Easing The Shock Of Gravel

 What are some telltale signs of an early '90s mountain bike?

One might be bar ends, especially those from Onza and Club Roost.  Another could be early Rock Shox or Manitou suspension (or "telescoping," according to the Brits) front fork--or a sprung rear triangle.  

Another popular form of suspension was built into handlebar stems, such as the ones from Girvin or Softride.  I never tried one myself, but I suspect they didn't do nearly as much to dampen shock--and make a ride more stable--as a suspended fork or rear triangle.  I suspect, though, another reason why they fell out of favor is that spension forks led to two nearly-simultaneous changes:  28.6 mm (1 1/8") steerer tubes replaced 25.4 (1") as the new standard, and threadless headsets became an industry standard.  Girvin and other suspension stems were of the "quill" type and manufacturers couldn't, or didn't want to, make threadless suspension stems.

Well, in the cycling world, very few ideas actually die.  SunTour made cassette hubs and indexed shifting in 1969.  I've never seen them, but from what I've read and heard, they worked well. The market wasn't ready for them, however, until Shimano re-introduced them a decade and a  half later.  Likewise, suspension stems didn't end up as road- (or trail-) kill.  A recent trend has brought them back from the dustbin of cycling history.

Gravel biking is credited for showing that wider tires aren't only for mountain bikes or beach cruisers.  It also has renewed interest in minimalist, lightweight forms of suspension.  Most suspension forks are simply too heavy, and too dampening, for gravel bikers' tastes.  Those forks also have straight or nearly-straight blades, which negate the benefits of the low-trail bikes' geometries.  And I don't know how feasible rear-triangle suspension is for a gravel bike.

During the past couple of years, some new suspension stems have appeared on the market.  Unlike Girvin and Softride, the new Shock Stop and Kinekt models are threadless stems.  The former uses swappable elastomer inserts, rather like a few of the 90s suspension forks and USE fork.  Not coincidentally, Shock Stop offers an elastomer-equipped seatpost to complement its stem. Kinekt, on the other hand, uses a parallelogram system reminiscent of the Soft Ride.

In my limited experience with suspension systems, one problem I found with elastomers is that dirt, moisture or cold stiffened them.  A mechanical system like Kinekt might be heavier, but more reliable, and avoids the problem of manufacturers who discontinue replacement elastomers (or go out of business).  I am not making any recommendations, as I have never used any new or old suspension stem.  I do find it interesting, however, that a new trend in riding has given an old idea a new lease on life.

Starstruck? No, A Moonshock!

Bicycle suspension--at least in forms we would recognize today--first started to appear, mainly on mountain bikes, a bit more than a quarter-century ago.

Those early attempts to make bikes more stable as their riders bounced them over rocks and rumbled along singletrack consisted of hinged handlebar stems with springs in them, seatposts that were like pogo sticks and "telescoping" forks.  That latter system--first popularized by Rock Shox--would become one of the standard ways of suspending bikes.  The other--suspension built into the rear of the frame--would come a few years later.

Most riders at the time thought all of those attempts to absorb shock were new innovations.  Of course, they weren't old enough to have been reading American Bicycling (the forerunner of Bicycling) when it featured Dan Henry's homemade suspension system on his French constructeur bike.  And, at the time, even I (a professor who's supposed to know everything, ha-ha) didn't realize that bicycles have been built with suspension for almost as long as bicycles have been built.  What is the pneumatic tire--one of the most important technological innovations of all time--but one of the first, and one of the most enduring, forms of suspension?

Even with such knowledge, I was a little surprised to come across this 1975 Redline Moonshock BMX bike:

Only five or six bikes like this one were ever made, according to the Classic Cycles website. In the then-nascent sport of BMX racing, bikes were designed to consciously emulate their motorized counterparts.  That makes sense when you realize that, at the time, most BMXers were pubescent boys who, like lots of other kids, pretended they were on motorcycles or in racing cars as they plowed along paths and jumped ramps and mounds.  

Note the year:  1975.  Schwinn had ended production of their "Krate" series, which probably best exemplified "muscle" bikes that echoed the "muscle" cars of that era.  If those bikes weren't at least partially responsible for the birth of BMX, it's still not merely a coincidence that kids started "revving" bikes with slick fat tires and "banana" seats during that time.  

