Some Of My Old Commuter/Beater Bikes

I am both delighted and amused that Bike Boom-era ten-speeds are en vogue, at least with certain (mostly young and urban) segments of the population. 

Go to Bushwick, Brooklyn or any other enclave of the young and self-consciously hip (and bohemian poor) and you’ll find flocks of vinage Fujis, packs of old Peugeots, ranks of stalwart Raleighs and gaggles of Gitanes and other classic names promenading through plazas or chained to railings.

One reason is, of course, that such bikes are—as long as they haven’t been crashed, submerged in a deluge or otherwise abused—as good now as they were then.  While nobody would try to race those bikes, most of which had mild steel frames and cottered cranks, they offer rides that are reasonably quick yet comfortable.  The frames geometry, while maligned by racers and other performance-oriented riders, make the bikes versatile in ways that few contemporary bikes are.  That is the reason why so many have been converted to single- and fixed-gear urban cruisers.

What that means, of course, is that such bikes sell—especially in New York and other urban areas—for far more than they did a few years ago.  Even so, it’s often less expensive to buy such a bike, convert it and add racks, baskets or whatever else one likes, than it is to buy a new “urban” or “Dutch” (really, some marketer’s idea of “Dutch”) bike.

However, I can recall a time when Bike-Boom era ten-speeds could be had for a song, or even less.  As I recall, that time commenced around the mid-‘80’s, when mountain bikes became the machines of choice for the few (at least here in the US) bicycle commuters and “ride around the park every other Sunday” cyclists of the time.  Most people who bought ten-speeds in the ‘70’s and early ‘80’s rode them only for a short time before relegating them to garages, basements, barns and other “out of sight, out of mind” sites.  Eventually, they’d be sold in garage or estate sales, or even given away.  Some people used them in trade-ins for mountain (or, later, hybrid) bikes, so old ten-speeds could be had for very little money even from bike shops.  

For years—about a decade and a half, in fact—I used such bikes for commuters and “beaters”.  When I could, I rode them “as is”—of course, after inflating the tires, lubing the chains and such.  Usually, I changed the saddle and one or two other parts, and added a rear rack and fenders if the bike didn’t already have them.  As parts (usually wheels) broke down or wore out, I replaced them, sometimes with parts I had on hand or friendly shops allowed me to scavenge.  My ability to build wheels came in handy, as I could get discontinued models of rims cheaply and re-use the hubs that came with the bike, or get inexpensive replacements.

From the mid-‘80’s to the mid-‘90’s, bike theft was (I believe) even more rampant than it is now.  That was a further incentive to use such bikes, as losing one wasn’t as much of a financial (or emotional) blow as losing one of my better bikes would have been.  On average, I would say that I would ride one of those bikes about a year before losing it to a thief.

None of my photographs included any with any of those bikes in it.  However, I can recall, fairly accurately, each of those bikes and when I rode it.  I will list them below:  The year or decade in parentheses is the time, as best as I could determine, the bike was manufactured.  The year(s) on the right side indicate when I used the bikes.

Follis Tour de France (1960’s).  1985-87.  Stolen.

Raleigh Record (1960’s or early 1970’s). 1987-89. Stolen.

Jeunet (1960’s or early 1970’s). 1989-90. Crashed.

Peugeot U-09 (1978).  1990.  Stolen.

Motobecane Mirage (1960’s-early 1970's).  1990-92. Crashed.

Windsor (model unknown, 1970’s). 1995-97.  Loaned it to someone who later bought it.

Atala (model unknown, 1960’s). 1997-2001. Cracked after landing from a jump.

Motobecane Nobly (1970’s). 2001-2002. Was too big; sold it.

A Threepenny Atala

If you were going to turn your bike into a tribute to someone who is/was not a professional cyclist, who would he or she be?

When I rode my Colnago and Mondonico, I thought about inscribing the chainstay with "Nel mezzo del camin di nostra vita". But I decided against it when I realized it might have been too long for the short chainstays of those racing bikes.  Besides, saying that you're in the middle of the journey of our lives is kind of an odd thing to write--especially for a young person--on a racing bike. 

