A Bicycle: A Memory Of His Father

Thomas Avenia is often credited, along with a few other people, with keeping the flame of adult cycling alive during its "Dark Ages."  He is also credited, again with a few others, of stoking that flame into the Bike Boom that began in the late 1960s.  Among other things, he--who rode in the six-day races and the Tour of Somerville--was one of the first importers of Campagnolo components, Frejus bicycles and other high-end gear from Europe.

He had a shop in an Italian enclave of East Harlem, New York until the 1980s, when he moved to Stony Point, just south of Bear Mountain in New York state.  I passed that shop a few times and stopped to hear his stories of racing, his old shop, his wife who died half a century earlier and his thoughts about politics and history.  

He lived well into his 90s.  After he died, his grandchildren took over his shop and moved it again--to Haverstraw, a town a few miles down the Hudson River.  One thing I recall about that shop was its "shrine" to Tom, which included the Frejus track bike--with a Mafac front brake--he rode.  To my knowledge, the grandkids didn't ride it:  For one thing they, like most young riders of the time, were mountain bike enthusiasts.  But I think they understood what that bike meant to their grandfather--and people like me, who understand that he is one reason why we have anything that resembles a bicycle culture in some parts of the United States.

Since then, I've wondered how many bicycles have been preserved as momentos, monuments or shrines to their owners.  While Tom's grandkids didn't ride his bike mainly because they rode mountain bikes, I can't help but to think that they saw his Frejus as a kind of relic to be treated with reverence.  When an avid cyclist or collector leaves a bike or a collection behind, what does it mean to whoever receives it?

For a 15-year-old boy in Rochester, Minnesota, the orange-and-black Scott Spark SC 900 bike was not only fun to ride; it was a way he re-connected with his father, who rode and passed it on to him.  Karl Vielhaber passed away on the 13th from a brain tumor that was diagnosed less than a year earlier.  He, his wife Jennifer and kids moved to Rochester from Wisconsin to be closer to the Mayo Clinic.

Last week, she went into their garage, only to discover that the bike was gone.  That meant, not only that the bike was stolen, but that someone had entered the family's property uninvited.

Still, Jennifer insists that if the bike is returned, she will not press charges. Send information to: findkarlsbike@gmail.com.)   She wants, not only the machine itself, but the memories--which include his joy in riding it--it represents for her and her kid. 

(Almost) Empty Box Dog Bikes

There was a time when a robbery or burglary seemed to be a rite of passage for an urban bike shop in the US.  

I can say, without being hyperbolic, that every New York shop in which I worked or bought anything from the late '70's to the early '90's was victimized by crooks.  Sometimes the perp walked in and demanded whatever cash was on hand, and whoever happened to be at the counter would hand it over.  Other times, a thief would flee with a bike or two or whatever parts or accessories he or she could carry.  

In one of the shops in which I worked, the robbers actually tied up the owner and employees in the basement and made off with expensive bikes and parts. (Fortunately for me, I wasn't working that day!)  Other shops experienced similar crimes. More than one such incident ended tragically:  In particular, I recall that a robbery in Frenchie's Cycle World, a favorite of Brooklyn cyclists, ended in a gunfight that left a robber and a police officer dead.

(The robber killed in Frenchie's was a 30-year-old man.  He persuaded his two teenage nephews and teenage friend to help him.  They were captured thanks to a ruse by one of the shop's employees.)

And then there were burglaries like the ones  that finally drove Tom Avenia out of New York City. From what I heard--whether from Tom himself or others, I forget--his windows, doors and gates were all broken or ripped out so that someone could have unpaid access to his Frejus, Legnano and other Italian bikes, as well as Campagnolo equipment.  Then, one night--again, this is an account I've heard--some thief or thieves actually cut a hole in the roof of his store and helped themselves to much of his merchandise.

I was reminded of Tom, Frenchie's and the other thefts I've mentioned when I heard about what happened in San Francisco the other night.

Box Dog Bikes is a worker-owned shop in the city's Mission district.  In the wee hours of yesterday morning, Geoffrey Colburn, one of the owners, got a call from the police department after they were called by a neighbor.  

What he and the cops found were a hole--just big enough to squeeze bikes through--in the metal gate, and a shattered tempered-glass window behind it.  Inside: empty bike racks.

In all, 21 bikes--most of the shop's inventory--were taken.  They were all listed on the shop's Instagram account.  Included is a plea to call 911 for anyone who sees the bikes, along with an admonition not to fight anyone who has the bikes.  "Most of these bikes don't have pedals, so it's gonna be hard to ride them."

If that doesn't stop the thieves, I hope something else will.

Some History On EBay

Here's something the author of Disraeligears (no, not the Creem album) would love, or at least appreciate.  So would another one of my favorite bike bloggers, The Retrogrouch.  For that matter, I would, too.

