And so, edified, I approached the counter to ask for a tune and that they check my bottom bracket. Before I knew what was happening, the bike was out of my hands and up on a rack, and I had a tattooed twenty-something insisting that there was nothing wrong with it.
"Well, when I’m climbing or topping out the gears I’m getting a clicking noise."
"I can try to tighten it for you, but I don’t think there’s anything wrong with it."
"The last time I was getting this noise, I was told I needed to replace it. Please, can you just check it out?"
He rolled his eyes. "It’s a closed cylinder, so there shouldn’t be anything wrong..."
"Yeah, I got that. Look, I’m leaving it for a tune anyway, so could you just have it looked over?"
"I guess... It’s when you’re under power?"
At this point, I was starting to think that the judgement has been made. I’m not of the typical bicyclist’s build, and he’s sized me up for a weekender or worse, a poser. (Heh. I just remembered the pseudo-skaters we had in high school. All the gear, none of the shred.) I know the dialogue in my head is just my own paranoia, but I couldn't shake the idea that he was calling me out. I felt like I wasn't ~enough to warrant his time, and that maybe the things I imagined he wass thinking might be true. I said, simply, "Yeah. It’s the same problem I had last time around."
"Okay," he replied, "we’ll have it ready for you Thursday."