It was also during that time--at least, according to the accounts I've read and heard--that Tom Ritchey, Gary Fisher, Joe Breeze and their friends were bombing down Northern California fire trails in Schwinn baloon-tired bikes made before they were born. 

Why do I mention that?  Well, the first problem that most of those proto-mountain bikers discovered had to do with one of Newton's laws--best expressed (at least for mathematically-challenged people like me) by a Blood Sweat and Tears lyric.  What goes up must come down--but what comes down can't always be brought back up, especially if it weighs 60 pounds and has only one gear.  So, according to lore, in 1975 (or thereabouts), Gary Fisher outfitted one of those balloon-tired bombers with derailleurs and multiple gears.

Apparently, some BMX bike designers thought absorbing shock to make the bike steadier was a greater priority.  Mountain bike designers wouldn't come to the same conclusion for another decade and a half.

Not surprisingly, the Moonshock BMX bike shared a couple of unfortunate traits with early suspended mountain bikes.  They were slow, basically for the same reasons.  For one thing, they were heavy--although, in fairness, the Moonshock had the greater weight penalty because of its tanklike gussetted steel frame, wide rims and tires.  (By the time mountain bike suspension was developed, relatively light frames, tires and rims were available.)  But, more important, the springiness of both kinds of bikes absorbed much of their riders' energies.  Thus, the few kids who rode the Mongoose, much like mountain bikers nearly a generation later, found ways to lock out their suspension systems.  That left them riding almost-rigid bikes that were several pounds heavier than their non-suspended counterparts.

It seems that the idea of suspension on mountain bikes died with the production of the Moonshock, or not long after.  Apparently, BMX riders felt that it was more important for their bikes to withstand the pounding they would take.  And, because BMX frames and wheels are smaller than their mountain or road counterparts, it's possible to use relatively thick gauges of steel, with reinforcements, and end up with a bike that isn't terribly heavy.

On the other hand, it's all but impossible to buy a new mountain bike (or any made in the past fifteen years or so) that doesn't have suspension in the front fork, rear triangle or both.  Best of all, many new systems seem to have some way of locking them out--or regulating the firmess or softness of the ride--built into them.  And a typical suspension fork of today is a good deal lighter than the Rock Shox Judy fork--top-of-the-line in its time--I rode on my old Bontrager Race Lite.

Pro-Flex Reflection

Today I took a very short ride along the river to the Long Island City pier.  Along the way, I saw someone riding a bike I haven't seen in a long time.  


Back in the day,  a couple of my riding buddies had them.  I even knew a guy who raced on one.

If you were a National Off-Road Bicycle Association (NORBA) member in the early to mid 1990's, as I was, you knew someone who rode this bike if you weren't riding it yourself. This bike, the Pro Flex, was one of the first mass-marketed full-suspension mountain bikes.  

The first time I saw one of those frames, I thought that the rear was something Salvador Dali might've made if someone had stolen his palette and brushes and left an Erector set in their place. 


I never owned one, or any other full-suspension bike. However, I did have the chance to ride it.   I was not prepared for the springiness and cushiness of the ride, accustomed as I was to hardtail mountain bikes and very stiff road bikes.  In fact, I found the bike's bounciness disconcerting--like something I might expect of a pogo stick on wheels.  


I suppose that had I raced off-road, or simply become a more dedicated off-road rider, I would've appreciated the Pro-Flex or some other full-suspension bike.  But having such boingy ride was rather distrubing to me:  I felt that I had less control over the bike.  


Plus, I came to feel about this bike, and full-suspension bikes, the way I came to feel about carbon-fiber bikes: They're great if you're willing and able to replace them every couple of years.  (I was riding a lot, and hard, in those days.)  A year or so after I first saw those bikes, the suspension mechanisms broke on some of them.  Once, during a ride on a trail upstate, I saw a guy lash the ends of his frame together so he could ride his suspensionless suspension bike back out to wherever he parked his car.

Later versions used elastomers.  They were shaped sort of like miniature tires, and performed one of the functions of a tire:  shock absorption.  The problem was that, in time, the elastomers either hardened or they collapsed like deflated tires.  In either case, they no longer absorbed shock.  They were replaceable, but not easily.  Plus, they were a proprietary part.  Thus, anyone who still has one of those bikes would need to find replacements on eBay or, as "Citizen Rider" did, improvise new parts.


