A Day in the Life of the Spoke
Dude, it’s like I was suddenly knee-deep in mud, watching the gyrating, neon rear ends of my new pals cruise away. Here I was, stuck behind some guy named Al on a killer Serotta who basically stopped mid-crank with a mud puddle at his right, did a dirt track stand long enough for me to dab, big time, then took off. Silly me, I figured he’d keep going past the mud, but no, he had to take a breather. I took a dive, and here I am, not pedaling. My hands and knees are black with thick, viscous, Massachussetts mud, and it’s wicked cold outside.
“Hey, wait up,” I call out, quickly deciding that to bitch would not be cool, especially on my first ride with these guys who work at the Spoke bike shop in Williamstown. I showed up, ready to ride, and hung out for hours while the guys did their thing–finally, we were off to some trail in Vermont called White Oaks. What’s a little mud to a dudewoman like myself who loves to ride with men like these on a crisp, March evening during my first spring in nearbye Cherry Plain, New York? We’re right on the Mass/NY/VT border, which means tri-state rides everyday.
I think I better catch them before they totally leave my ass in this puddle. I put the pedal down and sprint through the field, pass into forest, then uphill to the max. There they are, right ahead. Hoping they’ll chill, I breathe harder and pedal faster. Shift down into granny/middle chainring and hope I can hold it. Nope. Granny/little chainring–clink! Love that shortcage XT rear derailleur. “What’s up?” I ask. No reply. “Dudes, did you see that mud hole back there?” They look at me, then shrugged.
“Don’t get your wheels too close behind Big Al,” Dave cautions. “He rides kinda funny.” Al nods in agreement. I notice some serious road rash on Dave’s hip. “Take a fall yourself, dude?” He cracks up. Billy holds up the videocam, and they exchange expressions like, is this chick for real?
“Duh, no dude, I always look like this,” Dave retorts. “Cancha see my handlebar’s bent?” Oh. He really took a big one. His worn-out, faded yellow Yokota looks like it, too. My little escapade becomes less important. Dave supposedly never crashes, they say. “I was tryin’ to jump that stump over there,” he gestures toward some mondo fallen tree. “Almost made it, but that branch got my bottom bracket.” Very cool, I think to myself.
“We off?” Billy asks me. He sits astride his worn out, size large, black Yokota. “We waited, yuh know.” Back on the faithful steeds, we pedal uphill further. Pretty soon, we’re cruising up some big rocks in a river bed. I’m walking by this time, straining to keep up. Billy hands off the videocam to Dave, then attempts to catch serious air over a jump. Dave films the whole thing as Billy flies through the air, and lands with a loud thump on the other side. I slowly ride over the bump, and land very softly on the muddy trail. They snicker, but I realize that they aren’t snickering at me, it’s some private joke. In fact, they are real gentlemen, and I decide to start hanging out with them, cos they actually like each other. Back at the bike shop/hacienda, Al congratulates me on my good humor after the mud-soaking as I ruefully scrape some kind of brown, goopy, suspicious-smelling crap off my shoes. Dave said to me later on after we rode many rides together, “If you ride, you’re cool.”
The Spoke bicycle shop in Williamstown, Massachussetts is the kind of place where people like Dave, the manager with a degree in Philosophy, and Billy, the favorite boy wonderkind mechanic who is finishing a Bachelor of Art at Penn State, exchange info and bicycle parts over mochachinos in the morning, and blast out the grunge music all day into evening. Then, it’s time to close the cash register, lock the shop, put on the tight tights and ride.
Paul Rhineheart, the Spoke’s owner, is no slouch at riding bikes himself. He can often be spotted trying to put a dent in the latest mountain bike line he is thinking of selling before he’ll display it in the shop. After all, if Paul can break it, so can you. Usually, he doesn’t break the bike because they are picky about new lines and generally stick to Diamond Back and Jamis, along with a few others. (They finally trashed the Yokotas, but it took years of hammering.) Paul, Dave, Billy and Andy, who’s been too busy lately to ride with us, make up the core group of guys who work at the Spoke. They ride, eat, and drink beer together.
There are always a few women wrenching at the Spoke, depending on who’s in college this semester, and who’s racing. If Dave or Billy are working, you can talk about everything from the mountain bike industry standards in Marin County, California, to what’s happening in European road racing. It’s a truly casual place. Nine Inch Nails, Nirvana, Alice In Chains, Pearl Jam fill the shop’s airways as customers lounge about yakking about local races, the best beer breweries, and pizza.
The deal is, people who hang out with the Spoke guys can generally get a great bike, learn places to ride, drink a few good beers with Dave, and pay less than the usual price for Peanut Butter Cliff Bars. I’ve been riding with them for so long since the original mud ride that they give me the major discount, but even if they didn’t, I’d still do all my stuff at the Spoke. I’ve cruised in there, slapped a bike on the stand, and done major surgery with nary a complaint by anyone working cos they know I’ll take care of the tools. That’s how they are, un-uptight.
The Spoke makes enough to get by–Paul wheels and deals on Sundays if people can’t get their stuff during regular working hours. Dave finished his degree and now is working full time but still riding. Andy finished his degree and skis most of the winter at Jiminy Peak. Billy dropped out of Penn State to be home in Williamstown (at the Spoke). The women mechanics come and go. Life at the Spoke stays low-key, casual and relaxed.
I heard we were gonna do another fifty miler road bike ride up the Mohawk Trail on Route 2 past North Adams . . . . last time we did that, Al crashed into an embankment and burned, bending his front wheel. This time, I had enough room to avoid wobbling Al when he first began to shudder. The spectacular crash and burn happened when he lost control of his handlebars, hit the embankment, then flipped upside down, his Trek 2300 literally flying through the air. Billy took the trashed wheel off its crooked aluminum fork, gleefully banged it repeatedly on the pavement, then reattached it to Al’s bike. It looked like it was in true. “Damn, you’re good,” I comment to Billy the wildman. He laughs. I laugh too as we climb into the saddle and laboriously begin our thirty-five mile ride home to Williamstown. When it comes to having crazy fun, these guys really know how to represent. If you’re ever looking for places to ride in our little area of NY/Massachussetts/Vermont, I recommend checking them out.
Peace.
Julie Cruiser
