Not Another Empty Platitude: Shop Local

Print magazines and brick and mortar bike shops go together like single speeds and denim, groms and scabby shins, tire inserts and profanity. So it should come as no surprise that, even though we don’t have a print magazine (right now), we’re working on a new series highlighting independent bike shops. We think they’re great, we want them to succeed in this constantly-changing marketplace, and we want to do what we can to help them with the bully pulpit our title affords us.

So there you have it: expect a bunch of profiles of local bike shops appearing on this site very soon. If you’ve got a shop you love, feel free to shoot me a note , because we’d love to cover what they’re up to. And, with that, we’re done and you can go about your day! Unless you like platitudes...

The Platitude

Good bike shops smell a special sort of way. Maybe it’s the stale beer, the greasy rags, or the specially-seasoned, no-BS funk that seems to follow veteran mechanics around. Regardless of the source, it’s a unique aroma.

I bought my first mountain bike with my lawn-mowing money at Paradise Creek Bikes, in Moscow, Idaho. It was a used Trek hardtail locked up outside, and, initially, I thought it belonged to the pawn shop next door. I actually inquired therein, first. When they pointed me back to Paradise Creek, it started an infatuation with bikes that eventually led me to this keyboard.

In those days, Paradise Creek’s outside rack was reserved for used bikes and they had some cool ones: an old Elsworth, a classy Bianchi, and a Kona Stinky, complete with D.O.P.E. floating brake kit, flanked the Trek 4300 that I eventually took home

Later, when I wanted to buy my first new rig, Jon at Paradise Creek was incredibly patient. He explained to dorky, sixth grade Cy what to look for in a bike. He managed to explain to me why the Haro I ended up buying maybe wasn’t as cool as the Kona Shred I wanted, but was a better fit for the kind of riding I was going to do. He also talked my dad out of buying a used Cannondale Headshok fork for his commuter bike. But most importantly, he made buying that first bike feel special. He hooked it up, gave me a discount on the bike without my even asking, and bundled in a bike computer, saddle bag, and repair kit. At the last minute, he also threw in the pair of Kona gloves I’d been ogling for months. You know the ones—they had the sweet carbon fiber knuckles so you could punch trees.

Jon and Paradise Creek became my windows into mountain bike culture. I’d ride down to the shop and pour through the dealer catalogs, memorizing each model, its spec, and the names and achievements of any pro riders associated with it. It was the only place where my budding obsession with bikes wasn’t just tolerated, but was fed and celebrated. Later, that shop sold me my first full suspension frame, posted the flier that led me to my first downhill race, and eventually, helped set me on the path that led me to leave the cult I grew up in. But that’s a story for another day.

Without that local shop, I never would have fallen in love with this silly sport, never chased the singletrack that led to my partner, my career, my life.

But it’s not just nostalgia that drives our love for local bike shops: they serve a vital role in the riding and repair ecosystem. Riding culture needs physical hubs, centers for activity and events. We need repositories of wisdom and institutional knowledge. And we need experienced, efficient bike mechanics who can both solve problems for customers and help guide them down the path of solving those problems for themselves, in the future. Good local shops make mountain biking better for everyone.

And yes, it’s an imperfect model. Shops are being squeezed from every side and too many don’t know how to react or don’t have a clear path forward. We’re not here to decry e-retailers or Direct To Consumer (DTC) brands. They have their niche. But that niche should be beside, not in place of, local bike shops.

We’ve all dealt with overbearing management, casually demeaning staff, and questionable stock levels. But at the end of the day, mountain bikers are better off when we can ride to a local shop and ask them to dig around in their random parts drawer for that one-off we need to get a project finished. Our riding experience is more full when there are local businesses invested in the local riding economy working, selfishly or selflessly, to grow and improve the local riding scene, and in turn, their business. Our riding culture is richer when we have places to meet other riders, mingle, network, shoot the shit and discuss the trails.

I love walking into my local shop, jingling the bell on the door, and giving the shop dog scritches. The wrench behind the counter will probably have the parts I need, and maybe some advice on how to install them. He’ll certainly have a story or two from the week, an interesting bike in for service, or crash video to share.

Nobody should be surprised that Bike Mag likes local bike shops. And we’re so excited to start covering more of them.