I'm guessing that ProFlex bikes have been out of production for at least a few years now.   That would account for their relative rarity these days.  Plus, performance-oriented mountain bikes simply don't last as long as good road bikes because they get more wear and tear.  I know that because I  wore out more chains and sprockets, and broke more parts, in my first two years of off-road riding than I did in twenty years of road riding.


It will be interesting to see whether this bike develops "cult" status and collectors start buying them.  That brings me to another parallel with carbon-fiber bikes:  They date themselves, which means that they don't grow old gracefully.  A quality lugged steel road frame will always look and feel right, whether it was made in 1930 or 1960, or just last year.  The same can't be said for a full-suspension bike from 1990.  That means, I believe, that neither the Pro-Flex nor any other full-suspension bikes will become "classics" in the way some iconic road bikes have.

They Didn't Come As A Shock Then...

Writing recently about "path racers" and the mountain bike experiences of my youth got me to thinking of just what it means to be a "mountain" or "path" rider--and what makes bikes suitable for those kinds of riding.

I also got to thinking about how and when those kinds of riding came to be seen as distinctive from other kinds of riding, and how the terms to describe them came to be.

It seems to me that those kinds of cycling and bikes--as well as cyclo-cross and bicycle motocross (BMX) evolved as specialties within cycling because of paved roads. 

Think about it:  In the early days of cycling, there were few paved roads.  And the few paved roads had gravel, cobblestone or granite sett (a.k.a. Belgian Block) surfaces. Thus, most of the time, cyclists were riding under conditions that, today, we would equate with off-road or cyclo-cross--or what the Brits would call "rough stuff".

If you are a mountain or cyclo-cross rider, try to think of what your rides would be like with solid rubber tires--or no tires at all. In other words, think  of what it would be like to ride your favorite trail on bare wood or metal rims. That is, I believe, what normal riding conditions would have been like for most cyclists before the pneumatic tire was invented in the late 1880's.

And to think cyclists rode, not only without the cushioning of air-filled tires, but on front wheels that were almost as tall as the riders themselves!

So, really, it's not surprising that there were attempts to incorporate suspension into bicycles. 

This Blackledge bicycle, patented in 1890, uses a spring in the fork assembly to soften the blows from the rough roads of the day.  It seems that ever since the "safety" bicycle (two wheels of more or less equal size) was invented, attempts to incorporate suspension into bicycles began with the front fork.  For one thing, we feel road shock first at the front.  For another, shock to the front is more likely to upset our balance or momentum--and cause crashes-- than shock at the rear.

This Tillinghast bicycle, patented the following year, has another interesting front suspension system as well as a unique kickstand built into the pedals:

Still, attempts to soften the ride--and make the bike more stable on rough surfaces--weren't limited to tinkering with the front end.  Here is a drawing submitted by Fernand Clement for the suspension bike he patented in 1892:

Here is another early rear suspension system on a J.H. Mathews bicycle, patented in 1891:

Hmm...Wouldn't it be fun to envision Messrs. Blackledge, Tillinghast, Clement and Mathews showing up at Tamalpais a century after they created these bikes...but just before Rock Shox, Marzocchi, Manitou came along?

His Spirit of Innovation Wasn't Suspended

The other day, I wrote about some bicycle suspension systems that were patented nearly a century before Rock Shox or Girvin Flex Stems came bouncing down the trails.

It's not as if the idea of cushioning the ride and rider died with the fin de siecle Bike Boom.  Indeed, some of you rode balloon-tired Schwinn, Columbia, J.C. Higgins or other bikes with a big spring in front of your handlebars.  That spring was attached to a bars that were, in turn, attached to the front fork.  How much that actually absorbed shock, I don't know.  I have long thought that they--like the "banana" seat struts attached to shock absorbers on bikes like the Schwinn "Krates"--were really intended to enable kids' fantasies of riding a "chopper" on the flats of Daytona.

Around the time that boys (and, on occasion, girls) were tearing up and down driveways and cul-de-sacs, one of the few American adults riding at the time was thinking about real, functional suspension for bicycles.  Having been one of the first commercial pilots (for American Airlines), he no doubt saw the value in keeping his bike stable and upright (the real purpose for suspension on cars and motorcycles) in turbulent conditions.

