grief by saying a certain something, the customer composed a lengthy, handwritten letter to the boss describing this grief. Fortunately for Chuck, however, there was no mention of a ruined vacation.

Between a Rock and a Running Shoe

Sometimes I think I have a rock in my head. A fairly large one—granite perhaps, or maybe Gabbro—lodged in the part of my brain where reason is broadcast. My lovely fiancée disagrees, or pretends to disagree, but she’s a sweetheart, so she has yet to convince me otherwise. Here is an example of why I think my rock theory may be true: The other day, I thought it would be a good idea to go for a little run. It was a foolish idea that had no logical purpose, one which I can only attribute to a chunk of sedimentary deposit in my head. Why else, on a dreary spring day, while in a dreary mood, would I decide to engage in an activity that I am in absolutely no condition to do and have no right doing? I guess I figured some great suffering would pull me out of the doldrums, like fighting fire with a flame thrower.

I am a biker, a snowboarder, a skier, a paddler, a hiker, and a retail junker, but I am not a runner. I have no running gear. Nonetheless, I was going for a run, so I had to do my best with what I have. I threw on my UMaine sweatpants, which if nothing else seemed like a better choice than my snowboard pants, my bike shorts, or my wet suit. It was drizzling a bit, so I grabbed my lightweight, breathable rain jacket, and to keep my core warm, I wore a Capilene top and a micro fleece vest. I laced up my cross trainers, which I use for day hikes and which have as many holes as a regulation golf course, but were more appropriate than my hiking boots, my flip flops, or my dress shoes. And to really look like I knew what I was doing, I grabbed my iPod, which compared to the iPods I see strapped to runners’ arms, looks more like a cassette player. When I was fully “outfitted” I looked more like that guy at the ski resort with the jeans, the New York Jets Starter Jacket, and the lift ticket flapping in his face than a runner.

I went outside, took a few warm-up steps, and started running, at a pace I felt I could maintain—a pace that may or may not have been noticeably faster than walking backwards. I ran for 20 minutes with the elegance and grace of a dump truck. When I was done, I felt exhilarated—mostly because I was done—and for a brief moment I felt like I understood why someone would actually want to do this on a regular basis. That understanding vanished an hour later, when I felt as though I had ridden and been trampled by a large and very irritated bull.

My nose can run, and my mind can run. My mouth can run, and I can run out of words. I can run up a bar tab, and I can run out of money. I can run into someone on the street, and I can run a car into the ground. I can run a bike shop, and I can run a fever. I can run a set of rapids, but I cannot simply run. And as well, I cannot offer sound advice on running, so when a customer comes in needing help with running shoes or running apparel, I run away.

Some people, like Bruce Springsteen, were born to run. One of my favorite fellow coworkers, Chuck, is one of those people. When she runs, she glides effortlessly along with wings on her feet. Her special man friend, Chinch Bug, runs with her, but instead of wings on his feet, he just has shoes. He’s not so much like The Boss, but he apparently shares the same philosophy as David Bowie, who once said, “If you say run, I’ll run with you,” and to express his true loyalty and affection, he one-upped The Thin White Duke by sticking to his promise of, “If you say let’s run 50 miles in a single day, I’ll run with you.”

To all you runners out there, my hat is off. In my mind, I have nothing but feelings of awe and admiration for you. I mean that with the most sincerity, even though in my mind, I also have a rock. I gave running a shot, but I have conceded that, unlike you, I cannot run. And now I’ve run out of room.

My Cousin Lenny got Thrown out of a Motley Crue Concert: An Open Letter to Motley Crue

Dear Vince, Tommy, Nikki, and Mick,

My cousin Lenny, whose heart is a lot bigger than his brain, recently got thrown out of a Motley Crue concert for carelessly tossing an empty plastic beer cup on the floor. His buddy Marty got thrown out with him, apparently for being an accomplice to an empty beer cup thrower. In case I forgot to mention, they were at a Motley Crue concert, not a James Taylor, or Yo Yo Ma concert. And he threw an empty plastic beer cup. On the floor. Not an empty 40 oz glass bottle, which coincidentally was hurled into the air the first time Lenny saw you guys, and it struck him in the head, almost knocking him out. Fortunately, aside from a headache, he suffered no noticeable brain damage.

So there they were, a half hour after they arrived, before you had even played the opening lick of "Kick Start My Heart," standing outside the Verizon Wireless Arena, heartbroken and completely aghast. Lenny and Marty had seen you guys twenty years earlier in Old Orchard Beach, on the 'Dr. Feelgood Tour,' and this was their chance to relive the glory of the good old days while rocking out to "Girls, Girls, Girls." It was also Lenny's chance to rock out without a throbbing headache caused from being smacked with a airborn bottle of Colt 45.

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After a futile attempt to plead their way back in, two cops came and told them to beat it, which they did. But after standing around on the sidewalk, wondering what to do for the rest of the night, Lenny decided he would give it one more shot, so he went back to talk to the door guy again. Clearly, he felt, they didn't deserve to get thrown out, and surely this nice door guy would empathize with their situation and say, "Sure you can go back in. And hey, just for the trouble, here are two backstage passes."

