In the middle of the journey of my life, I am--as always--a woman on a bike. Although I do not know where this road will lead, the way is not lost, for I have arrived here. And I am on my bicycle, again.
I am Justine Valinotti.
Showing posts with label 1970s Bike Boom. Show all posts
Showing posts with label 1970s Bike Boom. Show all posts
She's about my age, give or take a couple of years, but hasn't had a bike since she was a teenager. Seeing other people (including yours truly) astride two wheels "made me think: what fun! what a great way to get around!"
The search wasn't easy, though. Of course, I had to think about what kind of bike would ease her back into riding and fit her well.
I think one of those goals was accomplished with a folding bike. Whether we met the other goal, though, is debatable: It's not a Brompton or other high-end folder, so I'm not sure it fits anybody well.
But, as you surely know, the pandemic has induced a bicycle shortage even more acute, I think, than the ones that marked the 1970s Bike Boom. So people like my friend are taking whatever they can get:
Had I been anywhere near Washington, DC yesterday, I would have taken a ride on the Marvin Gaye Trail.
Would there have been a better way to celebrate his album, "What's Going On" on the 50th anniversary of its release?
The title song, and other tracks, were time capsules of the mood of the time--and among its most innovative works.
Those songs were written from the point of view of a Vietnam War veteran. It's hard not to think that he could have written it, almost verbatim, from the consciousness of someone returning from Iraq or Afghanistan.
So much was going on then, as now. The Summer of Love and Woodstock expressed hope that the world could change for the better; Marvin Gaye's song--as well as others released the same year (Think, of John Lennon's "Imagine," for example) said that things must change. They remind me, in a way, of W.H. Auden's September 1, 1939, in particular its penultimate stanza:
All I have is a voice
To undo the folded lie,
The romantic lie in the brain
Of the sensual man-in-the street
And the lie of Authority
Whose buildings grope the sky:
There is no such thing as the State
And no one exists alone;
Hunger allows no choice
To the citizen or the police;
We must love one another or die.
Interestingly, Marvin Gaye's album saw the light of day just as the North American Bike Boom was gathering steam. Although many people purchased bikes they rode once or twice, more than a few were motivated to buy and ride by the knowledge that an economy and society in which people drive cars everywhere and burn fossil fuels to do everything else was not sustainable: The inevitable results would be environmental degradation (Now we know environmental destruction is an all-too-real possiblity!), inequality and all manner of other injustices--and war.
What's going on now? What would Marvin Gaye make of it? Would he take a ride on the trail named for him?
The past year was difficult for many of us, for all sorts of reasons. I have no idea of what this year will bring--well, all right, I think the first few months, at least, will be difficult as the COVID-19 pandemic rages. However and whenever the pandemic ebbs, all we can do is to move forward.
That is what we, as cyclists, know how to do. Even--actually, I would say "especially"-- those of us who like vintage or "retro" bikes are forward-looking: We are riding toward a landscape free of the encumbrances of fossil fuels, social and economic hiérarchies and the tyranny of companies that dictate what we can and can't use.
Pioneering female cyclists Violet Ward and Daisy Elliot, 1895. (Alice Austen, collection of Historic Richmond Town.)
One thing I can't help but to notice is that social progress--which is to say, equal access to dignity--comes as more women and girls ride bicycles. (Why do you think I underwent a gender transition? ;-)) Think of the bike booms of the 1890s and 1970s: Those are, perhaps not coincidentally, when the first and second waves of feminism washed over American society. I would like to think that we are in another boom and that it will result, current setbacks notwithstanding, long-term gains for women.
Women cycling in Davis, California, 1967
If nothing else, if we see more women (and people of all other gender identities) on bikes in 2021, things have to get better. I hope so.
For as long as there have been bicycles, there have been bike thieves. That's my guess, anyway.
I also reckon that bicycle thefts increase along with the popularity of cycling. As I've mentioned in other posts, I became a dedicated cyclist as a teenager, late in the North American Bike Boom of the 1970s. Until that time, there didn't seem to be much bike theft and the loss of a bicycle was seen like losing a toy, mainly because almost all bikes at that time were ridden by kids.
During the "boom", for the first time in about half a century, significant numbers of American adults were riding bicycles. While most pedaled for recreation or fitness, a few rode to work. That, I believe, the reason why bike theft was taken more seriously.
That is, by everyone except the police. If you were to report your stolen bike, you'd be told, explicitly or implicitly, that you wouldn't see it again. They had bigger fish to fry; never mind that the person might have been using the bike to put food on his or her table.
