For The Woman Who Had (Almost) Everything In 1951

What I am about to say is not a boast; it's a fact.

I don't know anyone who owns or rides a mixte frame as nice as Vera, my Mercian.  And the only person I know who rides a full-on women's frame (in which the top tube is dropped even further than the twin parallel tubes on the mixte) is Coline, who sometimes comments on this blog.  And I know her women's bike is as good as Vera because a.) it's a Mercian and b.) I used to own it.  I sold it to Coline only because I prefer the style of the mixte. 

Truly high-quality mixte or women's bikes have long been relatively rare.  In France and other countries, stylish and utilitarian bikes that don't have the "diamond" ("men's") configuration are relatively common.  Some are very good, but rarely does one see such a bike with a frame constructed of Reynolds, Columbus or Vitus tubing, or with components that rise above mid-level (though they are, for the most part, at least serviceable).  Certainly, one almost never see mixte or women's bikes that rise to the level of the best diamond-frame racing or touring bikes.

Such bikes have always been even rarer in the US--and they were probably rarer yet in 1951, during what Sheldon Brown has called "the dark ages" of cycling in America.  Who would have made such a machine?

One answer:  Emil Wastyn--or his son, Oscar.  If that name rings a bell, you are: a.) my age or older; b.) know more about the history of cycling in the US than 99.99 percent of the population;  c.) are a Schwinn geek or, d.) are from Chicago.

The bike in the photos isn't a Schwinn, but it could have been.  Oscar Wastyn built it.  His father is the one who convinced Frank Schwinn that his company should build top-of-the-line racing and touring bikes at a time when enthusiasm for six-day races  (which basically kept racing alive in the US during the Great Depression) was waning and the world was on the brink of war.  Those high-end Schwinns, known as the Paramount line, were built by the Wastyns from the marque's inception in 1938 until 1955.


Until the 1960s or thereabouts, the Paramount was the only true high-performance racing or touring bike built in the US, save for the few that were made by a handful of regional builders (mainly for the small-but-active cycling scenes in places like New York, Chicago, Boston and, ironically, Detroit).  Certainly, the Paramount was the only high-quality US-built bike one could buy or order from a local dealer anywhere in the US.  

From what I can see in the photos, the workmanship on the frame is meticulous and in keeping with the style of the times.  I don't know which tubing was used to make it, but I suspect that it was either Accles and Pollock (used on the original Paramounts) or Reynolds, which Wastyn would use when Accles and Pollock stopped making bicycle tubing. 

Also in keeping with the period is the Sturmey Archer three-speed hub.  American cycling at the time was, not surprisingly, influenced by the British, who had yet to embrace the derailleur for their high-speed and long-distance machines.  And, of course, the fenders and chainguard would have been found on any bike, no matter how high its quality, that wasn't a dedicated racer.

As for other parts on the bike, they are typical of the period--save, perhaps, for the front hub and cranks, both of which are "Paramount", the same ones used on Wastyn's bikes bearing that name.  To my knowledge, Paramounts from that period are the only American bikes besides those made by the aforementioned small builders (such as Dick Power and George Omelenchuk) to use three-piece cottered cranks.  Cotterless cranks were still relatively new and expensive, and were still not seen as durable or reliable as their cottered counterparts.  The front hub looks much like Campagnolo and other racing hubs of its time.

I don't know who bought that bike for whom:  Few American adults, and even fewer American adult women, were riding bikes--let alone top-quality ones--in 1951.  Whoever bought it, though, had taste and whoever rode it did so in style.  

Tell Them Groucho Sent You

When I was a kid, we thought Rambler was a car old people drove.

Such a conclusion was based on the impeccable powers of observation children have:  Everyone we saw driving a car with the "R" was old enough to be one of our grandparents.  Also, everything about it just seemed like it was meant to be driven by someone who would have fit the demographic of Brezhnev's last Politburo.  The word for it--which I didn't know at the time, because it wasn't used in my blue-collar milieu--was stodgy.

Thus, when the brand died, one could, perhaps, have been forgiven for thinking that its demise came because all of its potential customers had gone to the Great Golf Course In The Sky.

I was just short of eleven years old at the time.  Not only had I seen what we would, in more politically correct times, call "senior citizens" driving Ramblers, I also noticed some cars--also, as often as not, driven by members of the same age group--bearing a brand that wasn't advertised on TV.

Several years earlier, that brand--named for the first known European to cross the Mississippi River--crossed the Rubicon, or the River Styx, or whatever body of water separates us from The End.  I am referring, of course, to De Soto.

Now, I don't recall the passing of De Soto--the car or the explorer (in spite of what some of my students might have you believe!).  The brand died around the time I was passing through a "terrible" age.  Aside from seeing  some of their cars--which, by the time of Rambler's end, were about a decade old--the only other reference I saw to the brand was in re-runs of You Bet Your Life.  The popular game show's host would urge viewers to go to their nearest De Soto dealers and tell them "Groucho sent you."   

Hmm...If you did utter that magic phrase, did you get a free duck on your dashboard?

