Blog.

From Fixed Gear to Burnout: Why I Rode Out of the Bike Industry"

When I moved to London, I thought the hardest part would be finding a job. Turns out, the real challenge was figuring out what kind of job I actually wanted to do.

Ever since I was about 14, bikes were my thing. Riding them, racing them, occasionally fixing them (usually badly at first). I heard that old saying: “Do what you love, and you’ll never work a day in your life.” Sounds great… until you realise that saying probably came from someone who’s never worked retail in a bike shop.

Still, I went for it. I pounded the pavement, emailed every bike shop I could find, and got ghosted harder than a bad Tinder date. I landed a few trials, but nothing stuck—maybe because my English wasn’t perfect, or maybe because a lot of bike shop workers seemed to carry the vibe of “I ride a £10k bike and I’m better than you.” At the time I thought I was just being dramatic. Spoiler: I wasn’t.

Eventually, I scored a job driving a van, redistributing London’s Cycle Hire bikes. Honestly? It was a vibe. Cruising around London, moving bikes, being part of this cool new transport initiative. Long shifts, but decent money and four days off to recover. I moved up to assistant manager, but I never stopped peeking into the workshop like a kid outside a candy shop.

Meanwhile, I was commuting everywhere on a brakeless fixed gear and throwing myself into alley cat races. Pure chaos. Loved it. Then I discovered Herne Hill Velodrome—sunny days, friendly faces, and world-class talent. I ended up racing alongside names like Ethan Hayter, Fred Wright, and Alec Briggs. It was surreal.

Eventually, I got my dream gig: a mechanic in the Cycle Hire workshop. I was stoked… until I realised I’d basically be working on the same bike, with a different serial number, every single day. I became a pro at it—like, blindfold-level pro—but it got stale fast.

So I levelled up. Got my Cytech Level 3 certification and started fixing all kinds of bikes—mine, my mates’, randoms. I bounced between independent shops and big-name retailers. Kids' bikes, electric commuters, carbon road rockets—you name it, I spun a wrench on it.

The best part? Problem-solving. I loved being the go-to guy for “no one knows what’s wrong with it” cases. I also sharpened my customer service game, which is code for “learned how not to sound like a grumpy mechanic when someone asks if their puncture is covered under warranty.”

Then came wheel building. I joined a race team and started building wheels for one of our sponsors. Loved it. Calculating spoke lengths, cutting, lacing, truing—it was satisfying in a way only fellow nerds will understand.

But life shifted gears. My partner and daughter were moving to New Zealand, and after years of hustle, I realised I wanted more nature, less noise. I’d had a good run in London, even started my own business building custom bikes for boutique frame builders, but the call of fresh air was stronger than my love for pubs and crowded tube rides.

Before the move, I sent out job applications and got some interest—but no one would hire a guy who hadn’t even landed in the country yet. Fair enough. So when I arrived in NZ, I jumped on a job at Torpedo7 as a Workshop Manager.

Day one? Same story: chaos, mystery tools, unlabelled parts, and a legacy of “organised” mess from previous staff. I cleaned it up, made the space usable, and tried to modernise the workflow. But this was a big corporate chain, and every change required approval from someone four managerial layers above me. They promised a pay review. It never came. They made changes that didn’t make sense. I started to question my sanity.

Then, Evo Cycles came along, offering a Store Manager role. I took it. But morale was low, staff were leaving, and the workshop was understaffed. I was hiring, training, reorganising, and being watched by a dozen security cameras at once like I was in a low-budget spy movie. Despite being “the boss,” my hands were tied by endless policies, no proper support, and unrealistic expectations.

I brought in a junior mechanic and somehow kept the wheels turning (literally), but the burnout was real. There was no training, the pay didn’t match the pressure, and electric bikes kept frying their own wiring. I was done.

So I left.

Now I work outside the cycling industry, with better hours, better pay, and my evenings to myself. Do I miss the bikes? Sometimes. But I don’t miss the grind, the corporate nonsense, or being treated like a cog in the machine.

To anyone dreaming of turning your passion into a profession—just know that sometimes, it works. Other times, it’ll chew you up and spit out your torque wrench.

As for me?

I still love bikes. I just don’t want to work in retail.

14/07/2025