History repeats itself, plus ca change, or whatever how you want to say it. Bike sales have surged. So have bike thefts. Worse, methods that haven't been seen since the "bad old days" of high crime have made a comeback. There are reports of bikes lifted, along with the railings to which they were locked, from the insides of buildings. And, in the Bronx, eight men attacked a 15-year-old boy and took the bike he was riding.
Stealing the bike may not have been the ultimate goal in that attack, though the bike was a worthwhile "haul" for the perps. Some of the other thefts may have been "fenced" for quick cash. But, according to reports, some of bikes may have been stolen because of the current shortage, caused by a spike in demand combined with a disruption of supply chains.
Each of those events motivated thousands of people to commute by bicycle. Only the 2005 stoppage, however, seems to have resulted in significant numbers of permanent or even long-term bicycle commuters.
Commuters on the Queensborough (59th Street) Bridge during the 1980 NYC Transit strike. Photo by Fred R. Conrad for the New York Times.
The 1970s Oil Embargo affected the entire United States as well as other countries. Some of those who turned to pedaling two wheels had been driving four wheels and, once gasoline supplies returned and prices leveled off, returned to their cars.
To be fair, many of those temporary bike commuters depended on their automobiles because they lived and worked in areas where mass transit was scant or non-existent. On the other hand, most situational cyclists returned to their old commuting routines, whether by subway or bus, once the 1966 and 1980 strikes ended. Some didn't care for riding in rain or cold; others just didn't care for cycling.
But those aren't the only reasons why those service disruptions didn't create many lifetime cyclists, if you will, in the way the 2005 strike did. In 1966, the North American Bike Boom was a few years on the horizon. New York City was one of the few places in the United States with significant (if still relatively small) numbers of adult cyclists; even so, most people still regarded bike riding as a kid's activity and bikes as toys.
By 1980, the Bike Boom was a few years in the rear-view mirror. Some people who bought Schwinns and Peugeots and Raleighs continued riding them, so even those whose feet never touched a pedal knew someone who rode to work or for pleasure. In other words, an adult who rode a bike wasn't as much of an anomaly in New York, or much of the US, as it was a decade and a half earlier. Never underestimate self-consciousness as a factor in someone's choice to ride--or not.
Someone riding to work in a dress or a suit was even less of an aberration in 2005 than he or she would have been a quarter-century earlier. That, I believe, is a reason why fewer of them returned to buses and trains than their earlier counterparts did. In general, the public was more conscious of cycling and cyclists. It was around that time that the first traces of a cycling infrastructure, such as it is, started to take shape in the Big Apple. So, some who might have been uneasy about spinning through traffic felt, with or without justification, safer in riding the newly-constructed bike lanes--and more confident about parking their bikes in the dedicated racks that began to appear on city streets.
Even so, the health benefits (mental as well as physical) they derived from cycling to work weren't enough to keep some people from reverting to their old commuting habits. I would bet some gave up on bike commuting when they got a flat or had some other malfunction en route and couldn't fix it. Or they tried to use a bike that hadn't been ridden in years only to discover, well, why it hadn't been ridden in years.
Some French officials seem to understand as much. They also want to enforce social-distancing mandates that will remain in effect once the country's lockdown (one of the strictest in the world) is lifted on the 11th. However you define "social distancing," it's impossible on a half-full metro car, let alone one that's packed with rush-hour commuters. Thus, the French government wants to encourage people to continue (or start) cycling, rather than taking mass transportation.
The result is a program--"Coup de Pouce Velo" (Bike Boost)-- that includes, among other things, up to 50 Euros (about $55 at current exchange rates) cyclists can use toward repairs, or on helmets, lights or other safety accessories, at partner bike shops. Also included in CPV will be funds for temporary bike parking (new permanent facilities are in the works) as well as educational sessions with program-affiliated schools and coaches.
In announcing the program, French Environment Minister Elisabeth Borne tweeted, "Nous voulons que cette periode fasse franchir une etape dans la culture velo, et la bicyclette soit la petite reine du deconfinement." We want this time, she said, to mark a step forward in bicycle culture, and for the bicycle to be the queen of de-confinement."
The "queen of deconfinement". (All nouns in French are masculine or feminine; the bicycle, whether it's called "velo" or "bicyclette," is feminine.) I think Ms. Borne understands something else about cycling: It's freedom for so many of us!
You can really date yourself if you had a pair of these
or even remember them. I'll just say that I recall them from the time I was in 8th grade, which is about when I got my first ten-speed bike. It's kind of funny to realize now that bell-bottoms in any fashion became so popular right around the time people like me, young and old, were getting our first bikes without full chain guards! Of course, fads are not always synchronous. (Bikes are still around, but ten-speeds now refer to cassettes, not bicycles!) I have been cycling almost continuously since those days, but I can't remember the last time I wore a pair of bell bottoms. The new pairing these days seems to be beer and bikes. At least, that's the case with hipsters and milennials--though enjoying a brew after a spin is a custom as old as, well, two wheels. So, it makes sense that two companies extremely popular with the demographic I've mentioned are teaming up to create a special edition:
I rather like the bike but I must say that I don't want to pay for something that's a vehicle to advertise someone else's products. Still, the New Belgium Brewing graphics on the Brooklyn Bicycle Company machine isn't as blaring or glaring as the "billboard" graphics on bike jerseys worn by wannabe racers.
