CTAS 10: Psycle Snobs Café
Cycling Through a Storm
Previously, in Cycling Through a Storm One: Cycling Through a Storm Two: A House, a Boy, a Girl, a Car, a Dock, a Boat, a Hug Three: Starting Sequence Four: Yacht Race Five: Save the Hat! Six: Squid's Bar Seven: Sailors and Fishermen Eight: Maxhole Nine: Schwinn Continental
“What the hell is that?” Bob was tall and thin and he kept his wispy hair cropped close.
Vic braced the door open to drag Stewie’s bike into the store. “I misplaced my helmet—”
“What?” Bob said, staring at the ancient Schwinn with its deflated front tire. “No, god, no.”
“Oh. The bike. Right.” Vic rolled the bike toward the work stand nearest the cafe seating area.
“Oh hell no. Hide that piece of junk in the back,” Bob shuffled like a basketball guard, screening visibility of the bike from the cafe. “Work on it later.”
Vic pulled his fluorescent pink helmet off. “I thought you meant this.”
“The helmet’s fine,” Bob said. “Kinda cool. But that bike—no. Customers could see it!”
Psycle Snobs Café was up the hill, as the locals said, above the tourist-friendly downtown area and a few hundred yards beyond the summit of Chilkoot Hill, known among bicyclists as one of the steepest paved grades in the Midwest. Vic’s sister Rachel and her husband Bob ran Psycle Snobs as a boutique bike shop paired with a small-plate bakery, coffee shop, tap room, wine bar, and occasional live performance venue. Rachel handled the bakery, beverages, and entertainment bookings. Bob ran the bike shop. Psycle Snobs specialized in high-end performance road and custom art bikes. Core staff were family and friends. Vic worked as a wrench in the bike shop, and he helped Rachel at the Café when things got busy. Gust did the reverse—he was barrista, wine sommelier, and beer tender, serving as resident expert of all things brewed or fermented. He sometimes helped with bikes. Truing wheels, Gust was savant-like, though to anyone’s knowledge including even his father’s, Gust had never once ridden a bicycle. Gust loved longboards.
There were two storefronts, one for each face of the business: The bakery’s marquis was on the busier street while the bike shop’s shingle was hung around the corner on the side street. Inside, the vibe was a confluence of Belgian bakery and classic European bike shop steeped in espresso, Cabernet, IPA, and white lithium grease, with WiFi. Most people who happened in backed politely out, but just enough became Snobs. Particularly supportive customers—cyclists and appetite addicts alike—were infrequently gifted with I’m a Snob water bottles, T-shirts, or even cycling jerseys.
“What happened to your bike?” Bob asked.
Vic pointed at his Masi, leaning in the corner where employees kept their personal rides.
“So, what’s that thing?”
“It’s Stewie’s. Needs a little work.”
“I’ll help heave it to the dumpster.”
“I’m gonna get a coffee,” Vic said.
“Yeah, go ahead. Thanks for coming in early.”
Vic’s sweat-soaked jersey fit the Café vibe. Wednesday afternoon coffee bar patrons were mostly cyclists. Their Lycra jerseys were lined with white rings of salt from dried sweat. They sat at tables in groups and pairs. The Wednesday morning club ride was retirees and cyclists with second-shift jobs. They gathered pre- and post-ride at Snobs. Some nodded greetings as Vic approached.
Rachel pulled cappuccino machine levers and smacked the little metal cup with the long handle on it. She was a cheery woman, just five feet tall with thick wavy hair that she kept beneath a net. It fit with the white apron she wore serving the bakery goods she created in the tiny kitchen wedged between the Café and the bike shop.
“Bob said you might need extra help tonight?” Vic said.
“Oh, could you?”
“Of course.”
“Oh good. Thank you. Latte?”
“Of course.”
“I’m not sure what to expect.” Rachel glanced at the digital timer above an in-process pour-over coffee, then rushed back to the cappuccino machine to halt the steam wand. “I booked this nice old guy who walked in, sat at the bar drinking coffee and reading a magazine for a while, and then asked about performing here. I missed what he meant at first and I started telling him Yeah, we have performers and pointed at the chalkboard calendar over there. So, he said he wasn’t asking about who was going to be here, he was asking if he could play some songs here. Said he wanted to get some practice playing them in front of people. I didn’t recognize him or anything and said the weekend nights are booked through the rest of the summer. He looked at the chalkboard and pointed out that we didn’t have anything scheduled tonight—this was a couple of weeks ago—and he said he’d be fine with a Wednesday, said it was also fine when I told him we don’t pay for weeknight gigs. ‘Perfect!’ he even said. I felt kinda bad, actually—I told him it would be okay if he put a tip jar out. I asked him what to put on the calendar and he looked at me a little funny, said ‘Call me Lloyd.’ I asked if he could write it down for me because I couldn’t remember whether Lloyd has one L or two. He took the pen, but then he said ‘Some people call me the Sultan of Strings.’ Really? I asked, and I forgot about having him write his name.” Rachel was a little breathless, talking and moving fast, as if it was busy and crowded already.