If you've on any kind of organized bike ride for, say, the past half-century, you have heard his name.  More precisely, you have followed his directions.



Yes, there was a real, live Dan Henry behind the "Dan Henry arrows".  While he is best remembered for his system of road symbols, his most interesting contributions to cycling may well be in the ways he made his bikes more comfortable and stable.  



I remember reading about Dan Henry's bicycle in an issue of American Cycling, the magazine that became Bicycling!  As I recall, the bike was a Rene Herse or Alex Singer--or that of some other prestigious French builder.  He made the mechanisms himself from springs and bar stock he obtained in auto-repair shops.  Again, if memory serves, he said that this system allowed him to ride the lightest tubuar tires and rims under nearly all conditions without getting flats or dinging his rims.

(Interestingly, he would later convince Clement to make tubular tires with butyl tubes, which are more durable and retain air longer than the latex tubes commonly found in high-quality tubulars.)

Another part of his "suspension system", if you will, was something he made himself--from a pair of handlebars, a tandem "stoker" stem and some canvas webbing.  

It seems that every decade or so, someone re-invents this saddle.  When I first became a dedicated cyclist (around the time I found that copy of American Bicyclist in the local library), a similar saddle called the "Bummer" was advertised in Bicycling!  I think one of the magazine's editors test-rode it, probably unaware of his perch's provenance.  

Perhaps it's not surprising to know that Dan Henry was also one of the early proponents of recumbent bicycles, and that he designed and rode such a machine.  I guess he was one of the first cyclists to see that high performance and all-day comfort needn't be mutually exclusive--and, as an engineer and pilot, was one of the first modern cyclists to have the background and skills to realize such a vision.

He died nearly four years ago, just short of 99 years old, riding almost to the end.  I wonder what he thought of some of the suspension designs--especially for downhill bikes--that have come along.

Delizy & Poiret: Keeping Riders En Suspens

It seems that the moment the first bicycle--however you define it--was created, someone was looking for a way to insulate the bike, and rider, from shock.  When you look the Draisienne's wooden seat and the iron wheels of subsequent machines, you can understand why someone wanted to make them more comfortable to ride.  And if you know anything about the conditions of roads at that time, it's not hard (pun intended) to see the need for a shock absorber to make bicycles (and bicycle-like contraptions) more stable.

If we define "suspension" as anything that insulates ("suspends") the bike or rider from shock, one could argue that pneumatic tires, invented by John Boyd Dunlop in 1888, were the first form of suspension for two-wheelers.  In fact, one could even say that when, a decade earlier, John Boultbee Brooks stretched a piece of leather between two rails, he was the first to achieve the goals of every suspension system created since.

So, really, it's not such a surprise to see a suspension bicycle gracing an advertising poster early in the first worldwide Bike Boom:

I could find very little information about Delizy and Poiret.   All of it was in French--which, fortunately, I can read.

 Apparently, D et P started making bikes around 1890 and weren't in production for very long:  I saw an announcement for the dissolution of the company dated 17 July 1892.  Their bikes were made and sold at 22,rue Duret in Paris.  This factory and showroom stood  just off the Avenue de la Grande Armee, which streams into Place Charles de Gaulle Etoile (the location of the Arc de Triomphe) and was, until 15 or so years ago, lined with the boutiques of the major French (and a few foreign) bike makers.

All right.  You know that I find stuff like this interesting.  So do you:  Otherwise, why would you have read this post?  But you also know that writing this post was just an excuse to put another cool vintage bike ad on this blog!

Piercing Its Facade

This post will do something that, to my knowledge, few if any other pieces of writing have done:  mention an early bicycle suspension system and a French ladies' utility bicycle from the 1960s or 1970s.

That wasn't my original intention, but in the admittedly-cursory research I did, the two topics became entangled.

How did I start on this path (pun intended)? Well, a few days ago I saw this

parked around the corner from my apartment.

At first glance, it looks like any number of French ladies' utility/city bikes of its time:  The swept-down top lateral tubes lend it a grace most "beast" bikes don't have.   That detail distinguihes somewhat from the mixte bikes that made their way to the US during the 1970s Bike Boom.  Those bikes--like the Peugeot UO8 mixte--had straight twin lateral tubes.  As a result, bikes like the U08 had slightly tighter geometry than bikes like the one in this post, which gave them a somewhat sprightlier ride.