Why don't I want to spend five figures (even if I could afford to) on a carbon fiber bike? I'll give you the same answer that many other longtime bicycle enthusiasts would give: It's plastic! All right, I know it's not as simple as that. Carbon fiber tubing consists of carbon strands molded together with resin, i.e., plastic. As such, it's stronger than plastic alone, though I still have to wonder just how much use--or abuse--a CF frame can take. Also, I came into cycling when it was touted as environmentally conscious and friendly. Making carbon fiber is certainly neither: Like all plastics, it's made from fossil fuels. And, if crashed or otherwise broken, it will sit in landfills longer than a trashed steel or even aluminum frame will. To be fair, though, CF is an advancement over regular plastic. That (at least to my knowledge) no one has tried to make a plastic bike in at least three decades is testament to that fact. My becoming a dedicated cyclist more or less coincided with the '70's North American Bike Boom. That is when large numbers of Americans discovered bikes with derailleurs. Even the cheapest and heaviest of them were lighter than the balloon-tired bombers or even the three-speed "English racers" most people had grown up with. Those ten-speeds not only showed Americans that there were lighter bikes than the ones they rode when they were kids; they also gave people (some, anyway) that bikes could be lighter. Also, I think that racers of that time started to obsess about weight in ways their predecessors didn't because they felt that they couldn't refine (at least for the purposes of cycling) their bodies much further than they already had. This was also at a time before "scientific" training became the norm: At that time, most racers were still following regimens that their grandfathers followed. As an example, on the morning he set the new hour record in 1972, Eddy Mercx's consisted of ham, cheese and toast. No racer would consume such a pre-ride meal today. Nor would he or she smoke: a practice that was common among earlier generations of riders because it was said to expand the lungs. So, in the early-to-mid-1970s, the general cycling public and elite racers shared a passion that at times bordered on fanaticism about light weight. That is when "drillium" became popular, and Huret produced its "Jubilee" derailleur, which is likely still the lightest production derailleur ever made. That fanaticism is one factor that led to attempts to make all-plastic bicycles. Another factor was, I'm sure, cost. But lightness and durability would be the selling points of a plastic bicycle. At least, that's how people who designed them sold their idea to investors. I recall one such attempt. I never actually saw one of the bicycles, but I saw the ads in Bicycling! and Popular Science magazines. Everything--with the exception of the chain, hubs and spokes--on bikes made by "The Original Plastic Bike Inc." was said to be made of injection-molded Lexan. Not many of them were produced, and no one knows whether anyone bought any of them. A few people bought a later attempt at a plastic bicycle--but not nearly as many as such bikes were produced. Those bikes were sold, unassembled, in boxes, with tools and instructions for assembly. Still, some of the people who bought those bikes never got them running, either because they got frustrated or because some of the necessary parts weren't included. If those bikes sound like home furnishings from a well-known chain, there's a good reason: Those bikes were sold by Ikea in the early 1980s, when the chain was still all but unknown outside of Northern Europe. In one of its most egregious failures, the company was stuck with thousands of bikes that didn't sell. Worse yet, a high percentage of the ones that did sell were returned because parts (or even frames) broke and replacement parts weren't available: almost nothing on metal bikes was compatible with the Itera, as the plastic bike was called.
Itera bicycle, circa 1981
In another irony, another iconic Swedish firm was involved with the Itera. Volvo wasn't looking to become a bike manufacturer. But it was interested in making mini-cars, and was looking for ways to make parts smaller and lighter. Designers and engineers at the company came to the conclusion that their best hope was with plastic. So, somebody at Volvo decided that it would be best to make other products out of plastics to test their durability. One of those products was the bicycle that became the Itera.
Itera racing model. An Ofmega "Maglia Rosa" rear derailleur would be just perfect on this bike, don't you think?
In yet another twist to this story, most of the unsold Iteras that piled up in Ikea warehouses went to the Caribbean, where rust is a problem. That makes for a further irony, in that Volvo is known in the region less for its cars than its boats and marine engines. But perhaps the most ironic part of this whole story is that Volvo was, to a large degree, responsible for one of the most brittle and fragile bikes ever made. Nearly everyone I've met who has owned or even just driven a Volvo car or truck touts its durability and reliability. Probably none of them ever bought or rode an Itera. I wonder, though, whether they ever managed to assemble anything they bought in Ikea. But, if they're curious, they can check out eBay: Believe it or not, I just saw an Itera listed!
