He's Back, And He's Not Going Stealth

We don't know the names of the folks who painted the cave walls at Lascaux or told the stories that became the epic poem Gilgamesh.  For that matter, we don't know who invented the wheel.  

But we do have some idea of who made most wheeled vehicles--including bicycles--over the last 200 years or so. Even if the bike is made by a large company like Raleigh, checking serial numbers and dates can tell us, if not the person who brazed or painted the frame, then at least who was working in the factory at the time.  Thus, the search can be narrowed down to a few possible brazers, welders, painters or others responsible for making the bike.

The more expensive the bike (or car or whatever), the easier it is to know who worked on it.  Some custom bikes are branded with the builder's name (e.g., Bruce Gordon, Bob Jackson, Rene Herse), while other small builders like Mercian and Seven have a few people working for them, each of whom focuses on a specific task such as mitering the tubes or painting.  So, if you have such a bike, it's fairly easy to find out who was responsible for it.

A few small and custom builders' bikes, however, have gone "stealth".   Perhaps the most famous example was the machine Eddy Merckx rode for the hour record in Mexico City in 1972.  All right, it wasn't really "stealth":  Everyone knew it wasn't a Windsor.  The Mexican bike-builder's decals were slapped on the sunset-orange frame just before the Belgian Tour de France winner set off on his ride; the frame had actually been built (and some components modified) to Eddy's specifications by the revered Italian builder Ernesto Colnago.   Windsor used Merckx's successful record attempt to sell its bikes which, understandably, infuriated Signore Colnago, who never forgave Eddy.

At least Windsor made some pretty good bikes. (They bear no relation to the Chinese-made machines sold under the same name in the US.)  On the other hand, another "stealth" bike bore a brand that would never be associated with a bike shop, let alone Eddy Merckx, the Tour de France or an hour record.

Strip away the Murray decals, and this bike would look like a high-end racing bike from the 1980s:  Italian, perhaps.  Or American, probably from a custom frame builder like Ben Serotta.

There's a good reason for that: The "Murray" in the photo was indeed built by Serotta in his Saratoga Springs, NY workshop.  

So how did the bike end up bearing the name of a manufacturer of cheap bikes sold in big-box stores and pedaled off curbs by kids?  Well, Murray--which was as known for making lawnmowers as it was for kids' bikes--signed on to sponsor the US Olympic team that competed in the 1984 Los Angeles games.  To their credit, they sponsored the 7-11 Team, the first American cycling squad since the early 20th Century to challenge--and sometimes beat--the best of Europe and the rest of the world.  Some of its riders could boast, among other things, victories (or high placements) in the classics as well as individual stages of the Giro d'Italia, Tour de France and other multi-stage races.

The bike in the photo took Davis Phinney to a fifth-place finish in the 1984 Olympic road race. 

Now Ben Serotta, who started building frames in 1972, is re-entering his old profession.  His business grew; 40 years later, he partnered it with a company that, the following year, joined another company that would later go bankrupt.

Although I'm sure his new bikes won't look like the one he built for Davis Phinney, I am sure they will be nice.  He says he will build in steel as well as titanium and aluminum.  Any one of those materials--especially steel--will highlight his fine craftsmanship.  And they will bear his name.

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.

Splitting Vintage

Every once in a while, I'll walk by a seemingly-ordinary bicycle parked somewhere or another and, without knowing why, turn back to look at it.

That's what happened today at a local library branch.  This is the bike that made me backtrack:

At first glance, it seems like one of the current Merciers.  Not a bad bike, but nothing exceptional:  The welded Reynolds 520 frame sports a combination of inexpensive but functional components.  And the color and trim are rather nice but, again, not exceptional.

However, I noticed an interesting little detail upon looking at the bike for the second time:

The model name is "Galaxy."  Why would I notice something like that?

Well, as far as I know, when Merciers were built in France, there was never a "Galaxy" model.  However, another bike-builder--in England--offered a "Galaxy" model:

Dawes was a family-owned bicycle manufacturer based in Birmingham--the center of the British cycle industry--for nearly a century.  They were known mainly for their touring models; the Galaxy was billed as one of the least expensive stock (what the Brits call "off the peg") quality touring models available.

In materials, design and construction, it was very similar to the Raleigh Super Course, though the frame workmanship, in my opinion, tended to be a little better on the Galaxy.  Also, the Galaxy had, if I'm not mistaken, a somewhat longer wheelbase than the Super Course.

While not as popular as Raleigh in the US, many new American cyclists early in the 1970's "bike boom" bought a Dawes Galaxy as their first "serious" bike.  More than a few were outfitted with racks, full fenders (They came with useless half-fenders.) and lights and ridden on the Bikecentennial.  

What's interesting is that Dawes and Mercier--like Windsor--were bike brands that had somewhat-more-than-modest popularity in the US during that time. Now Chinese- and Taiwanese-made bikes bearing all three of those brands--as well as the hugely popular Motobecane--are sold on the Internet.  

Bikes sold under those brands in the US have no connection to the original manufacturers, which no longer make bikes in the countries in which they were founded.  Mercier, which had a successful racing team, went bankrupt in 1985; the same fate befell Motobecane, which became MBK and now manufactures motor scooters.  Windsor used to build bikes in Mexico based on European designs; its "Profesional" (note the Spanish spelling) was a knockoff of a Cinelli racing bike.  Eddy Mercx rode a Colnago bike bearing Windsor decals when he set the one-hour distance record in Mexico City in 1972.

So Dawes is the only one of those bike brands sold on the Internet whose original namesake company still exists. (Dawes bikes in the UK are sold by dealers and aren't the same as the ones in the US.) It's thus ironic to see the name of one of the most popular models in its history appropriated by a "ghost" bike label--that was based in France, no less!

Dawes Galaxy Road Test in Bicycling, May 1969