Buying What They Were

Five of my six bikes are equipped with SRAM chains, even though I don't currently use any other SRAM components.

It's an old habit: The first replacement chain I ever bought was a Sedis. It worked well for me, and I would use continue to use Sedis chains...until they became Sachs chains.  Then I used Sachs chains...until they became SRAM.

Back in the '80's, Sachs, which was known primarily for multigear and coaster brake hubs, bought out Sedis, as well as several other French component makers, most notably Maillard and Huret.  A few years later, the SRAM consortium, which consisted of Grip Shift, Rock Shox and a few other parts makers, acquired Sachs.

To keep simple-minded folk like me from getting confused, for the first few years of Sachs ownership, the company marketed those parts--which were still made in France--under hyphenated names:  Sachs-Sedis, Sachs-Maillard and Sachs-Huret.  But SRAM tossed all of those names into the dustbin of history.  I didn't mind:  I still like the chains.

I mention this because of another interesting name-change.  Rivendell is, of course, the bike brand Grant Peterson created from the ashes of Bridgestone.  Now "Rivendell" and "Bridgestone" are often used as terms to describe a kind of retro-ish or modern-retro bike, much as "Scotch tape" has become a generic term for rolls of clear adhesive bands, even though the phrase is a registered trademark of 3M.

Today Bridgestone bikes have something of a cult following.  So does Rivendell, if it's not a status symbol in some circles.  But what's commonly forgotten is that Bridgestone had two other identities, at least in the US, before it became Bridgestone.

Back in the early '70's, when the American Eagle Kokusai (later known as the Nishiki International) and Fuji S-10S were showing that Japanese bikes could compete with, and sometimes beat (especially in shifting), their European counterparts, there was another Japanese bike brand that seemed determined to make people remember why they shunned anything with a "Made In Japan" label.  

To be fair, some bikes sold under the C.Itoh brand were pretty good riders.  The company even had a "professional" model with a chrome-moly frame, Sugino Competition cranks, Sun Tour bar end shifters, "V" rear derailleur and Compe V front; Dia Compe brakes and Sanshin-Sunshine hubs with tubular rims and tires.  It was like a lower-priced version of the Fuji Finest, Nishiki Professional or Miyata Pro, with the best pre-Cyclone, pre-Dura Ace equipment available.

C.Itoh bike, circa 1972

But there were other C.Itoh bikes that, shall we say, reenforced all of the old negative stereotypes about Japanese bikes:  They had clunky lugs and bottom bracket shells,  dropouts and other frame fittings that were, to put it politely, quirky. The paint on those frames and chroming on the rims and bars flaked and came flying off when the bike was operated at more-than-average speeds.

Bridgestone-Kabuki "Superlight", circa 1975

(Maybe the folks making those bikes were trying to emulate the French, as Japanese bike makers often did in those days, and so believed they had to make their bikes like croissants.*)

Some of those bikes also came with a seatpost that almost no novice cyclist of the time had seen:  It looked more like the quill of a stem, with an expander bolt and plug that worked like those of a stem.  So, you didn't tighten your seat post with a seat binder bolt:  The expander kept it in the frame.  In one way, that's a good idea:  At least you don't have to worry about stripping out or deforming the seat lug.  On the other hand, it meant that saddle height adjustments could be made only by removing the saddle.

Kabuki Submariner, circa 1975

When C.Itoh bikes were rebranded , they kept that strange seat post. They also kept the clunky-looking lugs and bottom bracket shell.  At least they made sense on one model.  If you haven't seen it, you've heard of it:  the Submariner.  At least, that's what it was called when C. Itoh became Kabuki.

The Submariner was ostensibly a bike designed for marine environments.  So those lugs and bottom bracket shell were thick because they were aluminum.  Why were they aluminum?  Supposedly because they were needed in order to braze together the tubes, which were stainless steel:  Using steel lugs would have all but required silver brazing rod, which is much more expensive than the brass brazing rods used on most bikes, to keep from overheating the stainless steel.