Yesterday, I mentioned Vista bicycles. If you became a cyclist around the time I did--or were in junior high or high school when I was--in the US, you probably saw a lot of them, if you didn't have one yourself.
Vista Esquire, circa 1972
I got my Schwinn Continental just as the '70's Bike Boom was building up steam. At that time, shops routinely ran out of Schwinns, Peugeots and Raleighs, which were the most popular brands in bike shops. I had to wait three months for my Continental, which was not unusual. But not everybody was willing to wait for one of those brands, and dealers knew that such customers would buy pretty much any ten-speed that resembled, even in the most superficial ways, bikes from those companies.
Head badge from early Vista bicycle.
Some accused Schwinn of suppressing production in order to create such a demand and, consequently, drive up prices. Truth was, they, like most other bike manufacturers, simply couldn't keep up with the demand: US Bicycle sales doubled from 1970 to 1972. Even the boatloads of bikes that arrived daily from Europe and Asia weren't enough to satisfy consumers.
Schwinn Collegiate, circa 1972
Schwinn, however, did something else that made their bikes--and, by extension, other ten-speeds--more difficult to find, especially in rural areas. On the eve of the Bike Boom, in the 1960s, Schwinn tried to eliminate from its dealer networks the small-town stores that sold tractors, feed and fertilizer, hardware, guns, cars or whatever else alongside Schwinn bicycles. (Some kept only a couple of bikes in the store and if the customer wanted another model or color, or needed a different size, the shop ordered it.) The company wanted their bikes sold in showrooms devoted to their bikes and that stocked a sizeable number of Schwinn bikes and accessories. Jake's Feed and Seed or Rick's Rifles couldn't or wouldn't make the investment in showrooms and inventory and were thus shut out of what would become a lucrative enterprise.
Vista Esquire, circa 1971
In response, a group of manufacturers and suppliers formed the National Independent Dealers Association and put together a line of bikes. It's long been rumored that one of those manufacturers was Columbia bicycles of Westfield, Massachusetts: Early Vista bicycles, for all of their attempts to look like Schwinns, had the style of everything from welding to graphics seen on the Columbia bicycles found in department stores. I knew more than a few kids--and a few adults--who rode them when they couldn't get Schwinns. Vistas sold for about 20 percent less and were lighter than the Schwinn models they were designed to compete with. From my limited experience with them, they clattered in that same clunky way as department store bikes like Columbia and Murray. The early Vistas had the same components as Columbias of the time: Huret Allvit derailleurs and steel one-piece cranks-- which were also found on Schwinns-- and cheap sidepull brakes. Around 1972 or 1973, however, Vista began to equip their "Cavalier" and "Esquire" with their own brand of derailleur. At least, that's what a lot of people thought.
Made-in-Japan Vista 15 speed bike with 64 cm(!) frame, circa 1975
In-the-know cyclists, however, soon realized that Vista had simply rebadged the SunTour GT rear and Spirt front derailleurs, and the ratcheted "power" shift levers bolted onto the handlebar stem. Folks like me who had the chance to ride those Esquires and Cavaliers simply couldn't believe how much easier, and more accurately, their gears shifted than the ones on our Continentals and Varsities--or even on some of the more expensive European racing bikes.
Made-in-Japan Vista Elite with Shimano 600 components, circa 1978
That move probably did as much as anything to popularize the Vista brand and to keep sales even after the Bike Boom died down. Some time around 1975 or so, Vista began to offer a line of "professional" bikes made for them in Japan. Those bikes resembled the mid-level ten (and later twelve) speed bikes from Takara, Azuki and other Japanese marques, with their lugged frames made out of high-tensile (and, in a few cases, straight-gauge chrome-moly) steel tubing outfitted with components from SunTour, Shimano, Sakae Ringyo,Takagi and other well-known manufacturers from the Land of the Rising Sun. By the early '80's, Vista was even offering an "aero" model with flattened chrome-moly frame tubes, early "deep V" rims from Araya and Shimano's 600 EX "aero" components.
Head badge from Japanese-made Vista
Those Japanese-made Vistas were good, but mostly indistinguishable from other bikes from the by-then-more-familiar Japanese brands. Thus, thirteen- and fourteen-year-olds who bought American-made Vistas weren't, if they were still riding, buying Japanese-made Vistas when they went to college and beyond. Instead, they purchased ten- (or, by that time, twelve-) speeds from such iconic brands of the 1970s and '80s as Fuji, Miyata, Motobecane and Raleigh. The Vista brand seems to have disappeared some time around 1984 or 1985--a couple of years after those "aero" bikes came out. By that time, Schwinn was making a series of missteps that would cost much of the market share it once enjoyed. (As an example, the company's management acted as if mountain bikes were just a passing fad at a time when other manufacturers were making their mark in that discipline.) And the quality of other American mass-produced bikes (with a few exceptions like Trek), which wasn't very good to begin with, fell off precipitously and, within a few years, nearly all production shifted offshore.