Then again, while I was racing and training I probably didn't encounter very many people who could read medieval Florentine Italian. And, if I do say so myself, I would have been riding too fast for them to read it anyway. 

I don't think I encountered very many people who were familiar with the works of Bertolt Brecht, either.  Such a consideration seems not to have deterred someone in California who turned a '70's Atala into a rolling monument to the German writer.

After painting the frame gray, its owner inscribed it with lines from Brecht's poems, plays and essays.

This section of the right (drive-side) seat stay is adorned with this gem, "When crimes begin to pile up, they become invisible."

The bike is for sale, minus its wheels, handlebars and stem, on eBay.  "Will make a great fixie, single speed and art school punk chick magnet", according to the listing.

An Atala In Another Life

In my previous life--many years ago--I saw an Atala bicycle for the first time.  Then, it was as exotic to me as African masks and Japanese prints must have been to French artists in the middle of the 19th Century.  

Even next to other racing bikes I'd seen, it seemed almost other-worldly.  For one thing, it was probably the first bike I saw that was equipped with Campagnolo components--although I had no idea of what they were, let alone why they were so revered.  Hey, I didn't even know that the frame was made of Columbus tubing, which was the only equal to Reynolds 531.  

One thing I knew for certain was that the bike was pretty (even prettier than the one in the above photo):  painted in a kind of coral color with white bands and chromed lugs and dropouts, if I recall correctly.  In fact, I probably thought it was the prettiest bike I'd seen up to that time.

As I came to know about and ride other bikes, I was less impressed with Atalas.  Whatever awe I had for them was all but destroyed after I worked on a few in bike shops:  Other bikes, from Italy as well as other countries, had much better workmanship.

But seeing that Atala important for me for one other reason.  Atala was probably the first bike brand I encountered for the first time through its top racing model.  I knew of Royce-Union, Schwinn, Raleigh and a few other manufacturers through their three-speeds, baloon-tired bombers or their kids' "Chopper" or "Sting-Ray"-style bikes, and would later encounter their road bikes.  I first learned of Peugeot, Gitane and few other French makers through their lower-level ten-speed bikes, which seemed to appear like toadstools after a rainstorm during the early years of the BIke Boom.  A couple of years later, I would encounter Japanese bike makers like Fuji, Nishiki and Miyata in a similar fashion.

It wasn't until years later, when I went to Italy for the first time, that I saw an Atala city bike.  Back then, such bikes were all but unavailable in the US:  Bike shops would stock a model from, say, Peugeot or Kabuki; it wouldn't sell and everyone would conclude there was no market for such bikes.

Over the past two or three years, I have been seeing more city bikes from European and Japanese companies that, for decades, have been making them for people in their own countries.  One of those bikes is the Atala I saw tonight, parked just a few doors away from the apartment of a friend I was meeting.   

I'll bet that whoever rides that bike has never seen that Atala racing bike I encountered a long time ago, in another life. 

A Breeze, Gunz 'N' Rizers And Il Postino

Maybe it had to do with the full moon we had last night.  On  my ride today, I saw some interesting and unusual bikes.

This one was parked not too far from my apartment.  From its joints and the style of the head badge, I am guessing that it's a Schwinn "Breeze" from the 1960's or early 1970's.  The "Breeze" was one of Schwinn's "lightweights" and was equipped with a single-speed coaster brake rear wheel.

This chainguard is really interesting:  Some older Schwinns had "textured" guards rather than the flat ones found on later models.  


Take a look at the "barbershop pole" stripe on the rear fender:

I like what the person(s) who repainted the bike did to the front fender, too.  However, I'm not sure that the front fender is the original, as I don't think the "Breeze" (or any other Schwinn, for that matter) ever came with a ribbed fender.  This one looks like it came from an old Raleigh (or other English) three-speed.