You can still find plenty of bikes like the one in my photos parked on Paris streets and all over France:  they were, and still are, for many French women what classic British three-speeds were for generations of women riding to work, the marketplace or the park in much of the Anglophone world.

But I knew, right away, something was odd about this bike.  One give-away was the "Belle de Paris" decal on the downtube:  I mean, if you saw that in a movie, you'd think it was a joke.  No French bike maker would have given such a name to a bike it planned to sell in France--or to anyone who knows anything about French bikes!

(I think now of the car Renault sold as "Le Car" in the US.  Even if you don't know or care about anything French, you just had to roll up your eyes on seeing that!)

Another odd thing about the bike is the brand name:  Pierce-Arrow.  As far as I know, there never was a French bike-maker by that name.  And then there's this:

Some of the Motobecanes imported early in the US Bike Boom had fork crown caps stamped with the telltale "M" emblem.  Also, some bikes made by Motobecane and sold under other names--like Astra--bore it.

And, of course, Motobecane made many bikes like this one:  Of all French manufacturers, it's likely that only Peugeot made more.  So, I surmised--correctly, my research would confirm--that I was looking at a Motobecane rebadged as "Pierce-Arrow".

So what of Pierce-Arrow?

Anyone who knows anything about the history of luxury automobiles knows the name.  Heck, even I knew about them!  Before World War II, they had a cache on par with the revered names of today like Rolls-Royce and Mercedes Benz.  And, like most other auto manufacturers of the time--and a few that survive today (think of Peugeot and Ford)--Pierce-Arrow was a bicycle-maker before it manufactured cars (and, in Pierce's and Peugeot's case, motorcycles).  And, in another interesting parallel with Peugeot, Pierce began as an industrial company that manufactured a variety of items (Yes, that peppermill was made by the same company that made the PX-10!) before venturing into wheeled goods.

George N. Pierce started his company in Buffalo, NY in 1872.  In 1890, at the dawn of the first "Bike Boom," Pierce produced its first bicycles.  They quickly developed a reputation for quality and elegance as well as elegance.  As per the latter, the company offered one of the early "ladies'" models of safety bicycle, with a graceful tube that swept down from the head tube.  

Seamless joint. From 1897 Pierce Bicycle catalogue.

As for technical innovations, they contributed two that would influence later bicycle develpment.  According to their 1897 catalogue, their frames had seamless joints achieved by "fittings inside one tube and shaped to fit snugly around the opposite tube."  This can be seen as a predecessor of both lugged and fillet-brazed joints:  the joining methods used to this day on most high-quality steel frames.  

Pierce Cushion Frame, 1901

The other?  One of the earliest frame suspension systems.  In 1898, their Cushion Frame line featured a shock absorber on the post connecting the rear axle to the seat pillar.  Hmm...I think I saw something like that on a few mountain bikes--in 1998, or thereabouts!

Anyway, Pierce continued to make bicycles until 1918, when the Emblem Manufacturing company in the nearby community of Angola acquired them.  Emblem continued to produce bicycles until 1940--ironically, two years after Pierce-Arrow Motor Car Company ceased to exist.

Now, from what I've gleaned, the company's bicycles were never called Pierce-Arrow.  That appelation was reserved for cars. Bicycles and motorcycles were always called "Pierce."  The Pierce-Arrow name, however, would be conflated with Pierce bicycles--possibly because of the arrow in Pierce's emblem.  In the years after the last Pierce bicycles were made, at least one distributor sold bicycles rebadged as "Pierce-Arrow."  To my knowledge, no bicycle manufacturer ever made a "Pierce Arrow" line of bikes:  That label was a creation of the distributor/importer, just as "Nishiki," "Azuki," "Centurion," "Shogun" and "Univega" were.  (Although those bikes were made in Japan, you can't buy one with any of those names in the Land of the Rising Sun.)  Apparently, the distributor was banking on the residual cache of the "Pierce Arrow" name.

Don't you just love the fender details?  I think Velo Orange's "Facette" fenders were inspired by these, or something like them.

So...whoever bought the bike I saw parked in my neighborhood may have thought he or she was getting some connection to a classic car.  Instead, he or she got something like what a madame would have pedaled to school, work, the market or to her relatives in the next village or arrondissement.  