This has to be one of the best catalogue illustrations in history:
It appeared on the back cover of the 1971 Fuji Bicycle catalogue. That year, Fuji--and Japanese bicycles--"came out", if you will, in the American market.
Although Japanese cameras and electronics were developing a good reputation in the 1960s, their bikes were still seen as inferior to those from Europe and America. That perception was mostly deserved: While many Japanese bikes and parts from that era were built to close tolerances and beautifully finished, the alloys (whether aluminum or steel) used to make them weren't as strong as those from other major bike-building countries. Also, as Sheldon Brown points out, many bikes--like the Royce-Unions from that era--came in only one size.
By the 1960s, the quality of Japanese bikes was improving. However, they were still mostly "under the radar", often sold under the names of familiar American and European manufacturers (like the Ross I wrote about yesterday)--or simply names that didn't sound Japanese.
The market for bicycles--for adults as well as children-- was growing, although not as explosively as it would during the '70's Bike Boom. Still, even then, American manufacturers were having difficulty keeping up with the demand. Three-speed "English Racers" and the few (mostly lower-end) European derailleur-equipped bicycles available in the US at the time often sold out because, althought they seem like tanks today, they were considerably lighter than almost anything made in America.
Then, when the Bike Boom exploded, even the British and European manufacturers, working overtime, were hard put to keep up with the demand. (I recall waiting lists for Schwinns, Peugeots and Raleighs at local bike shops.) This, of course, is one of the reasons why some ten-speeds of that era had workmanship that made Detroit behemoths of that time seem like pinnacles of Bauhausian design and craftsmanship. I still shudder to think about some of the Raleigh Records and Grand Prixes, as well as low-level models from Atala, Gitane and other makers, I assembled and fixed when I was working in bike shops!
On the other side of the world, the Japanese were perfecting the quality control for which they would become famous in all industries. Plus, plenty of people cycle in Japan, and more than a few of them are engineers and designers. So, they came up with bikes and parts that, in many ways, were improvements upon (or, at least, departures from) typical European and American products of the time.
In the late '60's and early '70s, some nice Japanese bikes were being sold in the US under names concocted by marketing executives in the companies that imported them. They tried to sound un-Japanese: American Eagle, Centurion, Univega. You won't find bikes with those names in Japan.
Early Fuji S10-S, circa 1972
But in 1971, Fuji introduced its iconic S10-S model in the US. You may have owned or ridden one; perhaps you still have (or acquired) one. Reviewers raved about it, whether in the bicycle publications or Consumer Reports. It remains, to this day, one of the best thought-out bikes ever made: Its frame was built from double-butted high-tension steel, with clean brazing at the lugs. The geometry was a classic 73 degree by 73 degree, found on racing bikes of the time but entirely appropriate for light (or even medium-load) touring. It's no surprise, then, that S10-S and S12-S (its later 12-speed iteration) bikes have been raced, ridden on transcontinental tours, and used for just about every other kind of riding imaginable.
S-10S from 1978, its last year of production. A 12-speed version was, by then available: the S-12S
And its components were not fancy, but still very good and practical: Sun Tour V-GT derailleurs and shifters (Shimano on some of the early models), Sugino Maxy cranks, Dia Compe centerpull brakes, Nitto bars and stems and the very strong Ukai rims laced to Sunshine (Sanshin) hubs. Plus, there was that legendary Belt leather saddle, which took longer to break in than almost any other, but was seemingly indestructible. I've seen Belts fetch $200 on eBay!
Another early S10-S. I always liked that shade of green.
This bike was an almost immediate best-seller. For some riders, it was a "move up" bike: one purchased after racking up miles on a cheaper, heavier bike. Others bought it as their first "grown-up" bike. It also became one of the more popular mounts on the Bikecentennial.
One thing I find very interesting is that the bike was so successful in the American marketplace with an almost stereotypically Japanese name, albeit one most Americans could pronounce easily. It also seemed to make no effort to hide its Japanese-ness: The bikes were attractive, but seemed to make little effort to mimic their European counterparts.
