So She Goes

 Today I am going to do something you probably hoped I wouldn't do:  Talk about an event you've surely heard about. To do that, I will invoke the Howard Cossell rule.

The event in question is, of course, the death of Queen Elizabeth II.  It was reported yesterday but, according to some rumors, she had already passed when her illness was reported and the news was withheld because of the transfer of the Prime Minister's office from Boris Johnson to Liz Truss. (I never could get away with giving a name like that to a character in a novel!)  While I don't normally truck in conspiracy theories, I think there may be something to that one--or the ones about Lady Diana's death.

Anyway, what does "the end of an era" mean, exactly?

Well, I have to say there is something to be said for someone who stays in the same job for 70 years.  Never mind that she didn't have to post her resume on Linkedin or subject herself to a committee interview on Zoom (or much of anything)—or that she got her job because of, shall we say, her connections. (A wise guy— I mean, a sage—once said, “Nepotism?  Keep it in the family!”) Even if I live as long as bicycles have existed and work until the end, I won't achieve such a milestone.

Then-Princess Elizabeth (r) with her sister Margaret, circa 1945.

And it's true that she met, probably, hundreds of world leaders.  It's fair to ask, though, how much influence she actually had on them.  On the other hand, it's also fair to ask how much influence she had on the ways the world changed during her reign.  Britain entered and left the European Union and lost colonies during that time. But she can't be blamed or credited for those events if for no other reason than, as I believe George Bernard Shaw quipped, the sun never sets on the British Empire because it never rose over it in the first place.

Some might argue that the reason why she's so important is simply that she's been the Queen through all of my life and those of most people living today. In fact, on the occasion of another anniversary of Elizabeth ascending to the throne, my mother told me that her coronation was one of the first things she and her family watched on their then-new television set. 

Her longevity might be, paradoxically, the reason why I never thought much about her.  Of course, being American and therefore never having been one of her subjects, I have an excuse.  Still, because I speak English, have a British relative, studied English Literature (yes, with a capital L) as an undergraduate, ride bicycles from one of the last traditional British builders (Mercian), and count among one of my most loyal readers an English woman who lives in Scotland,  one might expect that I'd think more about the Queen.

Oh, and  one of my favorite bands has long been Queen and I live in, yes, Queens.

So will--or should--I mourn the death of Queen Elizabeth II?  The answer to both is "yes," if only for two reasons: King Charles and Queen Camilla.

King. Fucking. Charles.   Queen. Fucking. Camilla.

Well, it's not as bad as having Trump for President, I guess.  

An Honest-To-God Lincoln

During my childhood, yesterday--12 February--was a national holiday, commemorating the birth of Abraham Lincoln.

Now  "it's not a holiday unless your boss/city/state says it is," as one of my colleagues put it.  We have another holiday--Presidents' Day--on the third Monday of every February to replace Lincoln's and George Washington's (22 February)  Birthdays as shopping days, I mean days off, I mean holidays.

I can understand a holiday for George Washington, Franklin D. Roosevelt and maybe even John F. Kennedy. (I say "maybe" only because JFK was in office so briefly.)  But Millard Fillmore?  Benjamin Harrison? Andrew Johnson?  Richard Nixon?

Some jurisdictions and institutions (such as the college in which I teach) still observe Lincoln's Birthday on the second Monday of every February.  So, in the spirit of the holiday--and because no store, at this moment, is running a sale on anything I actually want or need--I am going to present a Lincoln bicycle.

Actually, it has nothing to do with "Honest Abe".  The "Royal" in the name tells us as much.  Somehow I think he'd roll in his grave if anyone connected him, even if only verbally, with monarchy.

"Royal Lincoln" is named for Lincolnshire, in the English Midlands. Today it survives mainly on tourism, as it has some of the UK's best-preserved Roman and Medieval structures, and on specialized high-tech industries.  But it was one of the areas in which the Industrial Revolution was born and remained a center of British industry at the time the bike--a model called "Stonebow"--was made (1908).

At first glance, it looks more like an old Dutch city bike than anything made in England.  Nothing wrong with that.  But the details distinguish it from other bikes.

For one thing, the paint and lug work are nicely done and have held up remarkably well. Then there is this:

Probably the only saddle that even remotely resembles it is the Brooks B18.   And those pedals:

The person who wrote the entry for the bike on the museum's website has not seen another bike from that marque, and little information is available on it.  Could it have been one of those "local" brands once found all over the UK and Europe that was absorbed by a larger company--or simply ceased production, say, during World War II?

