Against The Wind, Into A Passion

In 1972 or thereabouts, he pedaled from Buffalo, New York to Erie, Pennsylvania.  "My butt has never been the same since then, honest to God," he says.

He doesn't mention what saddle he rode.  My guess is that it was broken-down, rather than broken-in.

More than likely, it's the saddle that came with the bike when he bought it. That is what most people ride, at least until they realize they can replace seats that are uncomfortable for them.  In this case, however, it may not have been possible for the Buffalo-to-Erie cyclist to swap out his bum-buster.

You see, that saddle came on a Columbia bicycle--but not one you might have ridden when you were a kid (or, perhaps, are still riding now!).  Rather, it's one of the Columbias made by Albert Pope's company in 1886.

Jim Sandoro bought that bike in 1970 at a flea market just outside of Cleveland.  A couple of years later, he took his fateful ride. "Like idiots, we didn't think about the wind," he recalls.  "In the old days, they used to pedal from Erie to Buffalo"--in the direction opposite from the one Sandoro rode--"because they knew better."  His ride into the wind, he says, took "16 grueling hours."

Jim Sandoro with a Maid of the Mist bicycle from his collection

Since I have never ridden a high-wheeler, I can only imagine what that ride was like.  The bike, however, helped to form a collection of vintage bicycles and rare bike memorabilia Sandoro and his wife, Mary Ann, have amassed over the past half-century.   They have concentrated their efforts on bikes and related items made from the 1860s through the 1920s, especially models related to their native Western New York State.

On Saturday, that collection will be displayed for the public for the first time in the Buffalo Transportation/ Pierce-Arrow Museum, which they founded and built.  The museum has been devoted mainly to automobiles and, more recently, the Frank Lloyd Wright Filling Station.  But now the Sandoro's collection, which has been augmented by bikes they purchased from the former Pealing History Museum in nearby Orchard Park, will take a prominent place in their museum.

And, if you plan to ride there, you might want to pay attention to the wind!

Back to the Future(ism)

The other day I wrote about Skycycle, an elevated bicycle highway proposed for London.

When I looked at the artist's rendition of it, I couldn't help but to think about Futurism, which began in Italy early in the twentieth century.  Artists, designers, architects, musicians writers and even fashion designers and gourmet chefs wanted to "free" Italy from the "shackles" of its history.  

The chefs and food critics associated with the movement even wanted to convert Italians from eating pasta to eating rice!  

The visions of the future presented by creative people associated with the movement sometimes look like episodes of The Jetsons--which is especially striking when you consider motion pictures were just past their naissance and television was about half a century in the future.

What ruined it for a lot of people, though, is that Benito Mussolini embraced it as part of his vision of reforming "a nation of illiterate peasants, manual labors, waiters, barbers and tourist guides".  Also, a paralell movement developed in Russia (and in the nascent Soviet Union). Thus, futurism would be bound, in many people's minds, with fascism or other kinds of totalitarianism.

The irony is that when Futurism was embraced--admittedly, by relatively few--in the United States, the resulting designs were lavish--almost a post-modern baroque, if you will.

This "Spacelander" bike was designed by Benjamin G. Bowden and made by Bomard Industires during the early 1960's.  Only 500 or so were ever sold; now they are sought by collectors.

Un Volte, Un Pezzo Di Cartone E Solo Un Pezzo Di Cartone

The riders and collectors of vintage bikes and equipment seem to fall into two categories:  those who like scratches, patina and other signs of age, and those who want the "showroom" look.

Those who are in the latter category and take their obsession to an extreme need these:

If you think you're looking at two little oddly-shaped pieces of cardboard stamped with a classic Campagnolo logo, trust your perception.  Even if you do, though, you may not be able to believe what you read next:

Those two pieces of cardboard--which measure no more than about 15mm by 10mm each--are now selling for $6 USD.  If you want them, go to Boulder Bicycle. 

Now, of course, there are always people who will pay utterly insane amounts of money for the most mundane items if said items are emblazoned with logos the pre-eminent component maker in Italy (and, some would argue, the world) used while its founder, Tullio Campagnolo, was still alive.  I confess that I was one: I bought handlebar plugs and toe strap end buttons that cost twice as much as they would have without the Campy logo.  I thought they were "musts" for my Campagnolo-equipped Italian bikes.

However, the items you see in the photo were not, to my knowledge, made or sold by anyone else.  In fact, they weren't sold by anybody, at least not a la carte:  They came with new sets of Nuovo and Super Record, and Gran Sport, brakes from the mid-1960's,when Campagnolo first introduced their brakes, to the mid-1980's, after Tullio died and Campy discontinued their old NR, SR and GS gruppos.
 
The pieces of cardboard you see in the photo were used as packing material.  They were intended for removal after the brakes were installed on the bike, but manufacturers and dealers often left them on.  They didn't impede the function, as they fit over the acorn nuts on the outside of the brake mechanism.  As Boulder Bicycle points out, leaving them on gave the impression that the brakes were "factory fresh". 

I guess if you're trying to evoke or recall the feeling of seeing the brand-new, Campy-equipped, Colnago or Cinelli you saw for the first time (and despaired of affording) in your youth, six bucks is a bargain.