Ironically, later Japanese bikes sold in the American market tried to sound even more Japanese than the Japanese, if you will. Bikes like Shogun and Lotus, while nice, were so named by marketing folks in the US. And, when some people took umbrage over a Japanese bicycle called "American Eagle", its name was changed to Nishiki in 1971--the same year the S10-S came out. Kawamura Bicycles in Japan--which, to my knowledge, has never sold bikes under its own name in the US-- made Nishiki as well as Azuki, a lower-priced (but still nice) line of bicycles. Howie Cohen, the importer of Nishiki and Azuki, explained that the names were chosen because they were definitely Japanese, but easy for Americans to pronounce, and could not be translated or used in offensive ways. Nishiki is a gold thread woven into wedding kimonos, while Azuki is a sweet bean native to Japan. To my knowledge,no bicycles have ever been sold under those names in Japan, although "Nishiki", like "Fuji", is a brand name for a wide variety of products in that country.
On the other hand, there are Fuji bicycles in the Land of the Rising Sun. Some models are different from those offered in the US and other places. The same could be said for Panasonic bikes (which, nice as they were, never sold very well in the US) and Miyata, known as Koga Miyata in Europe. Also, Bridgestone --probably the most un-Japanese-sounding of all--was successful in Japan before Grant Petersen turned it into a brand with a cult following in the US. It was probably far better-known as Bridgestone--both in Japan and the US--than it was with the under the more Japanese-sounding names of Kabuki (not bad, but very strange, bikes) and C.Itoh (pretty bad) under which it was marketed in the US before and during the Bike Boom.
So, by the 1980s, Japanese bike manufacturers had come "full circle", at least in one sense: They were flaunting, rather than hiding, their origins. In other words, they no longer had to "go stealth" in order to sell: The ride qualities and reliability of Japanese bikes and parts made them desirable, just as the quality of other Japanese goods (such as cars, cameras and electronics) made them preferable to their counterparts made in other countries. In brief,one could say that the Fuji S10-S did more than any other bike to show American cyclists that Japanese bikes and components were as good as--and, in some instances, superior to--what other countries were making. Japanese bikes became what you bought if you wanted something really good for your money, not what you bought because you couldn't afford "something better". After the S10-S came along, you could buy a Japanese bike--whether a Fuji, Nishiki, Miyata, Centurion or some other brand-- without shame.
They did, for quite a while--and some very nice ones, at that. Whether or not they still make bikes, I don't know. Perhaps they're sold other under names.
Actually, the company that prompted the question at the beginning of this post probably sold more bikes in the US under other companies' names than it did under its own. It's surprising, really, that it wasn't more successful in the US market for a couple of reasons. One is that it made very nice bikes that were reasonably priced, at least until the US dollar devalued. Another is that it made the types of bikes that were selling like crazy in the US when other companies made them, and the manufacturer I have in mind usually made them better! Also, this company's name is one that everybody knew: In fact, most people had (and probably have) at least one product it makes. And it has an excellent reputation for just about everything it's ever made.
Why, this company even sponsored a team in the Tour de France!
Officially, this company stopped selling its bicycles in the US after 1989, although it seems to have continued selling them in other countries for some time after that. It ceased its US operations because, like other bicycle manufacturers from its home country, it had trouble competing when the US dollar devalued against that country's currency. Unlike some other Japanese bike makers, it seems not to have shifted its manufacturing to a lower-wage country like Taiwan or, later, China or Singapore.
OK...So now you might realize that I'm talking about a Japanese bicycle manufacturer. You know it's not Fuji because they're still in the US market. And you know it's not Miyata because they're not known for other products (although they were a rifle manufacturer before they started making bicycles). Ditto for Nishiki and Centurion.
All right. I'll give you one more clue. This company still sells bicycle components, mainly tires, under two brand names that almost every cyclist knows. And their other products were mainly in an area in which the Japanese first gained a reputation for quality.
That area is electrical goods and electronics. Now the light bulb is starting to flash in your head! (Pun intended.) And the names under which those tires and other parts are sold are "Panaracer" and "National".
In fact, this company's tires have been sold under other names--including those of a few bike manufacturers as well as Avocet. And some are sold under the Specialized brand--as were some of this company's bikes.
By now, you might have figured out that the company in question is Panasonic. In addition to most of the Japanese-made Specialized bikes of the late '70's and '80's, Panasonic also made bicycles for Schwinn (LeTour, Voyageur and other models) and other bicycle companies. In fact, it made some of the nicest off-the-shelf touring bikes as well as racing bikes that could compete with some of the best from Europe.
Panasonic PT-3500 Touring. Great bike, but the paint and graphics practically scream "'80's"!
But it seems that in this country, people could see Panasonic only as the company that made their televisions or microwave ovens. It's a shame, really, because its bikes offered good performance and value. In addition to the touring bikes I've mentioned, Panasonic made bikes like the DX-2000, which could be best described as a better version of the "club racer" bike made by British and French manufacturers until the 1970s.
