Getting Rid Of The Clip

Yesterday, in my post about Lyotard pedals, I mentioned the one and only clipless offering in the company's seven-decade history:  the PL 2000.

That got me to think about some of the other clipless pedal systems that have come and gone.  Some, like the PL 2000, were belated attempts to compete with Look and Time, the first widely-accepted clipless systems.  But a few others predated Look's original 1984 offering.

The original Cinelli M-71, introduced in 1970.

One that is fairly well-known, at least among cyclists of a certain age, is the Cinelli M71, a.k.a., "the suicide pedals".  I never tried them myself, but from what I've heard, they had very strong springs and held the rider's foot securely.  The problem is that, like that boyfriend or girlfriend from Hell, they didn't want to let go.  At least, they didn't make it easy to take your feet off them:  You had to reach down and flick a lever to disengage your cleat from the pedal platform.  So, while I don't doubt the quality of the product (I don't think Cino Cinelli could have made junk if he tried!), it wasn't--to use a phrase that wouldn't be current until two decades later--user-friendly. 

Second-generation M71, 1972

The first version of the M71, introduced in 1970, had a steel platform and used an aluminum cleat.  Two years later, the pedal came with an aluminum alloy platform with a big round hole in the middle, and plastic replaced aluminum in the cleat.

Contak, 1973

The year after the second version of the M71, another short-lived clipless design went into production in Italy:  the Contak. 


The name is certainly apt:  It had a much larger platform than the M71--or, for that matter, most subsequent clipless pedals.  The longer and wider contact area probably made it more comfortable than the M71, the PL 2000 or some other clipless pedal.  But, like the M71, it wasn't easy to use:  The cleat was made to slide into the pedal from the side, and was held in by a ball detent.  To exit, the rider slid the cleat outward.

Having never used one, or known anyone who did, I don't know how securely this system held, or how easily it released, the cleat.  But I would imagine that a gain in one of those qualities meant a sacrifice in the other.

Keywin, 1983

 For a decade after the Contak's introduction, there was little or no effort to create new clipless pedal systems.  One of the most notable was the Keywin, which hailed from New Zealand a year before Look's introduction.  Instead of the spring-loaded systems used by Cinelli and Look, or the ball-detent of the Contak, Keywin employed a bayonet-type locking device similar to the type found on many cameras with interchangeable lenses.  The rider, after placing his or her foot on the pedal, twisted inward to engage the lock and outward to disengage it.  A rider exits a Look pedal in the same way, but simply steps into it to engage the cleat.

Early Look pedal (PP-65), 1984

 While Look was clearly an improvement over previous clipless systems, some cyclists complained about the weight:  The first Looks weighed over 500 grams (about 1 pound and 2 ounces) per pair. Two designs seemed, in part, an attempt to reduce the weight and make a mehanically simpler system.

Elger, 1984

 During the year of Look's debut, there was a West German entry:  the Elger, which was like the PL 2000 without the spring-loaded end.  As with the Keywin, the rider locked into the pedal by twisting the foot inward and unhitched by twisting outward. 

Aerolite, 1986

Two years after Look and Elger, an American design--Aerolite--dispensed with anything at all on the outward end of the axle.  It may still be the lightest clipless system ever produced.  It offered one convenient feature of Look:  One had only to step down on the pedal to enter.  But, I imagine that to use it, one had to have a better aim than one needed for Look.  Once engaged, the cleat clasped rather than locked into the pedal.  And, to disengage, the rider tilted his or her foot.

NaturaLimits, 1980

Perhaps one of the most interesting early attempts to create a clipless pedal wasn't a pedal at all. Rather, an enterprising American introduced NaturaLimits, a system that included cleats and an adapter that attached to the body of a Campagnolo-style quill or track pedal.  I remember seeing ads for it in cycling magazines of the time--circa 1980--but never actually saw one in person.  