More--Or Mores?

If you mention English three-speed bikes, the first brand that comes to most people's minds is Raleigh.

That makes sense when you realize that not only did Raleigh make more such machines-- and make them for longer-- than any other bike maker, they  had also, by the late 1950s, acquired BSA, Sunbeam and other manufacturers of such machines.  If you aren't a three-speed enthusiast or haven't worked in a bike shop, you probably aren't aware of those brands.  Most people have seen bikes from those marqes but didn't notice because they don't know or care about such things, or because those bikes looked so much like Raleighs that they didn't notice the brands.

So it's not such a surprise that English bicycle saddles have a similar history to the bikes I've mentioned, especially when you realize that most English bikes (as well as machines from many other countries), until the 1970s, came with British leather saddles.

Now, a cyclist who isn't of a certain age can be forgiven for thinking that Brooks is the only British company to have made those iconic perches from hide stretched across rails.  Turns out, up to about the 1970s, a number of firms in Albion were making saddles similar to the ones Brooks offered.

You may have ridden one of their wares, perhaps without realizing it.  Among those saddle makers were Lycett, Wrights and one I re-discovered recently.   They all have remarkably parallel histories:  They started as makers of horse saddles or other leather goods, and they all were based--as was much of the British cycling industry--in and around Birmingham.  

(The name of that city is pronounced "burr-mean-gum" with an accent on the first syllable.  Folks in Alabama will tell you their largest city is "Burr-ming-ham", with the last syllable accented.)

Recently, I saw an old Holdsworth parked in my neighborhood.  I wish I had taken photos of it:  The frame was obviously from the 1960s or earlier, but it was kitted out with a combination of modern, mostly Japanese, components.  The bike, however, sported one item that was very distinctively of its place and time:

I rather liked the nameplate, with the Middlemore name bookended by an enlarged "M" and "E" at the beginning and end, respectively.  What puzzled me, though, is this:

So the rear plate says "Middlemore" but the side emblems read "Middlemores".  It would make more sense if the latter contained an apostrophe, as in "Middlemore's saddles".  Instead,it looks as if someone couldn't decide on the singular or plural.

The makers of that saddle can be forgiven.  The B89, which I believe was the model I saw on the Holdsworth, looks like a cross between a Brooks Professional and B17.  At least, the width seems to be somewhere between the two.  And the leather on it was as thick as I've seen on any, and appeared to be of very good quality.  Whoever's been riding that saddle seems to have taken care of it.

In doing some research, I found an entire blog devoted, not only to Middlemore(s) saddles, but to other items--some not related to bikes--made by the company.  Apparently, the firm was known as Middlemore & Lamplugh after the two firms bearing those names merged in 1896, and continued to make saddles under both names until 1920, when the firm was dissolved and one of its factories was sold.  Middlemore once again became a separate company, known as Middlemores Coventry, that continued to make bicycle saddles.

As Raleigh was acquiring many of the old British bicycle marques, a rival company, the Tube Investments Group, was buying up the bike makers Raleigh hadn't collected.  By that time, Raleigh also owned a number of component manufacturers, including Sturmey Archer---and Brooks.  In 1960, TI bought Raleigh, which meant that, in essence, they controlled the British bicycle industry.

TI would then "retire" some of the old bike and parts brands that had previously competed with Raleigh and its affiliates.  Somehow, though, Middlemore(s) managed to remain independent.  During that time, the B89 came out; later, a cutaway version (like the Brooks Swallow), the B89N, was offered.  And their tri-sprung saddle, the B3, found a following among some more leisurely cyclists.  According to one former employee, Middlemore(s) even made a saddle for Princess Margaret.

By the 1970's, however, much of their dwindling income came from rebadged saddles they made for a few bike manufacturers, including Lambert/Viscount and Moulton.  But as companies like Lambert/Viscount died out, were acquired or moved production overseas, Middlemore(s) dwindled and seems to have stopped making saddles altogether in the 1980s, although it existed on paper until 21 May 1991.

At that time, Middlemore(s) was one of the most longevous manufacturing firms of any kind in Britain or the world.  It had, in fact, existed for even longer than Brooks or Raleigh. 

Across the Channel, a number of French firms made leather saddles similar to the ones made by their counterparts in Blighty.  Some were of decidedly inferior quality, like the Adga Model 28s that came with Peugeot UO8s and other similar French bikes.  (The Adga 28, as Sheldon Brown wryly notes, probably did more than anything else to turn people off suspended leather saddles.)  Then there was Norex, a "second line" of saddles from Ideale, the best-known French maker.  