As soon as Lenny opened the front door, he was immediately grabbed by the same two officers, handcuffed, and tossed in the back of a large white van. Two hours later, he was released from the police station with a citation to appear in Manchester District Court to face charges of a violation of criminal trespassing.

Alone and lost on the cold streets of Manchester, NH, Lenny wandered around looking for Marty, who immediately after his good friend was carted away in the paddywagon, had gone to the bar. Eventually, Lenny found the bar where Marty had taken residence, took him back to the hotel, watched him pass out on the floor, lifted his drunk carcass onto his bed, and took his shoes off.

Not to be defeated, he then went online and purchased two tickets for the show in Portland, Maine the following night. The tickets to the second show totalled almost $200. For my cousin Lenny, that is a lot of money, but as Lenny says, "You can't put a price on redemption." If you heard one voice that rose above the roar of the crowd in Portland, it was him. And if you recall the most exuberant cheering while you boarded the tourbus, that was him too.

I just wanted you to know that you've got die hard fans out there, who just like my cousin Lenny, will do whatever it takes to throw the devil horns in the air along with you. After all you've been through, this should make you feel pretty good. Next time however, after finishing his beer, my cousin Lenny will gently place his cup on the floor.

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Sincerely,

RJB

Spring Training Refraining

If you work at a bike shop then you’re probably like me: a seriously die hard, hard-core cyclist to the core. And there’s no time of year where this is more apparent than in the late winter/early spring, weeks before your first ride. You’re bursting with optimism, impetus, and enthusiasm, and in preparation for the riding season ahead, while the snow is still on the ground, without missing a single day, not a single day, rain or shine, hell or high water, dusk or dawn, you elaborate in great detail on how much, unlike last year, you are going to ride.

You resolutely declare that this year is going to be different, and you mean it. You’re not going to miss a single group mountain bike ride or group road bike ride. You’re going to ride a century—no, two centuries—every month. You’re going to compete in the race of truth every week in the Stowe Bike Club’s time trial. You’re going to race your mountain bike each week at Catamount. You’re going to race your mountain bike each week at Morse Farm. You’re going to commute, rain or shine, hell or high water, five days a week. And to really show ‘em, you’re only going to drink beer on special occasions. And on weekends, of course. And on Wednesdays. But that is it, because this is the year when you come back.

And before you know it, and before you are even remotely ready, you’re all geared up for the first group ride, and everyone is there. You’ve got the leg warmers on, the bottom edge adjusted ever so carefully above your three-quarter length socks so as to reveal your freshly shaved legs. You’ve got the arm warmers on, logos facing outward. You’ve stretched a balaclava underneath a ridiculously expensive helmet that you got on pro deal. You’re rocking the Peter Heater and you’re sporting a fresh pair of booties. A meticulously rolled up shell, a spare tube and a CO2 inflator, three Gu shots and a Powerbar bulge out of your rear jersey pocket, and you’ve tastefully finished off the ensemble with a pair of lobster mitt gloves. You cast a smug glance at the new guy, whose leg hair and toe clips stand in great contrast to your contemporary roadie style like an ’80s hair band at a yacht club. When the pack rolls out of the parking lot, you’re already thinking about that first town line sprint. During those first few miles, while you’re spinning your legs and boasting about how many hours you’ve spent on a trainer, you feel great, and at that very moment, you know that this is going to be the year when you come back.

A few miles out of town, the pace picks up. Social time is over. A pace line forms. Your heart rate starts to climb, but you’ll soon get into a rhythm and surely, any minute now, your pounding chest will settle down, so you’re not concerned. You’ve just got some rust to shake off, that’s all. You may be, perhaps, a tad overdressed—the lobster mitts might have been overkill—but otherwise, you’re all there. Toe-clip-leg-hair guy is taking rather hard pulls, driving the pace a bit out of your comfort zone, but that’s okay, because you know that any minute now, he’ll be off the back. He doesn’t know how to ride in a group. You do. He’s not a hard-core cyclist. You are. A few miles later, as expected, he gets blown off. As he fades away, sucking pond water, you cast a glance over your shoulder and give him your own version of “The Look,” and even though you missed your chance to win the town line sprint, it was worth it. You’ve reached the high point of the ride. Now it is time to come crashing down to earth.

Halfway into the ride, you’re close to the red zone, but you’re still there, and you fight to not get dropped on the climb before the turnaround, and you succeed. You recover on the descent, but at the bottom the pace line reforms and becomes a lot more spirited, and within three rotations you’re pedaling squares and hanging by a thread. After your next pull, you peel away and fall off the train and are left for dead. You gave it everything you’ve got, and there’s nothing left, and you’re way out on Route 12.

Disheartened, dispirited, you press on, alone. The first ride of the season has resulted in a resounding bonk. Twelve miles from town, your optimism, impetus, and enthusiasm have been replaced with anguish, desolation, and disgrace. And it is at that moment, when you’ve hit your lowest point, when aside from a flat, things couldn’t get any worse, when you notice a lonely figure in the distance: Toe clip-leg hair guy. And at that moment, to really show ’em, you resolutely declare that as far as drinking beer is concerned, Wednesdays are now out.