I wonder whether the system didn't catch on because it wasn't reliable or easy to use--or whether the cycling public simply wasn't yet ready to take another look at clipless systems after the shortcomings of the M71 and Contak. 

Blood Under My Cleats

"Le sang coule dans les rues..."


Yes, I've ridden my bike in Paris--but not in 1572 or 1789 or 1871.  So I never got to see blood running in the streets, at least not in the City of Light.  


However, I did see blood running on the streets--and sidewalks--here:

To be precise, it was underneath the viaduct that I saw a thick crimson current.  Back in those days, the street scene looked more like this:

And one could see things that would turn him or her into a vegetarian on the spot:

I found this photo, and the one before it, on one of my favorite websites:  Forgotten NY.  The neighborhood shown in these photos is the Meatpacking District.  Ironically, it's now home to some of the trendiest shops and cafes in the city, as any fan of Sex and the City knows.


I rode down there today.  Actually, my doctor's office is a few blocks away and, after having my blood drawn, I ended my fast in the nearby park with tea and a corn muffin from The Donut Pub.  (I also bought a cherry donut for later in the day. I guarantee you that if you ever go there, you'll never even look at a Krispy Kreme again!)  


Fortunately, I didn't see any animal offal before or after consuming my impromptu brunch.  But, as I rode, I recalled a time when I was riding back from New Jersey.  Just after I got off the Staten Island Ferry, it began to rain.  The rain grew heavier as I pedalled up West Street and, finally, when I could barely see where I was going, I ducked underneath the viaduct you saw in the first photo.


I had just begun to ride with Look road pedals.  Those of you who ride them know that those cleats, like most road racing cleats, aren't made for walking.  I unclipped my left foot and touched down on the sidewalk--actually, in a pool of blood on the sidewalk.


The cleat at the bottom of my shoe was nearly smooth and flat.  It could just as well have been covered with grease.  My foot slid out from under me and I landed on my side--in another pool of animal blood.  When I got back up, I saw that my left side was covered with it, and it had spattered me on the front.  


Being covered with blood that is not your own is disconcerting enough. But what really upset me was that it ruined my favorite jersey I owned at the time:  a replica of the one Bernard Hinault and Greg Le Mond wore in the 1985 Tour de France.

In those days, I was skinny and could get away with wearing it!  


When the rain let up, I continued riding.  Eva had been visiting some friend of hers who didn't like me, and I didn't expect her to be back at the apartment when I arrived.  


"What the hell happened to you?"


All I could do was laugh.  Trying to explain it made me laugh even harder.  Soon, she couldn't help herself, either.  And, in one of the nicer surprises of the time we were together, she actually bought me a replacement for it.   


Every once in a while, she'd go for a ride with me.  I can guarantee you, though, that we never went to the Meat Packing District.  And we never walked or rode on the viaduct--which,in those days, never looked like this:

Now it's called The High Line.  It's supposedly inspired by the Viaduc des Arts in Paris, which, like the High Line, is an abandoned railway.  The High Line does have some nice flora and fauna tucked in among cafes that serve hundred dollar plates of spaghetti.  And   cycling isn't allowed on it.


Back in the day, one might have seen something like this on the Line:

When I was young (believe it or not!), the New York Central, which gave its name to Grand Central Station, was the second largest railroad in the country.  The Pennsylvania Railroad, for which Penn Station was named, was the largest. (It was once the largest company of any kind.)  But they, like most American railroads after World War II, were in decline.  So, someone had the bright idea of combining them into a company that would be "too big to fail".  The marriage was consummated, so to speak, in 1968; it lasted all but two years.  When Penn Central failed, it caused a crash on Wall Street and nearly brought down the US economy with it.


I know, banks and brokerage houses are different.  But you'd think that among all of those people with fancy degrees, someone would've remembered at least that much economic history.


After I finished my corn muffin and tea, I continued riding.  At least that's one thing nobody forgets how to do.  And there was no blood to clean afterward!