A New Bike-Packer—Or A ‘90’s Mountain Bike?

Because I am in, ahem, midlife, I am old enough to have owned and ridden a mountain bike made around the time Rock Shox, Marzocchi, Manitou and a few other hitherto-unknown companies were bringing internally-sprung front forks to the general public.  A few bike-makers were developing frames with suspension in the rear triangle. But that feature, and suspension (what Brits called “telescoping”) front forks were still extra-cost options or modifications.

At that time, in the early-to-mid-1990s, mountain bike frames like my Jamis Dakota typically had 71 degree head angles, which are a bit more slack than road frames (73-74 degrees) but more aggressive than ‘80’s machines that, like the balloon-tired bikes from which they evolved—and many of today’s “hauler” and “rough stuff” bikes—had angles ranging from 69 all the way down to 66 degrees.

Bikes like my old Dakota, I believe, were attempts to inject some road-bike responsiveness into mountain bikes, some of which were, frankly, sluggish. But those bikes from three decades ago were comfortable and stable enough that they were often used for loaded touring (sometimes after switching the flat handlebars for dropped bars), as Trek and other bike-makers stopped making dedicated touring bikes around 1988.

Well, someone at the Dutch bike company Van Nicholas seems to have ridden—or simply recalls—one of those mountain bikes. Their new Nootau, billed as “the ultimate bike-packing machine,” is built around a titanium frame with a geometry nearly identical to a just-before-suspension off-road bike.

Of course, the Nootau’s componentry has almost nothing in common with what was in use around the time “Smells Like Teen Spirit” blasted across the airwaves. Like most of today’s new bikes, it has a threadless headset and stem, which were available but not standard.  But, unlike the cantilever brakes on vintage mountain bikes, disc brakes stop the Nootau.  Discs enjoyed brief popularity, mainly on tandems, during the late 1970s and have been revamped during the past few years.

Perhaps the most striking difference, however, between the Nootau’s equipment and that of vintage mountain bikes is in the drivetrain: the Nootau has no derailleurs. Instead, its single-sprocket crankset is mated to a Rohloff rear hub with 14 internal gears. (I’m trying to wrap my head around that: I’ve had Sturmey Archer and Shimano three- and five-soeed internally-geared hubs.

I may not have the opportunity to ride a Van Nicholas Nootau. I must say that I like its look—and relish the irony of how much its design resembles that of my old Jamis Dakota.

Curls, Splits And A Flying Gate

In the 1880s, J.K. Starley developed his "Rover" Safety Bicycle.  Nearly everything I've read about the history of cycling pins the Rover's importance to the fact that it had two equal-sized wheels and a chain-powered drivetrain.  This innovation was indeed an improvement, in many ways, over the "penny farthing" or "high-wheeler" bikes that had large front wheels (as much as 72 inches) with cranks and pedals attached to the axle, and a much smaller rear wheel.  The Rover was indeed safer to ride and its drivetrain allowed for variations in gearing, something that was not possible on the fixed drivetrain of the "penny farthing."

A later version of the "Rover" featured another innovation that isn't mentioned as frequently but might have been just as important.  Its frame had a configuration which we would now recognize as the "diamond".  Nearly all racing bikes, and most everyday bikes that weren't specifically designed for women (and even some that were) have incorporated this design feature.   Even bikes made with the most exotic materials owe their most important design feature to a bike that was made 130 years ago.

Even "mixte" and some "women's" bikes can be said to be variants, in one way or another, of the "diamond" frame.  In fact, one might even argue that "step through" frames are variants of the "diamond" because they are usually made like diamond frames without  a top bar (and, in some cases, with wider-diameter down- and seat-tubes to compensate).

Over the decades, there have been attempts to render the diamond frame lighter, stiffer, more efficient or, perhaps, just sexier.  Some seem to recur every generation or so. 

One of the more interesting variations was the Hetchins "curly stays" frame:

The late, great Sheldon Brown rode the Hetchins in the photo.  There was, believe it or not, a reason for those stays.  In the 1930s, races were often run over rough roads or even cobblestones.  Curved forks absorbed some of the shock in the front.  Straight rear stays, on the other hand, transmitted the road shocks, which caused the bike and even the rider to rattle and shake.  That, in turn, resulted in wasted motion. (Think about that the next time you hear "stiffer is better"!) 

