Leaving Waterloo

Sheldon Brown dubbed the quarter-century or so following World War II as the "Dark Ages" of US Cycling. Few adults cycled and nearly all of them were clustered around a few cities.  So, perhaps not surprisingly, high-quality cycling gear was difficult to come by, as nearly all American bicycle manufacturing consisted of bikes for kids.  Those tiny number of shops and mail-order companies that offered high-end parts and bikes, as often as not, ordered them for their customers from Europe or a few companies in the US.

As for the bikes:  Some frame builders, like Dick Power of Queens, New York (who, interestingly, sponsored and mentored female riders) and George Olemenchuk of Detroit, turned out some well-crafted machines that rode well. But they made small numbers of frames that rarely, if ever, were ridden by cyclists beyond their immediate environs.  Quite possibly the only nationally-availabe, US-made, world-class (Did I use enough modifying phrases?) bike was Schwinn's aptly-named Paramount. But you couldn't buy one of the showroom floor--unless, of course, your local Schwinn dealer stocked one (and if they did, the probably stocked only one) and it happened to be the right size for you.

1971 Schwinn Paramount

 

Then came the 1970s "Bike Boom."  High-quality racing and touring bikes from England, France, Italy and Japan appeared even in small-town bike shops.  Some might debate that they had ride qualities that the Paramount lacked, but few argued that the workmanship of those imported bikes was better. But they--especially the Japanese bikes--offered much better value for the money, as the Paramount's price doubled within three years.

More to the point, though, the newly-available bikes made Paramounts, as nice as the were, seem stodgy.  And, according to people in the industry, the Paramount's production facilities and methods were dated.  Moreover, by the end of the decade, a number of American custom frame builders like Albert Eisentraut and Bruce Gordon were turning out bikes that rivaled those of their overseas counterparts.

So, in 1980 Paramount production moved to a new facility in Waterloo, Wisconsin.  (Not long after, much of Schwinn's other production shifted from Chicago to Mississippi.) These changes occurred around the same time Schwinn ownership and management shifted to a new generation. But the company failed to keep up with changes in the industry--they were late to the mountain bike and very late to the BMX game--and declared bankruptcy for the first time in 1991.

In the wake of those developments, two members of that new management generation--Richard Schwinn and Marc Muller--took over the Paramount facility and started a company familiar to a generation of American bike enthusiasts:  Waterford.  It focused on building, essentially, updated custom versions of the Paramount:  hand-crafted lugged frames from Reynolds, Tange or other high-quality alloy steel tubing.  Later, they added another line of bikes--Gunnar--with TIG-welded steel frames that weren't available in custom sizes or colors.

A late-model Waterford

Last month, Schwinn and Muller announced that Waterford/Gunnar was closing up shop.  The reason, they said is that they and several other key employees are retiring. They fulfilled their remaining orders and sold the building.  This Saturday, the 24th, there will be a "farewell" ride beginning at the factory, where there will be an "open house."  On that day, an online auction will begin.  Running until 10 July, there won't be many frames or forks available for sale.  But it might be a good source for current or aspiring builders or manufacturers or a collector with "an interest in something from the legendary Waterford factory," according to the company.

R.I.P. Harris Cyclery

Perhaps you've already heard:  Harris Cyclery of West Newton, Massachusetts closed its doors on Sunday, the 13th.  Their online ordering service--which I've used a few times--is also gone.

I stumbled over the bad news when Googling one of Sheldon Brown's tech pages.  He, of course, is how I learned of the shop in the first place--about 40 years ago, if I recall correctly, when I read an article he wrote about wheelbuilding.  At that time, of course, the website didn't exist, but when I got up to Boston, I made a point of visiting the shop.  Alas, he was away.  But I did get to meet him on a subsequent visit.  He was about what you expected if you read any of his writing:  warm, generous with advice and posessed of a quirky sense of humor.  