When it was first introduced in the late 1970s, the DX-2000 had a lugged and brazed frame made from double-butted high-tensile steel tubing. Later versions had frames made from double-butted Tange tubing (900 or one of the other heavier grades). All versions came with forged dropouts and had geometries similar to those of more-expensive racing bikes. Earlier club racers from Europe had similar geometry but were made from thinner-walled versions of lower-grade tubing in an attempt to make a light bike without using, say, Vitus (let alone Reynolds or Columbus) tubing. The DX-2000 was, therefore, almost as light as those European bikes even though it came with clincher tires (as opposed to the tubulars on its European counterparts). And, needless to say, the Shimano or SunTour derailleurs on the DX-2000 shifted better than the Simplex, Huret or low-end Campagnolo units typically found on other club racers.
1980 Panasonic DX-2000, with fenders added.
What that meant was that someone who wanted to ride fast could buy a DX-2000 for about $225 in the late '70's or a hundred dollars more during the '80's and get an idea of what a racing bike feels like. Then, if that person wanted to take up racing, he or she could buy a set of tubulars before committing to a more expensive bike. Some people bought DX-2000s and never looked back, rolling them out on club rides even as their riding buddies went for things "bigger and better".
Also, the DX-2000 may well have been the only production bicycle ever offered in the US in a 71cm frame (seat tube) size! To put that in perspective: I am 5"10" (177 cm) tall with a 32" (81cm) inseam and my Mercians are 55.5cm.
Phil Anderson racing with the Panasonic team, 1985
From the mid-1980s until the early 1990's, Panasonic co-sponsored racing teams in the Netherlands. Riders who sported the company's insignia on their jerseys achieved a number of notable victories, including stage wins in the Tour de France and Giro d'Italia as well as victories in a number of "classics" and regional races. Probably the most successful riders to race for Panasonic-sponsored teams were Phil Anderson, who finished fifth in the 1982 and 1985 Tours de France (and was the first non-European to wear the maillot jaune) and Erik Breukink, who finished second in the 1988 Giro d'Italia.
Panasonic riders, interestingly, never rode Panasonic bikes. It's been rumored that Panasonic sponsored teams in the hope of becoming as much of a presence in the European bicycle market as it has been in the European (and worldwide) electronics market. Even though Miyata has been successful there (under the name Koga-Miyata), Panasonic never attained similar status.
1987 Panasonic Team Time Trial
Today the Panasonic name continues to be familiar to millions of Americans who purchase just about anything that runs on electricity, from home appliances to computing equipment. But they still ask that same question I hear from time to time, "They make bicycles?"
P.S. Two of the shops in which I worked sold Panasonic bicycles. I assembled a number of them; I do not recall any other bike that was as easy to assemble!
I may not ever need their services. But if I do, I'll be sure to call them, just because of their name. I'm talking about an outfit called Cycling '74. Their home page describes them as "a full kit of creative tools for sound, graphics, music and interactivity in a visual environment." Hmm...It sounds like a few bicycle races I've been to.
Headquartered in San Francisco (where else?), Cycling '74 was founded in 1997 by David Zicarelli to serve as the distributor for his various collections of software.
According to the company's website, he took the name from a 1974 bicycle catalogue that contained many of the images used on the company's original website.
He could have done much worse: 1974 was an interesting year in cycling. It was probably the apex of the Bike Boom in America. Eddy Mercx won the last of his five Tour de France titles. The World Championships were held for the first time in North America--in Montreal, to be exact. And SunTour, Campagnolo and other component makers would make significant changes to their lineups.
Most important, I think, is that the iconic images of the Bike Boom--the bikes, the riders and the rides--seem to come from that year, or thereabouts. When people think of a "Bike Boom bike", images of that year's Fuji S-10S, Raleigh Grand Prix or Super Course, Motobecane Mirage and Schwinn LeTour, among others, come to mind.
