House of Wheels

My small Mid-Michigan town suffers the insults shared by so many small towns in the United States:  Failing independent businesses, Big Box buffet with Wal-Mart, Home Depot, Meijers and Staples; fast food food court with Taco Bell, MacDonalds, Burger King, and Wendy's to name a few.  We have representation from all the major big box pharmacy chains. We do still have a few independent restaurants, and that's another story.  The crown jewel in our town, however, is the bike shop, The House of Wheels.

If you grew up in the 50's or 60's you surely remember independents like the local Rexall drug store, the camera shop, the hobby shop, the book store, and the bike shop. Most places, in cities of all sizes today, virtually none of these exist in any form that would recall that time in your youth when a trip to a place like the bike shop was filled with all the sights, sounds, and smells that gave comfort and the promise of fun and service. These retailers still exist in many cities all over the U.S. but most are reincarnations, and many, impostors.

Somehow, as improbable as it seems, this little town, fully pillaged by every conceivable form of retail assault, retains its bike shop.  And this, my friend, is that bike shop: Owner on the premises with his bike parked against the wall, rack upon rack of road bike, cruiser, mountain bike, kids bike, tricycle, 1-speed, 3-speed, 7-speed, or 21.  All these and trailers and carriers and helmets and shoes and skateboards.  All these and maps and brochures and stickers, sunglasses, and shorts and bright colored shirts  The whole lot crammed into 2 small show rooms either of which would be considered a big bedroom; neither of which would be considered a big living room, all of which are covered with well aged linoleum.  The walls are hung with more bikes, antique bikes, pedal cars and posters. The glass case at the register stuffed with old stuff and new: pedals and clips and gear shifters and stickers.  And more stuff on the shelves behind.

You can enter off the street through the front door, but why would you?  Why when you can enter off the alley, past the dumpster and the rack full of junkers.  Step in through the store room the size of a small milk house, full of repairs mostly ready for pick-up.  Then pass into the work shop with its two stands manned by the high-school type, the owner, and his experienced help guy-- that thirty-something who has dedicated his life to stunt-riding BMX bikes and realizes the good fortune he enjoys in this small town oasis. The uniform is a well-worn, thin with age bike tee-shirt. That's where you want to enter, the workshop, with the tubes and tires hanging from the ceiling, the shelves above lined with new and antique pedal cars some of which will remain preserved forever in their fine coat of rust; with the smell of rubber and the sight of work rags draped across the work stands.

Walk in any day and you will step out of this troubled failing economy, this troubled failing society, this troubled failing age, and you will land smack dab in the middle of somewhere you want to be, somewhere you used to be, somewhere you will long to be.  The sights, the sounds, and the smells are of another time and place, well preserved, and presented for your pleasure at the Owosso House of Wheels.