Old bike shops used to have a special smell of rubber, wood, grease, proofhide, and sweat. When biking became an upper middle class venture that attracts the fancy of yuppie dilletants, the special smells had to go. Guys who are fresh from work who have polished nails or designer jeans if it's their day off, would be repulsed by those smells. If they brought the girlfriend for matching his and hers helmets, there would be the expectation that bottled water would be provided, there should be ample and complimentary lighting and a nice carpeted area complete with a clean well padded couch and chairs. When you and your significant other are dropping ten thousand dollars you want a non threatening stylish environment in which to shop. The dark stuffy confusing shops like Mr. Juners American Cylery or Avenia's NYC shop are just as much a put off for the dilletants as they catnip for we, the scoundrels of old steel.
Now, that said, the new riders who like the new bike plastic smells (if there are any to be had) are not worse riders for all their misguided confusion. They are just as fast or faster than the steel scoundrels of our past. But I insist the magic is not there in those carbon fibers. The speed is ... the handling is ... the excitement and endorphin high of a hard ride is still there but there is still something so important missing. Where is the oddness ... the individuality ... the small manufacturer quirkiness? Where is the artfullness for the sake of art? Where did the mystery go? Where is the leather, the fine delicate lines of small diameter tubes that almost unbelievably can support our weight? Where are the beautiful metal riveted headbadges? Where are the embellishments, the artisan's interpretation of lug design? Where is the skill in reaching down to find the perfect rear derailleur placement?
Those special smells are the like the smell of leather of an old vintage car or wood when its been freshly sanded down. Ever walk near a boat shop when they're repairing a fiberglass hull? If you like that odor maybe you'll have trouble liking the smell of old bike.
Garth Libre in Miami Fl. USA