Sheldon Brown

Those are traits I also encountered in other Harris staffers.  They, and Sheldon, did much to promote everyday as well as recreational cycling in and around Boston.  So did their predecessors at Harris.  They had to:  When the shop first opened its doors 70 years ago (in a different building), it was one of the few anywhere in the US to offer high-quality, high-performance bikes and parts for the few adult everyday cyclists as well as enthusiasts of the time.  In other words, they helped to keep the flame lit during what Sheldon has called the "Dark Ages" of American cycling, which spanned roughly two decades after World War II.

It's always distressing to lose any beloved small business.  What makes the loss of Harris so disturbing, though, is that it shows us no shop may be immune to the vicissitudes of the marketplace. Being a New Yorker, my first thought was, "Their landlord wouldn't renew their lease--or wanted to increase the rent by an outrageous amount."  From what information I've gleaned, however, it seems that Harris got caught in the vortex that sucked in many other shops during the past few months:  After a COVID-fueled "boom" in sales, their showroom was bare.  They were able to keep themselves going with repair work--until they couldn't get any more parts, due to disrupted supply chains.  Customers, naturally, don't want to wait months for a new bike, much less a repair or tuneup--or to buy a helmet, lock or light.  

My biggest concern, though, is Sheldon's pages.  In addition to containing more useful information and insights--and well-informed, if at times cranky, opinions-- than just about any other site or guide, it's a continuation of his legacy, a dozen years after his passing.  I hope we don't lose those pages along with the shop!

Revolutionaries, With Or Without Bikes

I just happen to live in one of those states where today--Lincoln's birthday--is a holiday.

When I was a kid, it was a holiday everywhere in the US.  So was George Washington's birthday, the 22nd of this month.  In 1971, Congress passed a law that collapsed the  two holidays into one Federal holiday, known as dead white Presidents' Day.  That day is observed on the third Monday of February, which happens to be a week from today.  Individual states, however, could choose to observe Lincoln's birthday. Luckily for me, New York is one of them.

It's not likely that Abe ever rode anything we would recognize as a bicycle. Quite possibly the closest I ever came to seeing our 16th President on two wheels was this:

I would guess, from my admittedly limited experience with him (as a person), that he had a lot more fun than Abe ever seemed to have!

(By the way, Sheldon's birthday is 14 July--le jour de Bastille.  Could it have been any other day?)

Curls, Splits And A Flying Gate

In the 1880s, J.K. Starley developed his "Rover" Safety Bicycle.  Nearly everything I've read about the history of cycling pins the Rover's importance to the fact that it had two equal-sized wheels and a chain-powered drivetrain.  This innovation was indeed an improvement, in many ways, over the "penny farthing" or "high-wheeler" bikes that had large front wheels (as much as 72 inches) with cranks and pedals attached to the axle, and a much smaller rear wheel.  The Rover was indeed safer to ride and its drivetrain allowed for variations in gearing, something that was not possible on the fixed drivetrain of the "penny farthing."

A later version of the "Rover" featured another innovation that isn't mentioned as frequently but might have been just as important.  Its frame had a configuration which we would now recognize as the "diamond".  Nearly all racing bikes, and most everyday bikes that weren't specifically designed for women (and even some that were) have incorporated this design feature.   Even bikes made with the most exotic materials owe their most important design feature to a bike that was made 130 years ago.

Even "mixte" and some "women's" bikes can be said to be variants, in one way or another, of the "diamond" frame.  In fact, one might even argue that "step through" frames are variants of the "diamond" because they are usually made like diamond frames without  a top bar (and, in some cases, with wider-diameter down- and seat-tubes to compensate).

Over the decades, there have been attempts to render the diamond frame lighter, stiffer, more efficient or, perhaps, just sexier.  Some seem to recur every generation or so. 

One of the more interesting variations was the Hetchins "curly stays" frame:

The late, great Sheldon Brown rode the Hetchins in the photo.  There was, believe it or not, a reason for those stays.  In the 1930s, races were often run over rough roads or even cobblestones.  Curved forks absorbed some of the shock in the front.  Straight rear stays, on the other hand, transmitted the road shocks, which caused the bike and even the rider to rattle and shake.  That, in turn, resulted in wasted motion. (Think about that the next time you hear "stiffer is better"!) 

