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.

-

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.

.
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.
.

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.

.

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.
.

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.
.

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.