Eight Minutes

Whew...as I sit here in the shop on this windy, cold first day of December, it dawns on me that forever gone are the last eight minutes I just spent with a young woman that just left.

First a disclaimer...I am here on a Saturday, my typical day off, against my will, as my partner Doug (business, not life) has accompanied his son to a swim meet that will encompass the entire weekend. Also working against my happiness and her chances of encountering a cheerful Mike was the fact that she'd interrupted my breakfast. 'Nough said.

Back to the point...this woman entered the shop requesting "a road- bike-like-bike, but not with the bendover handlebars...I like the old fashioned 3 speed looking ones". Right then and there, I began the all too familiar race to see how quickly I could get rid of her and get back to my eggs.

Now, fellow retailers will know what I mean when I say that comments like hers categorize her as a "stroker". For those lucky enough not to know what a stroker is, let me explain. A stroker is a person that enters a retail establishment with no intention of (ever) buying anything there.
To be completely honest, I haven't a clue as to their motivation.

I welcome any and all questions about my passions, family, friends, coaching and bicycles. Anyone that knows me will attest to the fact that I often don't know when to shut up about these topics. A stroker, however, asks a question that she never even begins to listen for the answer to. For example, a piece of the eight minutes of my life I'll never recapture that the stroker stole through a useless dialogue this morning:

Stroker: What bike should I use to commute to work 3 miles each way?

Me: (Realizing the stroker is already thinking of the next thing she'll say, while she stares off in the distance...yet I begin...) Well, many of our customers that commute find (interrupted by stroker, never to finish this thought...)

Stroker: I work at such and such and my friend does too. We are both thinking about getting new bikes to commute together on. We have a bet about who can lose the most weight.

Me: (Smelling the sausage from 20 feet away, I try once again...) A bicycle such as this one (pointing to a random selection) can be outfitted...(not quite finished with the sentence, I am once again interrupted)

Stroker: Do you sell locks? I live in an upstairs apartment (alone I think to myself...or, did I say it out loud?) and I have to lock it in the storage facility downstairs.

Me: We do. Why don't we find you a bike and then we can look at locks.

Stroker: Well, I'm just starting to look. (It's 32F and wind chill is 20F...she hasn't exercised since the Reagan administration and my eggs are getting cold...a sale is not looking probable)

Me: Take all the time you need, and just holler if you have any questions.

Already leaning towards the uneaten breakfast, it takes but three giant steps and I'm taking a bite...better eat fast...I've got to make up that eight minutes somewhere.