The posts I wrote about Lyotard pedals and clipless pedal designs that have come and gone got me to thinking about a way in which the bicycle world has changed during my nearly four decades as a dedicated rider. I first started to take longer rides and made some commitment to training during the later part of the '70's Bike Boom. At that time, about the only bike makers (at least, those with any pretentions of quality) most Americans heard of were Schwinn and Raleigh. As big as those companies were, to call either of them the General Motors of cycling would have been preposterous: Schwinn's sales peaked at 1.5 million bikes in 1974, about the same number of cars from just one division of GM--Oldsmobile--that were sold in the same year. And, of course, the sale of a car generates a far more revenue than the sale of a bike. Other bicycle and component manufacturers--like Lyotard--were far smaller in scale. They usually made their products for local markets: Relatively few bike makers sold their wares much beyond the region, let alone the nation, in which they manufactured. Most, especially in Europe and Japan, were still owned and operated by members of the families that founded them. In fact, a few founders were still alive at that time. What that meant was that most Americans had never heard of them. Perhaps even more to the point, it meant that even though there was a wide network of races, tours and other bike-related events, they were much smaller in terms of both participation and money than today's events. So, it didn't take as much money to sponsor a team or rider as it does (both in absolute and relative terms) today. Small and medium-sized bike companies as well as businesses in other industries (think of Molteni) could get in on the action. It also meant that bike and component makers, like other small businesses, were risk-averse. What I didn't realize when I started riding was that the designs for most bikes and parts (one notable exception being SunTour derailleurs and shifters) available at that time were already decades old. Some actually worked well and were durable; if you used them, you learned to put up with their idiosyncracies or shortcomings. Then again, if you hadn't used anything else, you didn't think they were idiosyncracies and shortcomings. Most of the Lyotard pedals were examples of what I'm talking about. Now, I don't think they were deficient, but I don't think Lyotard had come out with a new pedal design since World War II, or not much later. Even the Campagnolo Nuovo/Super Record parts were really just refinements of the Gran Sport products that made their first appearance during the early 1950's. Around the mid-1980s, things started to change. It might be fair to say that the ground shifted with Tullio Campagnolo's death in 1983. His heirs discontinued the Nuovo and Super Record stuff Eddy Mercx, Bernard Hinault and others rode to victory. In their stead came C-Record (actually, Record-Corsa or Record-C) parts. Some, I'll admit, were quite lovely. But none of them was really a functional improvement over its predecessors; in fact, some parts, like the "Delta" brake, were clearly not as good. Other companies started to "innovate"--or, more precisely, create new novelties. Designs became--or, at least looked--more and more radical every year. To be fair, some new designs had legitimate purposes, at least for certain riders. But too much of what was coming on the market every year was mere gadgetry: stuff for the sorts of people who felt they simply had to have the newest and latest in everything. In other words, the world of cycling was shifting from one that was guided by cyclists and riding to one driven by consumers and the marketplace. That, in turn, turned the bike industry from a mosaic of relatively small companies to a pie cut into a few large slices by bigger companies. Smaller companies, which didn't have the money or other resources to devote to research and development (or, very often, didn't see the need for such things) simply couldn't compete. They, like SunTour and Lyotard, fell by the wayside or, like Sedis, Wolber and Super Champion, were absorbed by larger corporations, some of which had no previous involvement in the bicycle industry. Even Mavic was bought by Salomon, which in turn was taken over by Adidas. It could be argued that these turns of events enabled Mavic to develop the innovative (There's that word again!) rims and wheels that allowed it to retain its leading role in the 1990s and well into the 2000s. Part of the pressure to create new things (or simply repackage old ones) also came from the ways in which the world of cycling events was changing during the 1980's. By the time Greg LeMond won his first Tour de France, companies like Molteni (or mid-sized bicycle makers) were no longer sponsoring teams. Corporations with much larger budgets were taking that on, and race sponsors included the likes of Coca-Cola and Nike. Naturally, when companies put up money for riders and teams, they want a return on their investment. So, the stakes became higher. One benefit, at least for elite cyclists, was that the amount of prize money grew and the sport gained greater exposure outside of its traditional strongholds. A downside was that it became more difficult for teams and riders with little or no money to compete, and smaller races and rallies became even smaller or disappeared altogether.
So, while 90 percent of the 1970s peloton were riding Reynolds or Columbus-tubed frames with Campagnolo components--all of which had been developed decades earlier--riders by the late '80s were astride newly-developed (and far more expensive) bikes with never-before-seen frame configurations and aerodynamic components made from exotic materials. It's easy to understand why racing-team sponsors would want their riders on the newest and most innovative equipment. A race that takes hours or days but won by seconds (or fractions thereof) could well be decided by those extra few grams off the wheels or a frame or other part that's more aerodynamic. And, as in any professional sport, there is really not as much difference as one might expect between the best and the rest of the peloton as there is between anyone who's in the peloton and anyone who isn't. That point is lost on club riders with lots of money and vivid fantasies. They want to ride whatever's being ridden in the peloton. If they didn't have such equipment, they seem to believe, younger and better-conditioned riders will make them look like the out-of-shape and not-so-young riders they actually were. Of course, those young and poor riders either get better or get better equipment, and the riders with bigger wallets and stomachs (I should talk, right?) want "better" equipment. And so the world and industry went from being, essentially, a village of mom-and-pop enterprises that responded to cyclists' needs to an economy increasingly dominated by corporations that profit from anxieties they create in consumers.