Ideale seems to have gone out of business in the mid-1980s or thereabouts.  From the next two decades or so, Brooks was just about the only brand of leather saddles available (and then only sporadically) in the US and much of the world.  A Dutch company continued to make similar products, which seemed to be of decent quality.  One possible reason why they weren't imported to America, or to most of the English-speaking world, might have been its name:  Lepper.

Note:  The images in this post came from "VeloBase".

They Were Sooo Continental

You don't wear Continental clothes or a Stetson hat!

That line comes from Otis Redding's Tramp.  The song is an argument between a woman and Otis.  She accuses him of being a tramp because, as she says, he's "straight out of the Georgia woods". 

 

 

We in the United States of America are as continental--in the literal sense of that word--as anyone in the world.  After all, we occupy a large part of the North American continent.  However, when we say "Continental", we use it in the way the British mean it:  of mainland Europe, particularly France, Italy or Germany.

Even though we Yanks like to think we tossed off the yoke of the British crown, it seems that we still emulate them in every way we can.  We speak their language. We may have a different accent, but so often, we mean it the way they do--sometimes even more so.

And so it is with the adjective "continental".  It not only refers to the geographical location; it also has the connotation of "sophisticated", "refined" or "elegant".  Or it can be just a politically correct way of saying "exotic" or a polite way of saying "sexy".  And here, as in Blighty, it is also a way of saying "French" without saying it.  (Hmm...What if "Freedom Fries" were called "Continental Chips"?)

That latter connotation was commonly employed in British cycle advertising just after World War II. Before the big fight, the worlds of British cycling and the British cycling industry were very insular.  Brits thought, as Americans would in the years just after the war, that if it was made in their country, it must be better. 

In some cases, their biases had at least some basis in truth.  Pre-war Schwinn Paramounts were built from Accles and Pollock tubing; all over the world, some of the finest frames have been, and still are, constructed from Reynolds tubesets.  Six-day racers favored BSA components, particularly their cranks, pedals and hubs; town bicycles all over the world were equipped with Sturmey Archer hubs and, to this day, all manner of bikes in every place imaginable sport Brooks saddles.

However, for all the vibrancy of the club-cycling scene, bicycling in Britain was still, in the main, utilitarian.  On the other hand, France, Italy and other countries on "The Continent" had lively cultures of racing, and many people, at least superficially, emulated the riders of the peloton.    It is said that British service members who fought on "The Continent" brought back a taste for Contiental bikes and parts--as well as other things.

British Cyclo Gears with 1/8" chain

British cyclists started to demand bikes with derailleurs.  However, until 1954, Raleigh did not supply any bikes with them.  And, in 1955 British Cyclo were still making most of their cogs for 1/8" chains, even though increasing demand for three- and four-speed freewheels meant that more and more riders wanted and needed cogs for 3/32" chains.  Other bike and parts manufacturers in Britain were slow to respond to those changes.  In fact, some simply continued to offer the same products the were making before the war, as if it were somehow unpatriotic to pattern new products after, let alone offer, the freewheels, derailleurs and such that were made mainly in France.

Once they started to make or import (as Ron Kitching did) those items, they were still loath to make Gallic references.  So, those items--particularly, for some reason, large-flange hubs--were called "Continental" parts.  In an article he wrote on the Classic Lightweights UK site, Steve Griffiths said this habit may have been inspired by the Prior hubs made in France during the 1930s, which had some of the largest flanges (and most profuse drilling) ever seen. 

Prior Hubs. I love them.  Did someone use Spirograph to design them?

The flanges on that hub were riveted to smaller flanges which, as on most hubs at the time, were attached to a steel shaft.  So, the British Hub Company did the same with their Airlite hubs.   Collectors pay more for Priors and Airlite Continentals than most people pay for bikes.  They look interesting and, from what I've read, they spin smoothly. However, they both share a problem:  Prolonged use can loosen the rivets.

They're Continental, all right.  So is Swiss cheese.

 

A Prewar Anglo Continental

After yesterday's serious post, I thought I'd give my dear readers a bit of relief.  Specifically, I'm going to offer something I assume most of you like:  bike porn.

Specifically, I'm offering up bike elderporn.  Here is a 1939 Claud Butler Anglo Continental bike:

The bike was refinished but, from what I've gathered in my research, it now looks something like it would've looked the day it left CB's shop.

