I got up a bit late today, but just in time to partake in my Sunday ritual of watching the morning news programs, with their opinionated, talking heads. My favorite is "The McLaughlin Group," because it's only a half hour long, it hits the high points from the left and the right, and I really love John McLaughlin. The guy is like 96 and he has more energy and verve than I do. He's a former Jesuit priest, didja know? At some point, I will give this entertaining show and its characters their own entry.
I also watch "Meet The Press," but Tim Russert really grates on my nerves. While I like that he asks tough questions, and, unlike most American journalists, follows up on them once or twice when his guests invariably dodge them, he is a bit full of himself. I only watch MTP because I derive perverse pleasure from watching politicians have to explain why their current position on a particular issue completely contradicts the five statements they made on the same subject a year ago. Sir Tim always has 3 or 4 "problem" quotations at the ready, and sometimes he even has a video clip! Ooooooh. As if the prepackaged, robotic, self-censoring politicians of today aren't studiously prepared for every interview, every question, and every follow-up question by their well-paid and utterly myopic consultants. This is why our presidential debates are so damn exciting.
Anywho, one of my goals today was to go out and buy a mountain bike. I gave away my last one to my friend P. a couple of years ago, and I have not had a bike since. I really need one in Williamsburg because it takes a good 10-15 minutes to walk to places, and it would be nice to have a faster mode of transportation. And I guess the exercise wouldn't be too bad for me either.
I haven't bought a bike in about 12 years, so when I started researching the kind of bike I wanted, I couldn't believe how much has changed in Bike World. Now they have hardtails and dual suspension bikes, disc brakes, small Dahon bikes that you can fold and take on the subway, gel seats, and carbon frames. Without trying too hard, you can easily drop $1000 on a new bike. Talk about inflation. Seeing all of these changes made me feel a little like Charlton Heston in "Planet of the Apes." "What the hell??? The apes are running things?"
A couple of months ago, I looked for local bike shops on Citysearch, picked two of them based on customer reviews that had been posted, and then visited them to get the lay of the land and to ask a few questions. During both of my visits, I became so infuriated that I almost pulled a nutty.
The first place I went to was so far off the beaten path, it was practically in the East River. I went on a rainy day, and by the time I finally found the place, I was soaking wet and totally ornery. I walked inside and immediately wanted to leave. The place was tiny, musty, old, and jammed wall-to-wall with all kinds of bikes, most of which I had no interest in. In fact, the only bikes I wanted to see were located on a rack a foot above my head. It would have been a colossal pain in the arse to ask them to take a couple down for me, particularly when I wasn't sure I wanted to buy one. So I demurred. I thought to myself, "Don't these fools have any business sense? Who designs a store like this, and why the hell did I walk all this way in the rain just to see this bullshit?"
In a pathetic attempt to make the trip a smidgen worthwhile, I asked the guy at the desk if they carried Specialized and Trek bikes, which they did, and he let me look at the catalog. That was fun. I looked at the pretty pictures and promptly left.
The second place was even more maddening. Some of the "salespeople" in these bike shops really need to be smacked in the face with a tire iron. They seem to think that when you walk into their special Bike Palace, that you owe them a favor, that you should be happy that you deigned to walk into their shop to spend some of your hard-earned money on one of their overpriced bikes.
By the time I walked into this place, I was actually ready to buy because I had narrowed my search online and had learned much more about what I was looking for. But I still had some questions.
Even though this shop was almost as small as the last one I visited, it was slightly less dingy, and there was plenty of room to walk around and look at the bikes. After perusing a few, I turned around and looked for a salesperson to help me. To my dismay, I discovered that none of the three, tattooed sales-mooks behind the counter were remotely interested in talking to me. Instead, they were just standing around, shooting the shit, and watching the television they had hooked up. In other words, they were doing nothing, while I stood there like a moron. A moron without a bike.
It got so ridiculous, that I decided to play a little game. I started carefully looking at the bikes, as if I were a doctor about to perform a heart transplant. Real intense-like. "Hmmmm...." Lifted my hand to my chin. Kneeled down. Squinted my eyes. "Hmmmmm...." Looked pensive. Scratched my head. "Hmmmm...." I even squeezed a couple of tires, like the guy in that old Charmin commercial.
Nada. These tools didn't even blink. So I left, wondering how that lousy shop managed to stay in business.
With this background, today I was a man on a mission. I was going to have a bike today, even if I had to steal one from a 10 year-old. After more diligent research, I learned that Gotham Bikes, a bike shop in Tribeca, had gotten some good reviews. Also, its website had a positive vibe that made me feel optimistic that my experience there would be a good one.
The problem is, my Internet was down this morning, so when I got to Chambers Street in Manhattan (the only direction that I happened to remember from the GB website), I had to call information to get the exact address. I called, and was told by the operator that Gotham Bikes was located on West Broadway and Wall Street. So, I proceeded to walk all the way down West Broadway towards Wall Street, and suddenly, appearing in front of me was all of the construction where the World Trade Center used to be.
"This can't be right," I thought to myself. I called information again, and another operator gave me the same address that the previous one had. I kept walking south. Past the gawking tourists in their stereotypical sandals with white socks, New York Yankees t-shirts, and ubiquitous baseball caps. Past the 9-11 specialty vendors with their Twin Towers t-shirts and NYPD paraphenalia. Past Century 21 and the "Lord of the Flies" madhouse inside.
Gotham Bikes was nowhere to be found. And I became vewwy vewwy angwee.
In a huff, I turned around and started walking north, back from whence I had come. I took out my Blackberry, which has an Internet connection, and promptly Googled "Gotham Bikes." My Blackberry told me that Gotham Bikes was located about a block north of the street from which I had made my first call to my friends at "Misinformation R Us." Blackberry is never wrong, and it tells no lies.
When I arrived at the shop, I smiled. "Now THIS," I said to myself, "is a bike shop." Room to move. Friendly, attentive salespeople. Accessible bikes. And all the preguntas I wanted to ask. The promised land.
After trying a bike or two on for size and asking a few questions, I made a decision and left the store the proud, new owner of a Specialized mountain bike.
Which will arrive in 7-10 business days.
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