So, the idea of curling the rear stays was so that they would replicate, on the rear, what curved forks did in front.  I guess there is something to that idea:  After all, mountain bikes with rear suspension can go faster because they're more stable on rough terrain. 

Whether or not curly stays offer an advantage to a loaded touring cyclist is debatable; there doesn't seem to be any advantage to them on the track.  Still, there were track bikes with curly stays and other unconventional designs because builders weren't allowed to "advertise" on their bikes.  Hence, decals, transfers and other markers bearing the builder's or manufacturer's name were not permitted.  So some builders--like Hetchins--called attention to their bikes with unusual designs.


Another variation on the diamond frame is the split seat tube that was a feature of bikes like the Rigi of the late 1970s and early 1980s:

As you can see, this design, by allowing the tire to run between the twin lateral seat tubes, shortens the bike's wheelbase, which makes for faster acceleration and greater rigidity.  I had the opportunity to try a Rigi and it did indeed feel stiffer in the rear and had more of a "jack rabbit" feel than other bikes I'd ridden.  The Rigi I tried was a road model; I can only imagine how a track model would have felt!

 

 

I found myself thinking about those bikes when I came across this: 

Baines Brothers of England made the "Flying Gate" frame from the early 1930's until the early 1950s.  Baines Brothers didn't actually call their frames "Flying Gate"; rather, it's a nickname the bike acquired because of its shape.

As with the Rigi, one justification for the design is that it shortened the wheelbase to 100cm (39.5 inches), which was all but unheard-of on a road bike at that time. 

Ironically, even though the frame was intended for road use, it seems to have track ends on it.  Maybe they had the same idea I had in mind when I built Tosca, my Mercian fixie:  a responsive fixed-gear bike that could be ridden on the road.  Perhaps whoever rode the bike set it up with a "flip flop" or double-sided hub, as was common on British "club bikes" of the time.

 

From what Hilary Stone says about these bikes, the model in the photos is probably a later one, as the earlier ones--like most bikes from the '30's--used relatively plain lugs. 

Trevor Jarvis acquired the rights to the design and produced a number of frames at his TJ Cycles shop in Burton-on-Trent during the late 1970s.  Though most were made for time trialing, his shop produced, interestingly, a touring model.  In a way, it makes sense, for one complaint many cyclists have about traditional touring bikes is that their long rear triangles and wheelbases cause them to handle like lumber wagons.  Of course, one problem with riding a short-wheelbase bike for loaded touring is that your heels get caught in the panniers and the vibration transferred through the stiffer rear triangle makes the bike less stable and tires the rider on rough surfaces.

According to Stone, riders generally appreciated the responsive ride offered by the "Flying Gate."  I would be curious to try one myself!

In Suspension, In The '90's

According to Justine's Law of Retrospectivity, you can't have nostalgia for a decade in the decade that immediately follows it.

So, for example, the mania for the Fifties had to wait until the early '70's--1973, to be exact--when American Graffiti showed up in theatres.

In the past year or so, I've seen '90's-themed concerts, dances and other events cropping up in local venues.  It's one thing to have a Lisa Loeb concert.  But, seriously, do you really want to see anyone do the macarena again?  For that matter, can you say the word "indie" without rolling up your eyes?

You've got to admit, though, there were some really good bikes and some really cool stuff being made for them.  I mean, a cyclist's life is not complete unless he or she has ridden something with elastomers in it.  And nothing will strengthen your legs more than detaching your foot from an Onza pedal on a sub-freezing day.

But my favorite '90's mountain bike part is one that I haven't seen in ages:  the Softride suspension stem.

Yes, believe it or not, there was a time when grown men and women actually believed that flexible stems were a better idea than telescopic forks.  They're certainly less expensive.  And, hey, if you get one today, you'll be the coolest kid on the block.

I hear that those stems are going to be made again.  In the old Murray bicycle factory.  By unionized American workers.

Pedals Worthy Of His Bike: He's Making Them

I first became serious about cycling as a teenager in the mid-1970s.  It seemed that every minute, I was learning about some brand of bicycle that wasn't Schwinn, Raleigh or Peugeot, and components--yes, I learned that most bicycles are made from components manufactured by other companies!  So, of course, I encountered all of the traditional European names like Weinmann, Mafac, Huret, Simplex--and, of course, Campagnolo.  Hey, Campy even made parts for high-performance race cars and NASA space vehicles!