All of the components are period-correct.  I wondered about the Bluemels fenders, but a bit of research showed that they were making plastic (celluloid) fenders (mudguards) and flaps, side guards, handlebar coverings and gear cases as early as 1908.  They also made a pump with a press-fit nozzle (like Silca or pre-HPX Zefal) that eliminated the need for a connection that needed to be screwed onto the valve.

Everything on the bike is British, with the exception of the French-made Rigida alloy rims.  One part I find truly interesting is the Lauterwasser bars.  To me, they look like inverted North Road bars with more drop--which, I would expect, would make them more appropriate for a "path racer" than North Road or moustache bars.  A few years ago, Soma introduced a bar with the same name.  It seems to have less drop, but a little bit more of a forward bend, than the original Lauterwasser.

This bike would be quite the conversation-starter, wouldn't it?


 

The End Of A Legend: R.I.P. Jack Taylor

Last week, I wrote a post about a Jack Taylor "Rough Stuff" bicycle designed in the 1950s and built, apparently, during the 1970s.

Jack Taylor (l) with brothers Ken and Norman

Well, the man whose name that bike bore died on Sunday.  Jack Taylor, who started building bicycles as a teenager in 1936.  At the time, he raced in the then-vibrant club racing scene in his native England.  According to legend (who started it, I don't know), he admired some high-end equipment but couldn't afford it.  So he set out to making it himself.

In the beginning, his friends Lance Bell and Jack Hood helped him.  At the end of the war, in 1945, his brothers Ken and Norman joined him to form Jack  Taylor Cycles.  Interestingly, Norman would come to be the actual frame-builder and Ken would build wheels, assemble the bikes and box them for shipping.  On each of those boxes--many of which went to the USA--Ken wrote, "Have a nice ride".  If I were a collector, I'd probably want one of those boxes almost as much as I'd want one of their bikes!

Jack, however, was the one who ensured you could tell a Jack Taylor--whether a racing, touring or "rough stuff" bike, or a tandem--from any other.  He's the one who gave the bikes their beautiful paint finishes and the box pinstriping that became his "signature", if you will.

That Jack Taylor stood out in a time and country with so many first-rate bike builders is a testament to, not only his (and his brothers') workmanship, but the ride and designs of their bikes.  They used geometries and configurations (such as curved seat tubes) that were previously all but unknown.  Among those configurations is the "Rough Stuff" frame I showed in my earlier post:  It has most of the major design elements of a modern mountain bike (high bottom bracket, sloping top tube, smaller-than-700C wheels) but was designed two decades before Gary Fisher, Joe Breeze, Keith Bontrager and the mountain-bike pioneers started barreling down Marin County fire trails on old Schwinn balloon-tired bombers.

Perhaps the most interesting Jack Taylor bikes--and the ones for which he is most renowned--are his touring bikes and tandems.  Those bikes are also the reason why JT was often called "the most French" of English bike builders.  The features that made them so well-suited to their purposes were adapted from constructeurs like Rene Herse, Alex Singer and Goeland:  frame geometries, integrated racks and fenders, oversized headsets and down tubes and brazed-on cantilever brakes, which hadn't been used much in England before JT started using them.

Many Taylor bikes (of all kinds) were also built without lugs in a technique called "filet brazing" or "bronze welding" which made the frames look as if they were sculpted from one piece of metal and polished.  (My  old Land Shark was constructed that way.)  Jack admitted that, as much as it made some of his bikes look as if they were built by one of the constructeurs, he did it because lugs and some other materials were scarce during the years just after the war.  However, even after he had an easier time finding the lugs he liked, he continued to make many of his bikes without them. Sometimes customers preferred them that way. But, more important, it allowed for greater flexibility in design:  an especially important point when building tandems.

Just about all Jack Taylors were built from Reynolds 531 tubing.  Jack developed a close relationship with the company.  For one thing, it guaranteed his supply.  But more important, it meant that Reynolds would make variations on their tubing--such as the curved and oversized tubes--to suit Taylors' unique designs.  In fact, Reynolds made some configurations of their tubing for Jack Taylor an no one else.

Jack retired in 1990, but Norman--who died six years ago at the age of 84--continued to build frames for another decade or so.  They had the same build quality as the older bikes, but because the paint and finish work was outsourced, they did not have the unique, distinctive beauty of the earlier bikes.