So, the idea of curling the rear stays was so that they would replicate, on the rear, what curved forks did in front.  I guess there is something to that idea:  After all, mountain bikes with rear suspension can go faster because they're more stable on rough terrain. 

Whether or not curly stays offer an advantage to a loaded touring cyclist is debatable; there doesn't seem to be any advantage to them on the track.  Still, there were track bikes with curly stays and other unconventional designs because builders weren't allowed to "advertise" on their bikes.  Hence, decals, transfers and other markers bearing the builder's or manufacturer's name were not permitted.  So some builders--like Hetchins--called attention to their bikes with unusual designs.


Another variation on the diamond frame is the split seat tube that was a feature of bikes like the Rigi of the late 1970s and early 1980s:

As you can see, this design, by allowing the tire to run between the twin lateral seat tubes, shortens the bike's wheelbase, which makes for faster acceleration and greater rigidity.  I had the opportunity to try a Rigi and it did indeed feel stiffer in the rear and had more of a "jack rabbit" feel than other bikes I'd ridden.  The Rigi I tried was a road model; I can only imagine how a track model would have felt!

 

 

I found myself thinking about those bikes when I came across this: 

Baines Brothers of England made the "Flying Gate" frame from the early 1930's until the early 1950s.  Baines Brothers didn't actually call their frames "Flying Gate"; rather, it's a nickname the bike acquired because of its shape.

As with the Rigi, one justification for the design is that it shortened the wheelbase to 100cm (39.5 inches), which was all but unheard-of on a road bike at that time. 

Ironically, even though the frame was intended for road use, it seems to have track ends on it.  Maybe they had the same idea I had in mind when I built Tosca, my Mercian fixie:  a responsive fixed-gear bike that could be ridden on the road.  Perhaps whoever rode the bike set it up with a "flip flop" or double-sided hub, as was common on British "club bikes" of the time.

 

From what Hilary Stone says about these bikes, the model in the photos is probably a later one, as the earlier ones--like most bikes from the '30's--used relatively plain lugs. 

Trevor Jarvis acquired the rights to the design and produced a number of frames at his TJ Cycles shop in Burton-on-Trent during the late 1970s.  Though most were made for time trialing, his shop produced, interestingly, a touring model.  In a way, it makes sense, for one complaint many cyclists have about traditional touring bikes is that their long rear triangles and wheelbases cause them to handle like lumber wagons.  Of course, one problem with riding a short-wheelbase bike for loaded touring is that your heels get caught in the panniers and the vibration transferred through the stiffer rear triangle makes the bike less stable and tires the rider on rough surfaces.

According to Stone, riders generally appreciated the responsive ride offered by the "Flying Gate."  I would be curious to try one myself!

It's Probably A Sun Tour Gran Prix. Or A Simplex Juy Export 61.

You know that something is influential is when it is imitated--even after the original is no longer made.

Mavic 851 rear dearailleur, circa 1981.  Photo from Velobase

Several bicycle derailleurs come immediately to mind.  If you're of my generation, one is the Campagnolo Nuovo/Super Record. From the time the first Nuovo was made in 1967 until the last Super Record came out of the Vicenza plant two decades later, innumerable parts manufacturers copied its basic design.  Much of the reason for that was, of course, the preponderance of Campagnolo equipment in the elite pelotons of the world.  "If Eddy won the Tour with it, it must be the best," is what those imitators were probably thinking.

Campagnolo Super Record, circa 1983.  From Wikipedia Commons

Campagnolo Nuovo Record. From Sheldon Brown's Bicycle Glossary.

Some will stop reading this post (and, possibly, this blog) after reading what I'm about to write:  The Campagnolo Nuovo/Super Record, even when it was introduced, was not the best-shifting derailleur available.  What caused its domination at the top of the cycling world was its reliability and, well, the reputation Campagnolo built with their earlier derailleurs and other components.  Also, each derailleur (more so the Nuovo, in my opinion) had a "classic" look to it.