Or, perhaps, if you bought one of their cars, you'd get this as a bonus:

I tried to find information on De Soto bicycles.  I don't know whether they were made by any company connected with the automobiles.   It wouldn't surprise me if they were, or at least if someone in the auto company had a hand in designing them.  After all, you can see some of the same "aerodynamic" features--which, on both the bike and the car, were probably more design flourishes than engineering innovations.  And, at the time of the ad (probably the 1950s), bicycle makers marketed their wares to appeal to the fantasies children--boys, mainly--had about the cars they would drive when they were of age.

From what little information I can find, I think I can safely assume that the De Soto bicycles of that time have no more relation to today's De Soto adult tricycles than the bikes today sold as "Motobecane", "Windsor", "Mercier" and "Dawes" have to the classic marques of the Bike Boom and earlier.  

Ou Sont Les Cyclistes Jeunes d'Antan?

Ou sont les neiges d'antan.

If you recognize that line, you've probably seen (or at least read) The Glass Menagerie.  As great an artist as he was, Tennessee Williams didn't write that line:  He took it from Ballade des dames du temps jadis (Ballad of the Ladies of Ancient Times), a poem Francois Villon wrote some four centuries earlier.

The line means "Where have the snows of yesteryear gone?"  Most of us, I believe, have asked some version or another of that question at least once in our lives:  perhaps when looking at an old photo album or yearbook, for instance.

Even if I have no connection to the subjects of an old image, I can't help but to wonder who they are and where they might be now.  

This photo was taken by John E. Scott and is dated 27 October 1954.  Posted on the website of the Alabama Department of Archives and History, it shows boys with bicycles they'd won in a contest which may have been sponsored by the Montgomery Examiner in Alabama.

Hmm...Not only do I wonder where those boys are, I wonder whether any of them are still riding today.  One can hope!

This Film Is Rated "T" (For Tweed)

Knickers.  Breeches. Knee socks.  Cardigans.  Blazers.  Rounded collars.  Pleated shorts.  Tweed! 

If you think that sounds like a sartorial portrait of a bunch of English men and women going on a bicycle tour in the country side circa 1955, well, your instincts are spot-on.  Those folks are indeed on their way to a jolly spin along the lanes that traverse  the moors and heaths, and front the castles and barns, in and around Rugby.

Apparently, the cycle-touring culture of London was still strong enough in the 1950s that British Transport commissioned a short film I've embedded here.  It chronicles a "Cyclists' Special" rail excursion from London to Rugby arranged by British Rail and the venerable Cyclists' Touring Club (C.T.C.)

It's interesting to hear discussions of "bonking" and the costliness of  good touring bikes with the then-newfangled ten-speed derailleur gears.  British cyclists only began to embrace derailleurs during the 1950's; until then, most cycle-tourists rode some version or another of Sturmey Archer's internally-geared hubs, even on frames custom-built from Reynolds 531 tubing.

I also love seeing those old wooden rail cars with rubber hooks for bicycles and the cafeteria car.  And tweed!  And some of those men are actually wearing ties.  Oh, my!

 

Cyclists Special, a short film about cycle touring in the UK, 1955 from Morgan Fletcher on Vimeo.

Comic Bikes

Geeky as I was, I was never much of a comic book fan, though many of my junior-high and high-school peers were.  However, they missed--by a decade or less--what many consider to be the "golden age" of animated magazines.

That period, it seems, began during the 1930's and continued until the early or mid 1960's. (Interestingly, that period is sometimes referred to as "the Golden Age of Radio".) Kids--boys, mostly--spent their allowance or money made from delivering newspapers or selling lemonade on cartoon-filled booklets that parents, teachers and other authority figures hoped the kids would "grow out of" in a hurry.

Around the same time, many a young lad saved his money for something that was much more socially acceptable--and which he "grew out of", usually without any prodding from said authority figures.

The thing typically lured a boy away from that second obsession was driver's permit.  As soon as he got it, the object of his former obsession was passed onto a younger sibling, tossed in the trash or left to rust in a basement or barn.

That object is, of course, a bicycle.  And many a boy's dream--at least here in the US--was a two-wheeler from Schwinn, which was sometimes referred to as "the Cadillac of bicycles." 

Not surprisingly, during the "golden age" of comic books, Schwinn very effectively used that medium to promote their products.  (They also used such publications as Boys' Life magazine, which every Boy Scout received.)  Not surprisingly, those magazines and comic books carried advertisements from the Chicago cycle colossus.  But more than a few had "product placements" not unlike the ones seen in movies or TV shows:  You know, where you can see--if only for a second--the Schwinn badge on the bike some character is riding.

 

Given everything I've just said, it shouldn't come as a shock to learn, as I recently did, that Schwinn issued its own comic book in 1949: the very middle of the Golden Age of comics.    Schwinn touted them as "educational", which indeed they were:  Included were segments about safe riding, locking up the bike and Alfred Letourner's speed record--accomplished, naturally, on an early Schwinn Paramount. 