So goes another legend of the cycling world.  You can read another tribute (possibly better than mine) on a favorite blog of mine:  The Retrogrouch.

A Good Bike Mystery

While I was riding yesterday afternoon, this bike caught my eye:

If you've been following this blog, you know my favorite color is purple, followed by certain shades of green and certain shades of blue.  Well, that bike is one of those certain shades of green. But somehow I knew it wasn't the only reason to look at it.

Clarks of Harrow.  Hmm, I've never seen that name on a bike before.  Obviously, it wasn't made by them.  But a close-up look provided me with some possible clues:

 

 

 

The lamp bracket on the front fork is almost a dead-giveaway that the bike was made in Great Britain for the British market.  Another clue to the English nature is this:

Flat-plate wraparound seat stay caps were used almost exclusively by bike makers in Blighty.  After establishing with near-certainty that it is indeed a British bike, I wondered who might have built it.

One possible clue lies here:

The lug, while fairly simple, seems to have been scalloped to a point in the manner of another English maker:

This 1966 Witcomb L'Avenir shows a lug style it often used during the 1960's and '70's.  Then again, so did a number of other British builders, including Holdsworth and Claud Butler.  I don't think Mercian ever used such a lug shape, and I simply can't imagine Hetchins having employed it.

In brief, it was a pretty nice bike that caught my eye. About the only components that looked original were the seatpost (I couldn't see an identifying mark) and Campagnolo steel headset.  The rest of the parts included a Velo Orange crankset, new Dia Compe 610 brakes, Shimano Tiagra derailleurs and Tiagra hubs laced to Sun M-13 rims and shod with Continental Gatorskin tires.

Oil And Mud

On Charles Street in Greenwich Village--just a couple of pedal strokes from the Hudson River and the Greenway that rims it--there's a shop that calls itself the "Downtown Upright Bike Shop."  I guess I'd prefer that to a Downright Uptown Bike Shop, and I'm sure I'd like it better than a Frowntown Uptight Shop.

In any event, Hub Cycles is an interesting place.  With its open front, entering it is rather like walking into a flea market.  It's somehow appropriate--among the rows of "Dutch style" and "city" bikes from Biria, Linus and like companies, one finds the unexpected, such as this:

The red bike behind the Biria has an unusual combination of design and construction:  It looks as if someone crossed an English three-speed from the 1930's with an American baloon-tired bike from built by, say, Schwinn or Columbia during the same era.

As you can see, it has the "camelback" design common on the old Schwinns.  The curved top tube connects the head tube with the seat tube cluster. On diamond-shaped bikes,the seat stays would connect the cluster to the rear drop outs or fork ends.  However, on this bike, a pair parallel tubes arcs from the downtube, across the seat tube and down to the dropouts.

What's really oee is that the top tube is joined by lugs while the curved twin tubes are spot-welded.  I guess there really is no other way to join them.  Still, I was a bit surprised to see such a construction method on a British bike.

The bike, as it turns out, was made by Dunelt, one of the best-known manufacturers of classic English three-speeds.  (It, like many other makers of such bikes, was acquired by Tube Investments--the parent company of Raleigh--during the 1950's.)  The head badge and chainring bearing the manufacturer's name were present, as was a faded transfer or decal on the seat tube.

Perhaps the most interesting aspect of the bike is this:

The hole on the bottom bracket shell is meant for an oiler.  If that sounds familiar, you probably have a classic Sturmey-Archer multigear hub--or, perhaps, some old BSA or Chater Lea pedals, hubs or headsets.  Those components--and the bottom bracket in the shell of this bike--were not made to be greased.  Instead, the oil--which had to be applied regularly--served as both lubricant and cleanser, helping to flush grit out of the mechanism.  

Such designs make a lot of sense when you realize that bikes like the one in the photo were made to be ridden on dusty country lanes that frequently turned to mud developed ruts big enough to have their own representation in Parliament.  People who rode such bikes often were far from the nearest bicycle shop and did not have specialized bicycle tools.  So, bikes and parts were designed to need "tear downs" as infrequently as possible.

Generations of people who used such bikes as their main means of transportation as well as for recreational riding were accustomed to the notion that their Sturmey-Archer hubs needed a teaspoon of oil every month or every time they rode in heavy rain or other harsh weather.  

