Why can’t I just buy a regular bike? What’s with all the bells and whistles?

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Illustration by Drew Shannon

I’ve always owned a bike. Never a model that any self-respecting thief would steal; but it got me around town. When I retired, I decided to treat myself to a new one. I was sure it would be a simple process; it would just be buying the same but newer. Naivety knows no age limits.

My introduction to a "bicycle sales specialist" was quite eye opening. I had hoped to be assisted by a man close to my own age and fitness level. This young man looked as though he had spent most of his formative years on a bike saddle. My tentative inquiry was taken as an excuse to demonstrate his expertise in the cycling arena and my lack of knowledge. He gave the impression of having recently returned from the Tour de France and wanted to prepare me for the following year's event. My attention started to drift off as he began to describe the chemical compositions of various bicycle frames. I thought back dreamily to the time when the main consideration in bike buying was whether the saddle was comfortable. I managed to make a tactical retreat by asking for brochures I could study at home.

I confided in two younger cycling friends as to how intimidating I found the process of a new bike purchase. They made sympathetic noises and offered their help. Dave suggested that a racer type complete with drooped handlebars and narrow tires would be my best choice. This would allow me to cycle efficiently and speedily on paved roads. My other friend Glenn disagreed saying that I needed a mountain bike. This would have a strong frame and would give me more riding options. After a long and sometimes heated debate they finally agreed that a hybrid would be a good compromise. My mountain bike champion Glenn swallowed his pride and agreed to accompany me to the bike shop to make a quick selection.

Back at the same store Glenn quickly forged some kind of a cyclist's bond with the salesman. It was the same guy I had previously met. I am guessing he realized he was wasting his knowledge on me so focused all his professional expertise on my friend. They quickly seemed to forget it was me who was buying a bike as they swapped cycling anecdotes. From what I could glean, standing on the periphery of their exchange, they were engaged in a serious discussion on the merits and demerits of disc brakes. I did my best to feign interest but it was tough. A stranger, overhearing the ongoing debate, inserted himself into the conversation. I now found myself even more peripheral to the discussion. When finally consulted for an opinion on brake type I opted for old-style clamps; this was met with grudging approval, even from the stranger. I was starting to see my old bike in a new and more sympathetic light.

The discussion continued between the salesman, Glenn and the stranger (whose name I never did discover). I felt I could have left the shop for a coffee and would not have been missed. The only comfort I had in the whole process was the realization that they would need my input when it came to paying for the bike.

The issue I thought would be demanding my attention was frame selection. The way things were going, however, the cabal would be making that choice for me. If I did not become more engaged the bike might end up sized for my friend Glenn, the cycle specialist or even the stranger, who had now become an essential player. Trying to reinsert myself into the discussion I still had to wait a turn to sit on the selected model; even the stranger tried it out before me.

With the frame size finally selected, we moved on to the weight. The stranger suggested that I look for the lightest possible frame within my price range. An endless stream of frames later the committee settled on a relatively light, suitably sized unit. The confusing thing was that we then spent the next hour selecting items that would probably make the new bike weigh as much as my old clunker. "Must have" items such as mudguards, security lock, lights, bottle holder, rear-view mirror, tire pump, bag carrier and of course a bell. The selection of the lock alone took over half an hour. We finally settled on a German-made unit. If Superman ever takes up bicycle theft then my Kryptonite lock should keep it out of his thieving hands.

In my previous life the larger and more comfortable a saddle, the more it cost. Nowadays when buying saddles, the smallest ones are the most expensive. The principle seems to be that if there is nothing to sit on there can be no chafing. The seat chosen for me had the mass of a cellphone, (without the vibrating capability). When I voiced a concern about the small size of the seat and its potential for discomfort, I was told that I would be wearing padded cycling shorts, so it really did not matter. My initial intention of simply buying a replacement bike had now grown to include an overhaul of my wardrobe. When I commented on having to buy new clothes it was pointed out that I would also need special shoes to go with bicycle clips. Was there to be no end to the nightmare?

Helmet choices were simple, either sombre coloured Stormtrooper or multicoloured bottle opener. I went with the latter. The junta deemed that the tires that came with the bike were unsuitable so I was directed to purchase universals. Nothing was simple. It was pointed out that I would also need a special pump for my new tires, my old one would no longer work.

In the end, I wasn't able to leave with my purchase as it had to be set up with all of the accessories and adjusted to my size and weight. It was to be ready in two weeks. I thanked my friend, the sales guy and the stranger for all of their help. I drew the line at granting them visiting privileges.

When I finally took my first trip on my new bike with all my shiny, recently purchased accoutrements I felt like an entrant in a Mardi Gras parade. Cycling along a bike path I asked myself a number of times what had really been wrong with my old bike and what I learned from the buying experience. I did not come up with too many answers but am not looking forward to the day that I have to replace my car.

James Gemmell lives in Ottawa.