Vic looked at the calendar on the wall near the exit.
“Later, when I was updating the calendar, I couldn’t remember his name,” Rachel went on. “But I remembered the Sultan of Strings thing, so that’s what I put on the board. I’ve been getting calls all week from people asking to reserve tables and whether there are still any tickets left for the Sultan of Strings show!”
“Sounds like a fun night. Is Gust working, too?” Vic said it loud so that Gust, sitting at the far end of the bar and scrolling something on his phone, heard.
Gust nodded. “Yep, not missing this!”
“Gust told me to ask you about tonight,” Rachel said.
“Yeah?”
Gust strode near. “Well, ya said ya wanted to do something together tonight, dint ya?” He squared himself beside Vic, both of them facing Rachel. He wrapped one strong arm around Vic’s shoulders.
Rachel shimmied around the bar to hug them both, her cheeks pressed into their chests. “My heroes for the day!” Then she zipped into the kitchen.
“Gonna be a zoo,” Gust said.
“Yeah?”
“I been taking calls. One guy told me he’d heard there was a Sultans show here tonight but couldn’t find it listed anywhere. He wanted to ‘double-check with the venue management,’ since he couldn’t find it on TicketMaster. Rachel’s been telling people it’s a free show and there’s seating available, which I’m pretty sure is not the usual Sultan situation.”
“What do you think the TicketMaster guy was after?”
“Tickets to flip.”
Vic liked custom bike builds and upgrades, like when someone wanted a new handlebar but didn’t want to bother with rerouting the cables and trying to rewrap the handlebar tape. But most of all Vic enjoyed mysteries.
“Pedal click,” Bob said, pointing to an art bike—a creamy blue-green Rivendell Atlantis.
Vic nodded. He clamped the bike’s seat tube into his work stand’s clamp, but usually a pedal click only happens while the bike is being ridden. He turned the pedals, ran the bike through its gears. “Taking her outside.”
Bob nodded.
Vic took the bike into the mostly empty parking lot behind St. Michael’s church where it was quiet. He rode a few slow loops, standing to press hard in different gears, listening for the click. Nothing was wrong with the bike. When someone spends a lot of money on a fancy new bike and they hear a little clicking during the first ride while all the components are still settling into position, they might bring it back to the shop for adjustment.
“It’s fine,” Vic told Bob.
“Tighten things up a little.”
Vic inspected every nut, screw, and fitting on the click-free bike. He loosened the seat post and handlebar stem, twisted the saddle and bar around a bit, re-secured them. He pulled the wheels, adjusted the axles, and replaced them. He re-lubricated the pedal threads. He pulled the cranks, extracted the bottom bracket cassette, reinstalled it.
Behind St. Michael’s again, Vic did parking lot sprints in all the gears. To be certain, he coasted into town and rode along the river on Canal Street, then several blocks to the north end of town. He kept a watch for Sequoia’s red Prius. At PD Pappy’s bar, he coasted the Atlantis around the circle where motorcycle enthusiasts park their Harleys and custom trikes. The art bike he was riding was similar in a way to a classic motorcycle, but without a motor. I’m the motor, Vic thought. He circled back and rode through town again, still watching for Sequoia’s car. He spotted a red Prius. He angled across the street so he could see its bumper, check the stickers. Too few. Then he went up to Second Street, to his real destination: Chilkoot Hill.
For years, Chilkoot Hill was featured as the final criterium stage in an annual week-long professional bike race in Minnesota. The hill is only one block long, but for a while its twenty percent grade* was claimed as the steepest of any pro bicycle race in the United States. Psycle Snobs was ideally located for that breed of bicyclist who sought challenges like climbing really steep (if very short) hills. Vic used to climb it regularly, but he hadn’t made it to the summit since his chemotherapy three years before.