Americans, on the other hand, got out of the habit of depending on their bikes--or of adults riding bicycles at all.  So what was common knowledge in Britain and the rest of Europe was forgotten.  That, I believe, is the reason why so many Yanks end up with otherwise-good three-speed bikes on which the gears don't work:  Necessary maintenance, minimal as it was, went by the wayside.  

The good news is that Sturmey-Archer three-speed hubs made before the mid-1970's or thereabouts can usually be resurrected if the inner parts haven't corroded or rusted together entirely.  The bad news is that fewer and fewer mechanics know how to service those classic parts.

Anyway, in a rather perverse irony, the bike I saw today was equipped with a new-production Sturmey-Archer hub that doesn't need to be oiled.  That, to me, was more offensive than seeing the other replacements and modifications--including the hammered fenders, which I actually like on the Dunelt.

Fit For A King (Or Prince, Anyway)

Mention "British bicycles" to aficionados, and names of classic builders like Jack Taylor, Mercian, Hetchins and Bob Jackson will come to our minds.

However, the first name most people will think of is Raleigh.

Apparently, that is one way in which members of the Royal Family--at least some of them, anyway--are like commoners.

If you' think you've seen him before, you're not thinking of  a cheesy way to start a conversation.  While not as famous as some of his relatives, Prince Edward indeed has one of the world's most familiar faces.  In this photo, he's pedaling to one of his classes at Cambridge University in 1983.

Speaking of family members, here's one some would rather forget:

Yes, he is none other than Prince Charles.  To be fair, I have to say that he increased my capacity for empathy:  I never thought I could feel sorry for a member of the Royal Family until I watched Lady Diana exchanging vows with him in 1981.  

Ambrose Bierce wrote, "For every sauce invented and accepted, a vice is renounced and forgiven."  I suppose we can forgive a prince for something when he takes a spin on one of his country's classic bikes.



 

Convincing Me Otherwise

Every once in a while, I think about repainting Vera. The finish is pretty scraped up, though actually not bad for a bike its age.  Also, I think about having shifter bosses brazed on and having the cable tunnels near the top of the down tube removed, as I use a down tube shifter.

Of course, one thing that deters me from doing so is money: It hasn't been abundant for me lately.  But seeing this bike may also keep me from altering and refinishing Vera:

It's a Holdsworth from, I'd guess the 1970's.  At least, the style of the lugs and paint as well as the Campagnolo Record gruppo (with a Nuovo Record rear derailleur) lead me to believe it's from that era.

All of the Campagnolo equipment--including the large-flange hubs--seems to be original.  About the only deviations I could see were the replacement brake blocks (Mathauser Kool Stop) and a non-Campagnolo headset I could not identify.  The latter component might have been a British-made TDC headset, which was often supplied with English frames.

Even though the paint was worn away on some parts of the frame, I didn't feel that it was battered or decrepit.  Of course, the fact that someone is using it makes it seem contemporary and relevant. But there's just something about high-quality lugged steel bikes--particularly the British ones, in my opinion--that seems to age well.

Of course, they also give sweet rides!

A Shopper On Campus

Today, in one of the college's bike racks, I saw something interesting:

I apologize that I couldn't get take a better photo.  But, as you can see, it's a small-wheeled bike that doesn't have a folding or collapsible frame.  It seems like a variant on the "Shopper" bike, which Bobbin and a few other companies have re-introduced during the last couple of years.

The medium-wide semi-slick tires are what one might expect to see on a city bike.  And the bike's low profile makes for quick mounting and dismounting.  Those features were common on the "shopper" bikes Raleigh and a few other English companies made during the 1960's and 1970's.  Those bikes were very popular in Albion, but didn't seem to find much of an audience anywhere else.  I think one reason may be that, in the US at any rate, people equated the small wheels with folding or children's bikes.

The bike in the photo differs slightly from those bikes, and from the Bobbin "shopper" I saw at Adeline's and in last year's New Amsterdam bike show.  For one thing, the Bobbin, like the classic "shopper," comes with an internally-geared hub, while the bike in the photo has a rear derailleur with six speeds.  Also, the Bobbin and the older bikes had fenders, chainguards and lights:  They looked rather like  classic three-speeds with smaller wheels and a somewhat tighter geometry.  

Also, the bike in the photo has white(!) rims and chain.  Could the maker (I could find only a "C" logo) be trying to appeal to hipsters?  Even if that's the intent, I think it's an interesting bike.  I was surprised to see it parked at the college.  Then again, it might be just the right bike for a lot of student commuters or for students on residential campuses.  In other words, it just might become a "collegiate" bike.