The thing is, most other Kabukis looked like Submariners with paint on them.  What's funny about that, and the Submariners, is they date themselves as '70's bikes precisely because they don't look like other bikes from that period.  And they were sold under the Kabuki name because, by the mid-70s, people were actually willing to buy Japanese bikes because they were Japanese, so it wasn't necessary to mask their identities with names that didn't sound Japanese. (American Eagle?)

A rather nice Kabuki track bike, circa 1974

A decade later, when Kabuki became Bridgestone, and Grant Petersen became their lead designer, people were buying them because they rode--and looked--like the bikes they remembered from the '70's.  And they're paying even more for that privilege when they buy Rivendell, the line of bikes Grant started after Bridgestone closed its US operations in the mid-90s.

So, while I buy SRAM chains because they were (and, really, still are) Sedis chains, you probably aren't buying a Rivendell--or didn't buy a Bridgestone--because it was Kabuki or C.Itoh.  At least, I hope not.

(*By the way, I didn't mean to disparage French bikes, or anything else French.  I love croissants, and some French bikes, but that doesn't mean bikes should be made like croissants!)

A Proteus Bicycle: They--Or You--Could Build It

The other day, in writing about the Tokheim "Gear Maker", I mentioned that a number of American manufacturers tried to cash in on their country's "Bike Boom" during the 1970s, even though those companies had no experience in making anything bike-related.  Most, like Tokheim, were either out of the bike business or defunct within a decade. 

 

Then there were companies like Cannondale and Bellwether that entered the market during the decade, which also included a "boom" in hiking, skiing, camping and other outdoor activities.  Bellwether made bike bags and clothing; they are still in the bike clothing business.  (I still use some winter items of theirs I bought years ago.)  And, of course, Cannondale is one of the best-known names in cycling.  They still offer small seat and frame pouches, but not the panniers or handlebar bags many of us used in tours past.  "C" also has a line of bike clothing in addition to their bikes.  Ironically, when Cannondale first appeared on the scene in 1970, they did not make bicycles or bicycle clothing (those items would not be part of the company's offerings for another dozen years); the hiking, camping and skiing  gear they made in those days hasn't been made since the mid-1980's.

 

During the 1970s in the US, there was also something of a mini-boom in hand- and custom-frame building.  During the days of the six-day races, there were many such builders, especially in the New York, Detroit and Chicago areas, as well as in California.  Some hung on during the "dark ages" of cycling after World War II and catered to the small but enthusiastic community of cyclists still found in the 'States.  But most of those builders had either died, left the business or retired by the 1960s.  So, the American builders of the 1970s were mostly a new breed.

 

One of the most respected was Albert Eisentraut, who worked in the San Francisco Bay area.  One way in which he and the other new American builders differed from those of the previous generation is that they were home-grown and, in many cases, self-taught, in contrast to earlier builders who came from the other side of the Atlantic or had spent considerable time there.  Also, the new builders didn't even have the remanants of a racing or general cycling culture the earlier builders could draw upon.

 

That lack of precedent was both a hindrance and a help.  Of course, it was a hindrance because it steepened the learning curve for the newcomers; also, there were some (whom we don't hear about today) who didn't stay in the "game" because they overheated frame tubes or made other mistakes that resulted in their frames failing or simply not riding satisfactorily.  On the other hand, the lack of antecedents also gave the newcomers the freedom to approach their work in ways traditional builders never would have dreamed of.

 

 

A Proteus touring bike, circa 1977

 One of those new builders was really a collective known as Proteus Cycles.  Founded by Barry Konig, Larry Dean and Steve Schuman in 1971, they weren't French-style constructeurs who built the whole bike from the ground up with custom-made components.  They even, in some ways, parted company with British builders like Ron Cooper, from whom they learned many of their skills.  Builders like Cooper, Bob Jackson and Mercian usually sell frames, whether custom or stock, and customers or their local shop build them up with components the customer chooses (although those builders sometimes sell complete bikes).  But the frames you get from such builders are entirely their own work; while the customer might have a say in designing it, he or she leaves the actual building to the builder.