Not long after, I would find out about Japanese makers of high-quality equipment like Sugino, Nitto and SunTour, whose derailleurs became my "go-to".  Nitto, Sugino and Campagnolo, of course, survive:  All except one of my Mercians is equipped with Nitto bars and/or stems, and Sugino cranksets.  Negrosa, my black 1973 Mercian Olympic, sports the same-year Campagnolo Nuovo Record gruppo (and Cinelli bars and stem) that came with it.

Sadly, the SunTour name lives only in mostly low-end suspension forks under the SR-SunTour brand.  Weinmann is a marque for mostly heavy and low-end rims made in China or Taiwan, and Mafac, Huret and other classic names are gone altogether.

Another name I encountered in my early cycling days is Chater-Lea.   By the time I learned about them, four decades ago, they were on the brink of extinction.  They would file for bankruptcy in 1987, and seemed to live on only in the memories of those of us old enough (in my case, just barely) to know about classic British bike parts.

Now, I have only seen a few Chater-Lea parts:  sturdy bottom brackets for those pencil-thin cottered cranks that found their way onto beautiful old English (and other) frames before cotterless chainsets (yes, that's what the English call them) took over the peloton and market--and, some beautifully-made pedals.  Their "rattrap" design was something like Lyotard's, but better, in materials, workmanship and aesthetics.

It seems, though, that Chater-Lea suffered the fate of Lyotard and other old-line bicycle component makers in the 1980s:  designs and market preferences changed, but companies like C-L and Lyotard didn't.  With the advent of mid-priced cotterless cranks and clipless pedals, the market for high-quality cottered bottom brackets and traditional cage or platform pedals all but disappeared.  In the meantime, companies that changed their designs and product lines, as often as not, shifted their production to low-wage countries. That is how nearly all of the British bicycle component (and a good part of the country's bicycle) industry, along with many of its counterparts in France and the rest of Europe, disappeared in the 1980s. 

Well, it seems that us old folks (OK! OK!) aren't the only ones who remember Chater-Lea.  Andy Richman, a Brit who lived and worked in Washington, DC, for a number of years, has returned to his native country to  resurrect the Chater-Lea name and oversee the design, manufacture and launch of its first product in more than three decades--and its first new product in more than half a century.  

Appropriately enough, it's a pedal.  But it's not any old crank appendage.  Even someone who's not a cycle enthusiast can see that it's made with better materials and more care--and purely and simply looks better--than your typical "rat trap", with all due respect to MKS (whose pedals I use).  The new Chater-Lea "Grand Tour" pedal is made from marine grade 316 and hardened 17-4PH stainless steel studded with polished brass rivets.  

Oh, and it's made in the UK--in Bristol, to be exact.  "This stuff needs to be made in the UK," says Richman.  It's "high-end, beautiful, artisanal," he explains.  "If jobs are going to come back to the UK, it's got to be for making this kind of stuff."

The new Chater-Lea Grand Tour pedal

Chater-Lea made "this kind of stuff" that was the class (along with BSA) of the bicycle component world.  Begun in 1890, it would branch out into motorcycle and car parts, and complete motorcycles and cars.  During World War II, it made parts for the Mosquito Fighter Bomber.  After the war, Chater-Lea returned to its bicycle roots and enjoyed prosperity during the 1950s but started to falter, along with many other companies in the British cycle industry, during the 1960s.  (Little did we know that all of those Raleigh and Dawes bikes we saw during the 1970s Bike Book were the shadows of companies that would "give up the ghost" a decade or two later!)  

Richman is himself a bike enthusiast who knew of the brand before his quest to revive it.  What motivated him, though, was a shopping trip in Brighton that took him to Condor, one of the premier bicycle shops in Britain.  There, he eyed a 1948 Condor frame and persuaded the shop's owner to sell it to him.  As Richman left the store, the owner remarked, "You do know there's really only one set of components worthy of going on this bike?  Chater-Lea."

Someone, I forget who, once said, "If I want to read a good book, I write one."  It seems that Richman knew that if he couldn't find "worthy" components, he'd have to make them.  And he's begun, with his Grand Tour pedal.