Back in the mists of time, before the cycling world was ruled by Campagnolo, Shimano and SRAM, a bicycle component manufacturer was beginning its ascent in the Land of the Rising Sun.  They would enjoy dominion in the world of quality bicycles--save, of course, for Campagnolo's racing colony--long before most had heard of Shimano or SRAM was even a seed in the great plains of cycling.

(Can you hear Sprach Zarathustra in the background?)

That company's demise came in much the same way as the deaths of other empires:  through complacency, hubris and responding to a threat that really wasn't.  That is the reason why its beginnings are, if not lost in the mists of time, at least not remembered by many.

That company was called--ironically, in retrospect--SunTour.   In 1964, its chief designer created a derailleur with a design--called the slant parallelogram--that would change derailleurs for ever.  For about a decade prior, however, it would offer derailleurs that seemed to be derivatives, if not copies, of Huret mechanisms of that time.  

The SunTour 8.8.8 wide in the photo does, in fact, bear both mechanical and visual semblances to the Huret Competition from the same period.  The derailleur Louison Bobet, the first cyclist to win the Tour de France in three consecutive years, rode is a refinement (some say just a re-badging) of that derailleur. SunTour's version, on the other hand, has a longer cage and might be considered a "touring" version.

Both derailleurs are on eBay.  For $158, plus $12 shipping, you can have the SunTour sent to you from Japan.  The Huret "Tour de France", on the other hand, will set you back $999.52.  But at least shipping is included and, hey, not only is it associated with one of the greatest cyclists of all, but the seller claims to have received it as a gift from Tom Avenia, one of the folks who kept the torch burning during the "dark ages" of cycling in the US.

I'm a Francophile, and I still have a soft spot for SunTour, in spite of the blunders that led to their undoing.

A Lesson In Bicycle Economics

As the academic term begins in colleges all over this country (and world), thousands of students will purchase Professor N. Gregory ( Mankiw's Principles of Economics.


Those students will, I believe, learn more about economics  by shopping for the book than by actually reading it or attending their Econ 101 classes:  The most recent edition of Professor Mankiw's book goes for nearly $300. 

I'll put that in perspective:  The price of that book is nearly the same as my tuition for each of the first six semesters (out of eight) of my undergraduate schooling.

I mention this because of another lesson in economics I got, rather unexpectedly, a few days ago.  And it didn't come from Professor Mankiw or anyone else who served as a Presidential advisor.  Rather, it came from an authority I trust far more:  a bike mechanic I trust with any repairs or other work for which I don't have the tools, time or patience.

I'm talking about Hal Ruzal of Bicycle Habitat. He was re-tensioning the rear wheel on Tosca (my fixed-gear Mercian), which he built for me seven years ago.  That I rode it for so many miles--and, in fact, for a thousand or two on my DeBernardi before I transferred it to Tosca--is a testament to his skills.  

We chatted about one thing and another and somehow we got onto the topic of past jobs or our youth, or something related.  Anyway, he mentioned that during his senior year in high school, he had a job that involved drawing maps for an insurance broker.  In two weeks of working that job, he said, he'd saved up enough money for the bike he was lusting after:  a Frejus Competition.

As I mentioned in another post, that bike practically defined "Italian racing bike" for many of us who first got into cycling during the early days of the '70's Bike Boom.  I never owned one myself, but I admired it if for no other reason that it was one of the prettiest bikes available at that time.  And while accounts of its ride qualities vary--and the workmanship, while not bad, is not as nice as that of similar bikes I'd encounter later.

At the time Hal bought his, it retailed for around $375. The frame was constructed of Reynolds 531 double-butted tubes, rather than the Columbus SL or SP most Italian builders were using.  The frame was adorned with then-top-of-the-line Campagnolo Record components, including the Nuovo Record rear derailleur.   (Super Record was a couple of years in the future).  And, from what I've heard, Tom Avenia--whose New York City shop was, for decades, the main retailer of Frejus as well as other Italian marques and Campagnolo components--would replace the stock saddle (a Unicanitor, I believe) with a Brooks for an additional five dollars.

Hal, not given to hyperbole, put his job and purchase in perspective:  "Today, a kid could work all summer and not have enough for a 105 bike!"  Shimano's 105 components are good stuff--I've used some myself--but they are not top-of-the-line, as Campy Record was.  And, even though 105 derailleurs and brakes (or even cheaper ones) work better than anything produced at the time Hal bought his Frejus, nothing made today has the kind rugged construction or workmanship of those old Campy components.

Hal's lesson in economics followed one I heard recently in a lecture:  For the minimum wage to have the purchasing power it had in 1968, when it was $1.60 an hour, it would have to be $10.90.  Of course, even that doesn't get you much of anything--in terms of housing, food or clothing, let alone bikes--in places like New York (where I live), San Francisco or Boston. But what kind of lodging (or bike) can you get at the current minimum wage of $7.25?

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.