Kharkov rear derailleur.  Probably the sorriest imitation of Campy NR/SR--with the possible exception of the Gian Robert--ever made.  Photo from Velobase.

As I mentioned in an earlier post, when the GDR government decided it needed to bring bicycle technology up to the level of what existed in the West, one of the parts they produced was a Tectoron derailleur that, from ten meters away, looks like a Campagnolo Super Record without the logos. 

Huret Svelto.  From Bulgier.net

Another influential derailleur was the Huret Svelto.  In its time, it was rather nice:  The shifting was better (or, at least, no worse) than most other derailleurs that were available when it was introduced in 1963.  And it had a certain industrial-minimalist aesthetic. (Think of a "cold irons bound" version of the Jubilee.)  But the main reason why it was widely imitated--even Shimano and SunTour had versions, called the "Pecker" and "Skitter" respectively--was that it was made from pressed steel plates riveted together. In other words, it was cheap to manufacture.  Through the 1970s, various component makers--including Romet of Poland--were making derailleurs that looked (and shifted) like the Svelto.

Romet derailleur, Poland, 1970s.  Photo from Disraeligears

(In contrast to the Svelto, the Huret Allvit--which may have come as original equipment on more bicycles than any other rear derailleur in history--had, as far as I know, only one imitator:  the USA-made Excel Dynamic of 1975-77.  It's particularly odd that, as the first American derailleur, its manufacturer would almost slavishly copy the Allvit when many cyclists were replacing their Allvits with SunTour and Shimano derailleurs.)

1964 SunTour Gran Prix. Photo from Disrealigears

Today, if you asked what derailleur is the most influential, the answer you'd probably get is "Shimano".  No specific model would be mentioned, as nearly all derailleurs made by that company over the past thirty years share the same basic "slant pantograph" design with two sprung pivots.  Neither of those features is, of course, a Shimano innovation:  SunTour introduced the former in its 1964 "Gran Prix" derailleur, and Simplex first employed the latter feature on a parallelogram derailleur when it made the "Juy Export 61."

Simplex Juy Export 61. Photo from Cycles Cambio  (Japanese blog)


Since all but the lowest-cost derailleurs today use both features, perhaps we could say that the Sun Tour Gran Prix (or, perhaps the SunTour Competition, which came out a  year later and eliminated the Gran Prix's less-desirable features) and the Simplex Juy Export 61 are the most influential derailleurs in the bicycle world today, even though neither has been made in decades.

SunTour "U" derailleur.  Photo from Disraeligears

SunTour Honor. Photo from Bikeforums

The funny thing is that the influence of those two derailleurs--and others from SunTour and Simplex--still lives on even in derailleurs found on the cheapest department store bikes.  Shimano's less-expensive derailleurs, with the dropped rather than the slant parallelogram, continue to employ two sprung pivots reminiscent of Simplex.  Perhaps even more ironically, Shimano is apparently making a derailleur that apes the SunTour "Honor" and "U" derailleurs found on low-priced bikes during the 1970's:

I saw this derailleur on a bike parked near where I work.  I'd never seen it before.  The only difference between the Shimano in the photo and the lowest-priced SunTours of the 1970s seems to be the black plastic front knuckle and that the rear knuckle, parallelogram plates and the part that holds the top pivot seem to be more crudely stamped and finished--and possibly made from a lower grade of steel--than those old SunTour base models. 

Those inexpensive SunTours shifted nearly as well as, but developed play in the pivots more quickly than, the V-series SunTours.  (Sometimes the Sun Tour "U" was the only good component on the bike that came with it!)  I wonder how that Shimano derailleur I saw today shifts.

What A Man Grows

In yesterday's post, I decried the sexism and lack of artistry displayed by Allan Abbott in building a bicycle that's supposed to look like a nude woman.

