The Mountain Bike Becomes A City Slicker

A while back, I got a '90's Cannondale mountain bike for not very much.  I could have ridden it as-is, replacing only the shifter.  But I decided to make it into a second city bike-commuter, sharing duties with my Fuji Allegro.

One thing I really didn't was the suspension fork that came with the bike.  For my intended purposes, I don't need a suspension fork.  Also, I didn't want to hunt down parts (like elastomers) for a fork that hasn't been made in about 20 years.

I know the steel fork that's on the bike now looks out of proportion to the oversized aluminum tubes of the frame.  But it'll do the job and I'm not too worried about the looks of this bike.  If anything, I'm hoping that its steampipe visuals will allow me to park it on the street without too many worries.

Some of the parts--like that seatpost and seat collar--I had lying around. (I'm not lying.) As was typical of mountain bikes of the time, the Cannondale came with a quick-release seat collar--which makes it easy for casual thieves to take your seat and seatpost!

I would have kept the wheels, which consisted mostly of no-name components. But I got a really good buy on a pair of Sun CR18 rims.  They're a 26 inch version of the 700C rims on the Fuji, which have served me well.

Whatever this bike lacks in aesthetics, I think it more than compensates in simplicity and usefulness.   Yes, that's a Velo Orange Porteur handlebar, in the 22.2 size.

On a bike like this, I don't expect a ride anything like that of any of my Mercians.  For that matter, I didn't expect anything even as nimble as the Fuji--which isn't set up for that.  But I have been pleasantly surprised.  My commutes and errands don't seem any slower than they've been on the Fuji.  An added bonus is that I can ride through just about any pothole or other obstacle without a second thought.

These Brakes Made Me Stop--And Take Notice

On this blog, I have said that almost every "innovation" or "revolution" in cycling is simply a reiteration of something that was done earlier.  Some examples include non-round chainrings and aluminum frames.

The same can be said for "U"-brakes, which were found on many mountain bikes of the late 1980's.  Like cantilevers and "V" brakes, they mount on studs that are usually brazed onto the frame. They look like oversized centerpulls, which is what they basically are.  On one model, a cam mechanism replaced the straddle cable and yoke found on cantilevers and centerpulls.  This helped to make the brake more rigid and powerful, but also were prone to getting clogged with mud or fouled by debris when the brakes were mounted, as they typically were, on the chainstays.

They actually bore a striking resemblance to these brakes made from the 1930s until the 1960s:

I suspect this particular model was made by Jeay because Mercier, among other French bike makers,  equipped their tandems, touring bikes,  randonneuses and city bikes with them.   

Those brakes, like "U" brakes, are operated by a cam that's pulled by the cable.  Also like U brakes, they mount on studs that are higher on the forks or stays than those for cantilevers but lower than the ones used for centerpulls. 

The Mercier in the photo has other features--such as the frame tube configuration and rear pannier-- rarely, if ever, found on bikes that made their way to the US:

That means, of course, I am not in Kansas, let alone the US.  More on that soon.
 

An Atala In Another Life

In my previous life--many years ago--I saw an Atala bicycle for the first time.  Then, it was as exotic to me as African masks and Japanese prints must have been to French artists in the middle of the 19th Century.  

Even next to other racing bikes I'd seen, it seemed almost other-worldly.  For one thing, it was probably the first bike I saw that was equipped with Campagnolo components--although I had no idea of what they were, let alone why they were so revered.  Hey, I didn't even know that the frame was made of Columbus tubing, which was the only equal to Reynolds 531.  

One thing I knew for certain was that the bike was pretty (even prettier than the one in the above photo):  painted in a kind of coral color with white bands and chromed lugs and dropouts, if I recall correctly.  In fact, I probably thought it was the prettiest bike I'd seen up to that time.

As I came to know about and ride other bikes, I was less impressed with Atalas.  Whatever awe I had for them was all but destroyed after I worked on a few in bike shops:  Other bikes, from Italy as well as other countries, had much better workmanship.

But seeing that Atala important for me for one other reason.  Atala was probably the first bike brand I encountered for the first time through its top racing model.  I knew of Royce-Union, Schwinn, Raleigh and a few other manufacturers through their three-speeds, baloon-tired bombers or their kids' "Chopper" or "Sting-Ray"-style bikes, and would later encounter their road bikes.  I first learned of Peugeot, Gitane and few other French makers through their lower-level ten-speed bikes, which seemed to appear like toadstools after a rainstorm during the early years of the BIke Boom.  A couple of years later, I would encounter Japanese bike makers like Fuji, Nishiki and Miyata in a similar fashion.

It wasn't until years later, when I went to Italy for the first time, that I saw an Atala city bike.  Back then, such bikes were all but unavailable in the US:  Bike shops would stock a model from, say, Peugeot or Kabuki; it wouldn't sell and everyone would conclude there was no market for such bikes.

Over the past two or three years, I have been seeing more city bikes from European and Japanese companies that, for decades, have been making them for people in their own countries.  One of those bikes is the Atala I saw tonight, parked just a few doors away from the apartment of a friend I was meeting.   

I'll bet that whoever rides that bike has never seen that Atala racing bike I encountered a long time ago, in another life.