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Mark Oprea
After nearly a century-and-a-half in business, Fridrich Bicycle, Cleveland’s oldest continuously-owned bike shop will be going out of business this year.
For all the change it has seen over the past 141 years it’s been in business in Ohio City, there’s been one throughline of consistency: Fridrich Bicycle has focused on making friends across Cleveland a little more than making tremendous profits.
“We give, to my knowledge, the best customer service in the entire bike industry here in Northern Ohio,” owner Charles Fridrich told Scene from a chair in his shop on Thursday. “That’s my belief. Because I insist upon it.”
That warm impression on many long-time Clevelanders’ hearts is why, according to Fridrich and his fans, 2024 is a somber year. As sometime in the next few months, after nearly a century and a half selling everything from discounted Schwinns to toboggan sleds, Fridrich Bicycles will be no more.
Well, at least that’s a possibility. Ever since the start of the pandemic years, Fridrich said he’d been contemplating retirement, a move beckoned by his wavering health and trouble with staffing since 2021. While Fridrich had 15 employees pre-Covid, these days he only has about five.
“I’ve thought about this thing every which way, and sadly, I have no choice but to sell,” Fridrich, who’s 83, said. “We are going to be going out of business… the most honest word I can use for you is, well, eventually.”
Fridrich’s decision to close up shop is also, in part, a reaction to an evolving Ohio City, a neighborhood enamored with a future dotted with more development. One of the three owners Fridrich’s “in talks” with, he said, hinted at tearing down the bike shop to make way for apartments and ground-floor retail. (A similar fate that befell the Old Fashioned Hotdogs diner a few blocks west, in 2020.) Others might try to keep the shop open.
It’s also a wonder to Fridrich how, in the era of four-figure e-bikes and bike lane obsession, a legacy, no-bull cycle shop like his can once again turn great profits.
Hundreds of similar shops across the country, responding to a December survey by Bicycle Retailer, said that final-quarter 2023 was their worst for sales in recent memory. More than half blamed the Amazons of the industry—the direct-to-door, assemble-it-yourself bikes with West Coast aesthetics that, more often than not, pale in quality compared to traditional competitors.
A trend that is at odds with Cleveland’s current zeitgeist. Just like Slavic Village’s Fleet Bike Shop closing after 53 years in business, Fridrich shutting his doors this spring or summer puts a dent in a local industry that’s been increasingly lobbying, with success, for safer streets. And, after 13 years of advocacy, the Lorain Midway cycle track will be, if all goes according to plan, opening right outside Fridrich’s door later this decade.
Ironically enough, Midway hype or protected bike lanes doesn’t change Fridrich’s mood: “Honestly? I’m rather apathetic about it.”
A Gilded Age business venture at the height of the American bicycle craze, the original Fridrich shop grew out of a partnership between German immigrant Joseph W. Fridrich and coal entrepreneur August Schmidt. The Fridrichs, according to Cleveland Historical, were eager to tap into a growing market, and opened up a small store on Lorain Avenue. (In 1909, Cleveland Historical suggests, not 1883.)
Come the 1960s, the Fridrichs had solidified their reputation as budget-friendly pals to all. Joseph J. Fridrich, known as “J.J.,” even created, in the shop basement, a competitor to the Schwinns, Columbias and Murrays that dominated the national market. But his was $29.95, half the cost. J.J. called it, probably with a wink, the “Fridrich Cadillac.”
“It was a total value bike,” Charles Fridrich recalled. “Nothing fancy. Just in red or blue. And we sold hundreds of them.”
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Mark Oprea
Charles “Chuck” Fridrich, 83, the owner of Fridrich Bicycle since his father died in 1992. After 141 years in business, Fridrich said he’s looking to sell.
click to enlarge 
Mark Oprea
Fridrich’s shop had long valued customer service over a clean, crisp image. “People just see an old shop,” Charles Fridrich said. “They see this creaky floor. It’s part of the ambience of the place.”
J.J. died in 1992, above the shop he ran with Charles’ occasional help for three decades. Charles, on the other hand, had just gotten married a second time, and had a pretty passionate career in professional bowling. But his father had died. His four siblings had all moved out West. He had no choice.
“The company attorney came along, and dumped a big wad of keys in my hand, and said, ‘You got to run this place,’” Charles said. “And that was not my plan.”
Fridrich himself, a white-haired man with a calm demeanor, seems to have shaped his cycle shop to echo his own personality. Bikes are lined carefully parallel to children’s sleds. A framed article in the West Side Sun hangs in front of a random pair of cleats, next to a note to customers that reads, “Take care of your bike.” Everyone who wheeled their Fujis or Raleighs into Fridrich’s on Thursday were greeted on a first-name basis.
It’s why everyone who’s dealt with them has walked away with fond memories.
“One of the last great stores in Cleveland,” Shannon Richey, a former Ohio City resident, wrote to Scene. They “always gave top quality work with fair pricing. Never tried to overcharge or do unnecessary work. A great ethic—and I referred many customers there because of it.”
Yet, is it time for Fridrich to move on? Most of the store’s brick-colored floor looks like it had been beat up by a roller derby. Out-of-order candy dispensers sit next to two-for-$1 water bottles. Giant white tarps hang close to chipped ceiling tiles, tarps that funnel rainwater into orange Home Depot buckets. “It’s like Swiss cheese up there,” employee Chrystal Smith told Scene, looking up at the roof.
All charm, according to Fridrich.
“People just see an old store,” he said. “They see this creaky floor—it’s part of the ambiance of the place. And they’re just kind of like, ‘Oh, my God, they’re still here. I got my first bike when I was 14.’ Or this or that. And you hear this from so many.”
As Fridrich took a call from the city—his sidewalk outside was in bad need of repair—Dennis Marin walked into the shop. He looked around, and said to clerk Rodger Zanny with his hand at his waist, “Wow, I haven’t been in here since I was this tall.”
When Marin was told that Fridrich, after 141 years in business, would be closing this year, his excitement turned to sadness-tinged nostalgia. He thought of the purple Cool Ghoul bike his dad bought him as a kid.
“I don’t know how else to say it,” Marin, 57, said. “It’s just sad. Sad to see the mom and pops go out of business. And everything just goes more Walmart, Walmart, Walmart.”
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