So...how am I going to follow it up?  With a post about one of the most andro-centric topics imaginable.  Why?  Well, for one thing, as one of the few (if not the only) male-to-female transsexual bike bloggers, I am one of the few people in this world who can get away with such a thing.

But, dear readers, please indulge me.  I'm not writing this post to be politically incorrect or contrarian, although I rarely shy away from being either.  Rather, I saw a cartoon and photo on the topic that was purely and simply humorous.

The subject?  Beards.  Yes, facial hair in which some men take pride.  According to the photo, the longer a male cyclist's beard, the greater his bike knowledge.

From Imagur. com

There might actually be some truth to the bike knowledge-to-beard ratio.  The photo at the end of it confirms what you know about Sheldon Brown if you ever looked at his webpages:  The man was a Library of Congress, a Biblitheque Nationale of cycling knowledge.  And Frank Chrinko III, the proprietor of Highland Park (NJ) Cyclery--where I worked--knew more about bikes than anyone in his twenties or thirties should.  During the time I worked for him, his beard grew from "Rides and has built a bike from old parts" to "Wizard" length. 

Me?  I grew a beard in those days, too.  Mine, though, never got longer than "Rides" length.  I didn't let it. 

A Bicycle, In A Ceremony For Two

It's been a while since I've been to a wedding.  I guess I'm just at an age in which most of my friends, acquaintances and colleagues are already hitched (whether through marriage or other means) or have simply resigned themselves to not, or have written off the idea of, being so.

I've never been to a bicycle-themed ceremony.  However, I did once go to a reception for two of my old riding buddies from the Central Jersey Bicycle Club.  They got married in a very small ceremony that included only their immediate families.  They held their reception outdoors, in a public park, on a gorgeous day around this time of year.  I, like many of the other guests, arrived on a bicycle.

Although they invited me, my appearance surprised them.  It wasn't the fact that I showed up:  I had promised I would, and unless other circumstances intervene (Is that phrase open to interpretation, or what?), I keep my word about such things.  And, even though I was young and did a lot of crazy things one associates with youth (and, I admit, excessive consumption of alcohol and an overflow of testosterone: now I can blame almost all of the jejune excesses on them!), I didn't do anything stupid or gross.  

What shocked them was my wheeling into the park on, if I recall correctly, my Trek 510.   All of the other club members who arrived on two wheels lived nearby--or, at least, within a half-hour ride or so.  On the other hand, I had moved to New York.  So, by the time I started eating the barbecued chicken and hot dogs and drinking, I think, Beck's (Microbreweries were in their infancy, so all good beer in those days was imported.), I had pedaled about 40 miles.

Granted, that wasn't a long ride for me or anyone else who rode to the reception that day--or for Ed and Elaine, the honorees. But they were nonetheless impressed.

I don't recall any bike-themed decor at the party. (Let's call it what it was!)  But, apparently, there is something of a vogue for it at weddings today.  If I were to attend (or--egad!--have) nupitals, here's something I'd like to see:

Hey, I could even get away with putting those wheels on my bikes!  At least, the colors are right.  And in a wedding, colors are everything.  Right? 

Would these folks have approved?

 

Joined At The Lugs?

Before you know it, Spring will come...

Oh, right, it is Spring now.  I guess it's a month late:  We've got March winds, but it's April.  I guess we'll get the showers in May and the flowers in June.

And what about the weddings?  Will they be in July?

Not that I'm planning on having one.  For now, I'm still living by Carrie Bradshaw's maxim, "Friends don't let friends get married."  Sometimes people give the best advice before they break it!  

Anyway, I not only don't plan on getting married, I haven't been invited to a wedding.  Not that I'm complaining.

But if I have to go to a ceremony, I wouldn't mind being summoned to it by this:

From Kristen Archer

Apparently, the bride-to-be designed this invitation herself.  She even had a bicycle-themed bridal shower!

I can think of one couple in particular for whom the invitation would have been most appropriate:

They are, of course, Harriet Fell and the much-missed Sheldon Brown.

