Mature Life Features

. . . if my recent visit to a bicycle shop within walking distance of home is valid.

While out on a pedal, I dropped into the shop to take a look at all the shiny new toys, ask how long and how much it would cost to tune up my bike, and check out an attachable basket that would serve to pick up a loaf of bread now and then.

After locking up my Mongoose at the front door, I poked my way in and spent some time walking around the small items – gloves, tire-changing tools, etc. – stacked around the entrance. I picked up a floor-standing tire pump and hand-held one and tried the mechanism of each (I have an old floor-stander at home).

Then I looked through the clothing section for some all-cotton biking shorts. I have a half-dozen pair I picked up at a San Diego shop that quit carrying them. Don’t know why because they’re much more comfortable and breathe better than the ubiquitous stretchy-spandex ones. And I studied the sizes and prices of helmets. Mine is a dozen or so years old and experts say you should replace them every few years because the elements make them brittle.

After that, I wended my way through the rows of bikes – mountain bikes, kids’ bikes, racing bikes, cross-over bikes, coaster bikes, heavy-duty bikes – checking their weight and viewing tires.

All the while, the guys running the shop were whirling around: one was pursuing a giant sale of bike, costume, et al to a father and daughter, another was hauling bikes and helmets in and out the front door for a potential buyer who was riding them around the parking lot, another was trolling in and out of the back room asking a pretty-looking looky-loo if he could find anything for her, another helped a fellow who came in to picked up a bike he tuned up.

I checked my watch and about 25 minutes had passed and no one ever approached me. So I purposely spent another 15 minutes trying on fluorescent-colored shirts and jackets and inspecting several styles of shoes, from sneaker types to those rigid plastic sabots that lock onto the pedals.

Then I strolled back out, unlocked my bike and pedaled off.

No one at any time even acknowledged I was in the neighborhood. Nothing. Nada. Niente.

Those guys will never see me. They didn’t see me when I was in their shop for more than half an hour and I’m not going back. I’ve already visited another bicycle shop and solved my problems.

– 30 –