The Atlantis wasn’t a bike Vic could expect to ride up Chilkoot. It was a beautiful bike, but it wasn’t ideal for sprints and crazy-steep climbs. That’s not why Vic brought the bike to the base of Chilkoot. Chilkoot strains bikes. Vic had broken chains, downshifting while grinding up just the first several steep yards of Chilkoot Hill. If a bike is going to click or creak or complain in any way about being ridden, Chilkoot will give voice to that weakness. Vic stood onto the pedals and accelerated at the hill from a block away to build momentum. Nelson Street crosses Second Street at the base of Chilkoot, and there’s a stop sign that has to be disobeyed in order to carry velocity, so observation and timing are critical. Vic timed it right and stood on the pedals again across Nelson, then sat for just a beat and flipped the bike’s classic bar-end shifter to pop the chain onto the biggest sprocket for the lowest gear, then stood again and pushed. Vic was always amazed, hitting that crazy wall of a grade increase and feeling all momentum evaporate almost instantly. He got six pedal strokes in before he had to plant a foot on pavement or tip over sideways. The Atlantis suffered in silence with nary a pedal click. Vic lifted the bike around, coasted down the hill, then rode back to the shop on a longer, shallower route.
“Fixed,” Vic informed Bob when he returned to the shop with the Chilkoot-tested Atlantis.
Vic’s next project was a new assembly. He sorted the components and reviewed the spec sheet and rider measurements. Bob’s expectation was that when the customer arrived to collect a new bicycle, there should be nothing left to adjust. “Go ride it. It should be just right,” Bob would say. Vic could not recall this ever actually happening, but it was a nice aspiration. Bob always seemed surprised when, after a test ride, a customer’s saddle still had to be tilted a degree, or a handlebar raised a smidge. “That’s curious,” he would say. “Too many chicken wings over the weekend?” He’d laugh with the customer and they would proceed with the final fitting.
Vic took short breaks and stretched his legs now and then, strolling over to the coffee bar for a fresh cup and a chat with Gust, Rachel, or patrons. He checked his phone regularly for messages, but there were none.
“Maybe a reset,” Gust suggested while they sat together at the coffee bar.
When it powered up again it immediately vibrated. There were new messages, but not from Sequoia.
After Vic had finished the new bike build, Bob inspected the bike while Vic watched.
“One more thing,” Bob said after approving the build.
Shit, Vic thought. Here it comes.
“How was your test ride with that demo bike?”
“Great!” Vic said. “Rode like silk, super responsive, and I was surprised how natural the Bluetooth shifting felt.”
“Excellent. I’m looking forward to checking it out myself.”
“You haven’t ridden it yet?”
Bob shook his head. “I was going to try getting it out after work today, but with the show tonight …”
“Yeah, better if you stick around here.”
“So it’s going to have to be tomorrow.”
Vic nodded.
“I’m glad you liked it. We’ll compare notes after I check it out.”
An hour before showtime Vic cleaned up in the employee washroom. He swapped his bike jersey for the black Psycle Snobs Cafe T-shirt he kept hanging on a peg. Thanks for Expecting the Best was printed in delicate white script where a breast pocket would be. The graphic on the back was of a snooty-looking valet, riding a racing bicycle one-handed, his priggish nose pointing skyward. A pastry missing a single bite balanced in his free hand.
Vic checked in with Rachel and Gust at the coffee bar. The tables were already filled with non-bicyclists and a dozen or so people holding wine glasses contemplated the current exhibit of a local artists paintings of Dali-esque bicycles in various states of melting and adhering to pavement and cobblestone.
“Hungry?” Vic said to Gust.
“I could eat.”
“I’ll run across the street and pick something up. Want to come along?”
“One of us better hang here in case peeps start showing up to claim their general admission seating preferences.”
“Know what the special is today?” Vic asked, shrugging in the general direction of the pub across the street.
“Wednesdays it’s their very tasty mushroom & Swiss burger, I believe,” Gust grinned.
At the pub across the street, Vic stood near the waitress station. He asked the bartender for an IPA and ordered two burger basket specials to go, one with the veggie patty upgrade. He retrieved a voice mail message from the sailing club commodore. “Hey Vic,” the commodore said, “A woman called here looking for you. Her name’s Joy, I think—didn’t have the best connection when she called. She said she has something of yours. I had her repeat the number about three times, so I think I got it right.” Vic took a pen from the waitress station and wrote the number on his beer coaster. He called the number, which had to be a landline because it was picked up by an old-school answering machine. It was a man’s voice on recorded greeting, not Sequoia’s. Vic left his name and number, said he had received the message Sequoia had left for him with the marina, and he’d like to talk with her as soon as possible.
*Or twenty-two percent, or thirteen, depending on where the slope calculation points were set.
Great flow! I’m so curious about Sultan of Strings!
Great read easy flow of words