One Of Our Patron Saints

Happy St. Patrick's Day!

As I am not Irish, others can--and did-- convey the spirit of this day much better than I ever could.

Here's one of them:

He is, of course, Sheldon Brown--one of the patron saints of the cycling world.  

I can't believe he's been gone for six years already.  I hope that, wherever he's gone, he's found this:

 No doubt he's sharing a ride, a story and a Guinness Stout or two with this fellow:

Elswick: Sheldon's Bike

If you've read any of Sheldon Brown's writings, you might recall his joy at getting an Elswick Tour Anglais when he was a teenager.  At that time, derailleur-equipped bikes were all but unknown in the US; any bike with dropped bars was likely to be a modified three-speed bike.

As a cycling enthusiast--and fan of Sheldon--I felt his joy.  It made me want to see a Tour Anglais, or a Lincoln Imp, another Elswick he would later own and ride.

Until today, I had never seen any Elswick bike--at least that I recall.  But, as I was riding near Pratt Institute, I saw one parked by one of those lovely Victorian houses that abound in that neighborhood.

It looked like other English three-speeds of the same period, which neither surprised nor disappointed me.  Instead, it seemed absolutely fitting:  To a teenaged Sheldon in the 1950's, such a bike, however common it may have been, would have seemed otherworldly.  It's not likely that he would have known there were a whole world of bicycles like the Elswick.

That is not to say that the one I saw today wasn't lovely:  With its dark brown paint and white fender panel, it's actually rather elegant.  And you have to love that headbadge. 

Still, you have to wonder what this sticker was doing on the seat:

If You Build Your Bike In Italy from Reynolds Tubing, Name It After A French Town

Today I saw a listing for a Frejus bicycle that was made in "Torino, France."


I wrote to whoever listed the bike to correct his/her geography:  Torino--known in the English-speaking world as Turin-- is, of course, in Italy.


One of the ironies of that listing is that the town of Frejus is actually located in France.  Granted, it's not far from Italy and was, at different times in history, ruled not only by Italy, but also by several Italian city-states as well as the King of Sardinia and the Dukes of Savoie (Savoy).  


And it was part of the Roman Empire.  That is evident in the ampitheatre in middle of the town.  In fact, when I was there, I recall reading something (a brochure?  a plaque? a book, maybe?) that said it is the oldest surviving Roman ampitheatre, not to mention one of the  oldest surviving structures, in France.  There are also the remains of an acqueduct as well as a number of other Roman structures.


Perhaps they built chariots back then.  However, nothing that I've read in French, English or Italian indicates that any bicycle, or even any part for one, was ever produced there, though--it being in the south of France, after all--quite a few people ride bikes for recreation as well as transportation. Well, at least they were when I was there.

Even if we never rode or owned one, Frejus bicycles are special to cyclists of my generation or the one immediately before us.  As Sheldon Brown points out on his page, they were often ridden by the few active racers in the US during the Dark Ages of the sport in this country.  And it was one of the bikes of choice for relatively well-heeled enthusiasts in the early days of the Bike Boom.


Accounts vary as to their ride qualities. And, as pretty as many of them were, the workmanship was actually pretty mediocre, even on their best Campagnolo-equipped models. But, for many of us, they defined what an Italian racing bike was.


They were imported and sold by Tom Avenia, who was also one of the first importers of Campagnolo equipment.  I met him when he was a very, very old man.  (He lived to be about 95, if I'm not mistaken.)  Frail as he was, he still rode and could tell stories about the Six Day Races in Madison Square Garden during the 1930's (which would be the last most Americans would hear of bicycle racing for about another half-century) as well as his own participation in such races as the Somerville Classic.  I could see how the man all but singlehandedly kept the torch burning, or at least flickering, on his zeal alone.

And he rode a Frejus track bike, equipped with a front brake, nearly to the end of his life.

And, yes, he reminded me that Frejus is actually a town in France, even though the bikes were made in Italy--of Reynolds 531 tubing.