Contrast the Schwinn with this bike I saw parked along Kent Avenue, near the old Domino Sugar refinery,  in Williamsburg:

By now, you've probably seen similar "funny bikes," with one frame stacked on top of the other.  I couldn't help but to notice the relatively thin chain and lock used to secure the bike:

At first, I thought that perhaps the bike isn't such a target for thieves.  After all, most bike-nappers probably wouldn't know how to ride it and would therefore not get very far.  Back in the day, that was also the reason why you could leave a fixed-gear bike unlocked, at least for a short period of time:  A would-be thief was likely to break his legs when he tried to coast or slow down.

But I digress.  I think I saw the real reason why nobody would steal this bike:

I did see one more interesting feature:

I guess it's a handle.  Unless you're as tall as the buildings on the other side of the East River, you couldn't "walk" or carry the bike by grasping the handlebars and saddle.

On the other hand, this bike is all about carrying things:

According to Liz of Bike Works NYC, it's a bike used by the Italian Post Office.  I don't know whether the bike was called "Il Postino," but I couldn't resist referring to it that way.  I mean, it's not hard to imagine the mail carrier in the eponymous film bringing letters from publishers and Nobel Prize committees to Pablo Neruda.  

I'll tell you more about Liz (on left), her friend, Bike Works NYC and what I was doing there in a near-future post.

Strange But True In NYC

New York City may well be the "Frankenbike" capital of the world.  Even if you live here for a couple of decades, you'll see permutations of bikes you simply won't see anywhere else.  


Today I'm going to show you two "Frankenbikes" that were parked near a train station in my neighborhood.


Until I saw the first, I never realized what, exactly, my commuter bikes have always lacked:

They are mountain bike "bar ends," which were very much in vogue during the mid-'90's.  I used a pair myself.  There was a good reason for them:  Mountain bikes, at least as they were configured then, didn't offer a variety of hand positions.  That could be very tiring on a ride of an hour or more. So, bar ends like these were made to clamp on the ends of flat bars.  Most, like these, used a wraparound clamp; a few had ends that inserted into the handlebar, much like a bar-end shifter or brake lever.


Here, the person mounted them on the middle of the handlebar to get an "aero" position.  That's exactly what the  owner of that bike needs.

It's a Schwinn Suburban from, I'd guess, the early 1970's or thereabouts.  Essentially, it was a Varsity or Continental with upright bars, fenders and a single rather than a double chainring in the front.  Like the Varsity or Continental, it's a tank.   At least the "aerobars" can  help its rider lop a few seconds off his or her commute.


The bike also has a generator lighting system.  I wonder whether it works.  Lots of people buy or inherit used bikes like that one that have generator lights on them.  Often, the person who buys or inherits the used bike never even knows whether or not the lights actually work, for they do no night riding--or, perhaps, even know how to use the light.  Or the person riding the bike may well know that the light doesn't work but simply doesn't bother to take it off.


At least the generator and lights are where they're supposed to be.  The same can't always be said for any bike you'll see parked here in NYC:

A headlight in a water bottle cage--on the top tube of a women's bike?  In some crazy way, it seems ingenious.  After all, the light on that bike is in a less prone position than it would be on other parts of the bike.  Plus, it could be really useful for checking runs in my stockings or rips in my pants legs.


No kind of bike paint job is more widely detested, justly so, than the '80's fades. (Some of the most unfortunate samples from that genre were found on Klein bicycles of that era.)  However, around the same time, there was another kind of paint job that was as almost as bad, and common on European bikes (or bikes for the European market,at any rate).  I call it the tricolored Easter egg look:

The owner of this bike, or the person from whom the owner bought or was given this bike, probably brought it in from Italy or someplace in Europe, as I don't think this model was ever inported to the US.  In fact, I think that around the time the bike was made, Atala bicycles were no longer being imported to this country.  Some of their better models were rather pretty, but I was never particularly impressed with the rides of the ones I tried.  Plus, the workmanship was such that we used to joke that its paint and chrome flew off when the bike was operated at too high a speed. 


Anyway, even though these two bikes caught my attention, they're hardly the most mutated bikes I've seen here in New York.  Unfortunately, I never photographed the crazier bikes I saw. But then again, I'll probably see others that are just as zany.