The customer could order such a frame, or a complete bike, from Proteus.  Or, he or she could let them build it, and finish it him or herself. Or he or she could build the frame and Proteus would finish it.

Dan Rovelli's 1979 Proteus.  From Classic Rendezvous

That last option was particularly intriguing.  You see, at its peak, Proteus held frame-building classes and even published a book about frame building, penned by a fictitious "Dr. Paul Proteus."  Konig, Dean and Schulman were, of course, the probable authors, and they recommended that anyone who wanted to build a frame should read it first--even before taking their classes or ordering one of the frame-building kits (which included tubing, lugs and other fitments) Proteus sold.  It was even possible to buy individual frame fitments, such as fork tangs, from the builders.

Ben Dillingham's Proteus, with modern touches

I like to think that Proteus was more like a studio or a gallery combined with an art-supply shop than a traditional bike-building enterprise:  the artists/artisans not only worked on their creations; they also conducted classes and the organization sold the materials needed as well as related publications.  To my knowledge, no European or Japanese (or, for that matter, any other American) builder offered such a wide range of products and services.

I have tried to find out when, exactly, Proteus stopped being, well, Proteus.  Apparently, that happened some time in the late 1980s or thereabouts.  At that time, technology started to displace craftsmanship in the bicycle world, and I think that people simply didn't have as much time (or money) to spend on classes or to build their own bikes. I know that when I have a limited amount of time, I'd rather ride my bikes than work on them!

Today there is a bike shop called Proteus that is a descendent of the legendary bike-building collective.  Apparently, the Proteus partners continued to operate a bicycle retail business after they stopped building frames and, in time, sold the business to others.  According to the shop's website, it holds social events and holds classes as well as rides.  I guess, in some way, they are keeping up the spirit of "Dr. Paul Proteus."

(P.S.:  Jill Di Mauro bought the shop in 2002.  In 2007, Di Mauro married her Canadian partner in Canada.  Though Maryland would legalize same-sex marriage four years later, federal laws--including immigration statutes--didn't recognize their union.  So, when Di Mauro's wife's visa expired, she had to return to Canada.  In 2012, Di Mauro sold the shop and moved to upstate New York to be closer to her wife while she applied to return to the US.)

 

 

Cycling In Paris, Then And Now

If you've been reading this blog during the past week-and-a-half, you know that I did a pretty fair amount of cycling during my stay in Paris, which ended just the other day. 

When I went to the City of Light in 2004, I didn't do any cycling.  However, I rode there during eight previous trips from 1984 to 2000, and during the time I lived there before those trips.  (On those previous trips, I rode to and from Paris as part of longer tours in addition to riding in the city itself.)  Now, I'll admit that I can draw only so many conclusions from spending only ten days there, as I did on my most recent trip.  Still, I feel confident in saying that pedaling in Paris this year was a very different experience from that of previous years.

One reason is, of course, that I am a decade and a half older--and my body is very different now, due to the hormones and surgery.  Naturally, those factors make all of my riding different:  I simply cannot rely on pure strength and chutzpah, as I did when I was younger.  Also, I am more careful about where and when I ride, though I must say that I felt less hesitation about taking a midnight ride alone in Paris than I do in New York.  Then again, I stayed in neighborhoods and on streets that were well-lit and full of pedestrian traffic even at a late hour.

But the main reason why riding in Paris was such a different experience this time had to do with how the nature of cycling itself in Paris has changed.  The two most obvious changes are the Velib program and bike lanes.  The former was non-existent, and the latter were nearly so the last time I cycled in the French capital. 

As I have said in previous posts, I am not as enthusiastic as some other people are about bike lanes.  In Paris, as in other places, lanes end abruptly or at rond-points or other intersections that are more difficult or even dangerous for cyclists to traverse than they would be if cyclists had been riding among automobile traffic.  Also, it's not always easy to see where lanes begin or resume.  To be fair, these problems--which also exist in New York and other cities--may be a consequence of the fact that the system of lanes is still a work in progress.  But I think that if the lanes are to become part of a true transportation alternative, they must be integrated with each other, and with the points at which they intersect with motor vehicle traffic.