Including Alfred Letourner's ride (and the bike he rode) exemplifies what I have long known about most "educational" publications:  They are teaching the consumer to buy a specific product, or to influence said consumer's parents to buy it for him or her.  And, indeed, most of what was in Schwinn's comic book--even the parts that showed the development of the bicycle during the century or so before Ignaz Schwinn started making bikes--had the purpose of showing that Schwinn bikes were at the top or end (depending on your metaphor of choice) of the evolutionary chain, in much the same way that the "history" we're taught as kids is meant to show us that all historical events were props that help to set the stage for our country's greatness--or, at least, the dominance of the group of people to whom the writers of the history belong. 

 

Still, I have to admit, I had fun looking at the Schwinn comic book.  Sure, it's schlocky, but it does offer a window into the almost-adolescent exuberance of the United States just after World War II.

Shifting Gears--Literally

When I first became a dedicated cyclist--around the time that the '70's North American Bike Boom was peaking--all derailleur-equipped bicycles had gear clusters (freewheels) that screwed onto the rear hub.  

Cinelli Bivalent Hub, circa 1961

That is, all of the derailleur-equipped bicycles I saw.  I'd read and heard about the Cinelli Bivalent hub, which was produced for a few years during the 1960's.  Other than that, I believed, there was only one sprocket system for derailleur-equipped bike, and your only concern was whether the hub had British, French or Italian freewheel threads. 

And, as far as I knew, the first departures--apart from the Bivalent--from such a system came around 1980, when Maillard introduced its Helicomatic system and Shimano came out with what was then called the Freehub.

Shimano 600 Freehub system, circa 1981

Shimano's system was essentially the same any of today's hub-and-cassette systems, save for those of Campagnolo, which have a different spline pattern.  The only major difference between those early Freehubs and today's Shimano and SRAM ensembles is that the on old Freehubs, which had six cogs, five cogs slid onto splines and the smallest one screwed on, acting as the lockring.  On current hubs, all of the cogs are joined as a cassette that mounts on the splines and is held in place by a separate lockring.

Helicomatic.  From a 1984 Peugeot brochure

When I first saw the Helicomatic, I actually thought it was a better idea than the Freehub.  I still do, and I think it's a better concept than any of today's hubs with cassette bodies.  The problem with the Helicomatic--as with another "revolutionary" French component of the time, the Huret Duopar derailleur--is that while it was a great concept, it wasn't well-executed.  Maillard offered lower- and higher- priced models of Helicomatic, and they suffered from the same problems:  soft helical spines (the "bayonet" mount) that often gouged or stripped, rather weak axles that frequently broke and, on the racing model, smaller-than-normal ball bearings that caused the cones and races to wear quickly and, in a few cases, "explode."

But the Bivalent, Helicomatic and Freehub were not the first systems to depart from the screw-on freewheel cluster.  Just recently, I became aware of another, which also employed its own unique rear derailleur.

In the early 1930s, Alex Shuttleworth and William Hill paptented the TriVelox system.  It had three rear cogs--which was all most derailleurs of the time could handle.  It also used a 1/8" pitch chain,  in contrast to today's 3/32" derailleur chains.  

But most improtant of all, the TriVelox derailleur--unlike those of today--shifted gears by moving the sprockets rather than the chain.  Apparently, the sprockets were fitted onto splines, much like the Helicomatic or Freehub cassettes. And the derailleur remained fixed while the freewheel block moved sideways on the hub.

Why was such a system developed?  It was a response to, as Michael Sweatman of Disraeligears says so eloquently, "a peculiarly British fixation with chainline".  British cyclists, by and large, shunned derailleurs--as they would until the 1950s--because using them meant running the chain out of line on the extreme gears (small chainring with smallest rear cog or large chainring with largest rear cog).

As Sweatman tells us, they had a point.  Roller chains are meant to run in a straight line.  Thus, while riders in Albion had an exaggerated fear of the friction incurred by running a chain out of line, they were correct in believing that chains wear out more quickly when they're run out of line, let alone bent and flexed when shifted on conventional derailleurs.

Bicyclists of that time had good reason to think about longevity:  Chains were comparatively much more expensive than they are now.  That is why people were more fastidious about keeping their chains cleaned and lubed--and why many bikes came with oil-bath chain cases, something that couldn't be used with a derailleur.

The TriVelox system did what its creators intended.  Walter Greaves rode such a system for 45,000 miles (!) in one year and used only two chains and two sets of sprockets.  In other words, his chains lasted about ten or fifteen times as long as a chain made for a current 10- or 11-cog system.

TriVelox seems to have been in production for about two decades.  It was never a mass-market item, but it had its following, particularly with tandem riders.  One reason why it didn't become more popular is that it was much heavier than conventional derailleur/freewheel/hub combinations.  Another is that the system required a very wide rear axle to accomodate the sliding freewheel system. That, of course, limited its development to three speeds because additional cogs would have required an even bigger axle.

But most important of all, by the 1950s, most dedicated cyclists were realizing that derailleur systems were reliable and practical, and would allow for more than three cogs without widening hubs or axles.

I came across a TriVelox set on eBay.  I'd be very curious to see it--and other predecessors of today's cassette-and-hub systems--up close.