Also, as in other cities, taxis pull into the lanes (at least, the ones that aren't separated from the streets by physical barriers) to pick up and discharge passengers, and trucks use them to make pickups and deliveries.  Worse yet, in overcrowded districts, such as that around Barbes-Rochechouart, people walk and even congregate in the lanes because there simply isn't enough room on the sidewalks.  Those neighborhoods are also home to African and Middle Eastern immigrants, who don't seem to ride bikes as much as Caucasian Parisians or tourists (at least, those from other European countries and North America).   I think that's why when I rode through those areas, some people looked a little surprised to see me riding in the lane--though, again in fairness, I must say they were very prompt and courteous in stepping aside for me.

Which brings me to another point about how cycling in Paris differs--or, actually, doesn't--from times past, but differs from riding in New York:  One doesn't find nearly the level of hostility from drivers and pedestrians toward cyclists that one can encounter in the Big Apple.  Part of that, I believe, has to do with something I've mentioned in earlier posts:  A culture of adult cycling continued in Paris, and in France, when it was all but dead in the United States.  Thus, as I've mentioned, many drivers and pedestrians are also cyclists, or were recently.  And those who aren't or weren't are at least familiar with cycling and cyclists. 

The one time a driver cursed at me, I deserved it: I made a wrong turn and rode the wrong way on a street near Bonne Nouvelle (ironic, isn't it?) as said driver approached.  I apologized; he yelled "Faites attention!"  Good advice.

As for riding the "wrong" way:  Often, one sees the international Passage Interdit (Do Not Enter) sign with a caption that reads "sauf velos" or "sauf cyclistes".  In other words, it's a one-way street for motor vehicles, but not for bicycles.  I have never seen such a thing here in New York, and for me, it was strange to see it in Paris because the streets are narrower. 

Also, I saw only a few cyclists on sidewalks, and they were riding only from a curb to a door.  They didn't experience the admonishment, let alone the hostility or attention from the police one can experience (especially if one is a Black or Hispanic male) for riding on a New York sidewalk.  Mainly out of habit, I didn't ride on sidewalks:  I rode to wherever I was going, dismounted and walked my bike to the store or museum entrance.

Given what I've described in this post, I will be very interested to see if cycling seems like a different experience yet again should I return to Paris and to the rest of France, as I hope to do one day (year?) soon.


 

What Happened To Lyotard, SunTour And All Of Those Other Little Companies That Made Nice, Practical Stuff?

The posts I wrote about Lyotard pedals and clipless pedal designs that have come and gone got me to thinking about a way in which the bicycle world has changed during my nearly four decades as a dedicated rider.

I first started to take longer rides and made some commitment to training during the later part of the '70's Bike Boom.  At that time, about the only bike makers (at least, those with any pretentions of quality) most Americans heard of were Schwinn and Raleigh.  As big as those companies were, to call either of them the General Motors of cycling would have been preposterous:  Schwinn's sales peaked at 1.5 million bikes in 1974, about the same number of cars from just one division of GM--Oldsmobile--that were sold in the same year.  And, of course, the sale of a car generates a far more revenue than the sale of a bike.

Other bicycle and component manufacturers--like Lyotard--were far smaller in scale.  They usually made their products for local markets:  Relatively few bike makers sold their wares much beyond the region, let alone the nation, in which they manufactured.  Most, especially in Europe and Japan, were still owned and operated by members of the families that founded them.  In fact, a few founders were still alive at that time.



What that meant was that most Americans had never heard of them.  Perhaps even more to the point, it meant that even though there was a wide network of races, tours and other bike-related events, they were much smaller in terms of both participation and money than today's events.   So, it didn't take as much money to sponsor a team or rider as it does (both in absolute and relative terms) today.  Small and medium-sized bike companies as well as businesses in other industries (think of Molteni) could get in on the action.  

It also meant that bike and component makers, like other small businesses, were risk-averse.  What I didn't realize when I started riding was that the designs for most bikes and parts (one notable exception being SunTour derailleurs and shifters) available at that time were already decades old.  Some actually worked well and were durable; if you used them, you learned to put up with their idiosyncracies or shortcomings.  Then again, if you hadn't used anything else, you didn't think they were idiosyncracies and shortcomings.

Most of the Lyotard pedals were examples of what I'm talking about. Now, I don't think they were deficient, but I don't think Lyotard had come out with a new pedal design since World War II, or not much later.  Even the Campagnolo Nuovo/Super Record parts were really just refinements of the Gran Sport products that made their first appearance during the early 1950's.



Around the mid-1980s, things started to change.  It might be fair to say that the ground shifted with Tullio Campagnolo's death in 1983.  His heirs discontinued the Nuovo and Super Record stuff Eddy Mercx, Bernard Hinault and others rode to victory.  In their stead came C-Record (actually, Record-Corsa or Record-C) parts.  Some, I'll admit, were quite lovely.  But none of them was really a functional improvement over its predecessors; in fact, some parts, like the "Delta" brake, were clearly not as good.

Other companies started to "innovate"--or, more precisely, create new novelties.  Designs became--or, at least looked--more and more radical every year.  To be fair, some new designs had legitimate purposes, at least for certain riders.  But too much of what was coming on the market every year was mere gadgetry:  stuff for the sorts of people who felt they simply had to have the newest and latest in everything.

In other words, the world of cycling was shifting from one that was guided by cyclists and riding to one driven by consumers and the marketplace.  That, in turn, turned the bike industry from a mosaic of relatively small companies to a pie cut into a few large slices by bigger companies.  Smaller companies, which didn't have the money or other resources to devote to research and development (or, very often, didn't see the need for such things) simply couldn't compete.  They, like SunTour and Lyotard, fell by the wayside or, like Sedis, Wolber and Super Champion, were absorbed by larger corporations, some of which had no previous involvement in the bicycle industry.  Even Mavic was bought by Salomon, which in turn was taken over by Adidas.  It could be argued that these turns of events enabled Mavic to develop the innovative (There's that word again!) rims and wheels that allowed it to retain its leading role in the 1990s and well into the 2000s.

Part of the pressure to create new things (or simply repackage old ones) also came from the ways in which the world of cycling events was changing during the 1980's.  By the time Greg LeMond won his first Tour de France, companies like Molteni (or mid-sized bicycle makers) were no longer sponsoring teams.  Corporations with much larger budgets were taking that on, and race sponsors included the likes of Coca-Cola and Nike.





Naturally, when companies put up money for riders and teams, they want a return on their investment.  So, the stakes became higher.  One benefit, at least for elite cyclists, was that the amount of prize money grew and the sport gained greater exposure outside of its traditional strongholds.  A downside was that it became more difficult for teams and riders with little or no money to compete, and smaller races and rallies became even smaller or disappeared altogether.


So, while 90 percent of the 1970s peloton were riding Reynolds or Columbus-tubed frames with Campagnolo components--all of which had been developed decades earlier--riders by the late '80s were astride newly-developed (and far more expensive) bikes with never-before-seen frame configurations and aerodynamic components made from exotic materials.  

It's easy to understand why racing-team sponsors would want their riders on the newest and most innovative equipment.  A race that takes hours or days but won by seconds (or fractions thereof) could well be decided by those extra few grams off the wheels or a frame or other part that's more aerodynamic.  And, as in any professional sport, there is really not as much difference as one might expect between the best and the rest of the peloton as there is between anyone who's in the peloton and anyone who isn't.  




That point is lost on club riders with lots of money and vivid fantasies.  They want to ride whatever's being ridden in the peloton.  If they didn't have such equipment, they seem to believe, younger and better-conditioned riders will make them look like the out-of-shape and not-so-young riders they actually were. Of course, those young and poor riders either get better or get better equipment, and the riders with bigger wallets and stomachs (I should talk, right?) want "better" equipment.

And so the world and industry went from being, essentially, a village of mom-and-pop enterprises that responded to cyclists' needs to an economy increasingly dominated by corporations that profit from anxieties they create in consumers.