Suspending Disbelief

I started mountain biking right around the time suspension front forks were becoming a standard feature of serious off-road machines.  Back then, it seemed that designs were changing every week, and that if you bought a Rock Shox Mag 20, or a Marzocchi or Manitou telescoping fork, a year later you could get something lighter, more durable and with more travel--whether from those brands or one of the new marquees that seemed to appear every month.

Suspension (telescoping) fork advert, September 1992

  

By the time I stopped mountain biking and sold my Bontrager Race Lite, in 2001, new suspension forks bore little resemblance to the ones I saw and rode nearly a decade earlier.  Moreover, bikes with suspension in the rear of the frame had become commonplace, with designs that changed as rapidly as fork designs had been changing.

Even with all of that design evolution, there were some ideas that, apparently, no one ever considered.  Can you imagine how mountain bikes--and mountain biking--would be different if the first suspension system looked something like this?:

To be honest, I'm not sure I'd want to ride such a bike, especially on rocky ground.  I'd guess that even when I was skinnier and more flexible than I am now, I wouldn't have been able to keep my feet on the pedals for very long.


 



 


Then again, maybe the bike isn't made for spinners or sprinters.  It's called a "Flying Bike" because, I believe, it's made for riders to pedal for a few rotations before lifting their feet and "flying".  But I have to wonder whether it would feel like flying if the bike is bouncing through potholes and over rocks.

If you think the "flying bike" is weird, check this out:

 Can you imagine what mountain bikes would be like today if that had become the paradigm for suspension?

Rough Stuff From The Brothers

Back when mountain bikes were new--well, they weren't.  Not really.

When Gary Fisher, or whoever, broke his twentieth or thirtieth balloon-tire bomber frame while barreling down the fire trails of Marin County and decided to fashion a lighter, stronger frame with the same geometry--and provisions for multiple gears, dearailleurs and cantilever brakes--it wasn't a radical new idea.

That's not to say that it wasn't important, which would be like saying that Levi Strauss has had no effect on the way people dress.  At the time Gary Fisher, Keith Bontrager and those mountain-bike pioneers were introducing their rigs, almost no other Americans--or, for that matter, people in other parts of the cycling world--had seen a bike made for the rigors of trail riding.

The idea of such a bike has been around since the dawn of cycling itself.  It makes sense, when you think about it:  When the first vehicles we recognize as bicycles appeared about 130 or 140 years ago, there were few paved roads.  Riding even those could shake one's bones even more than the "boneshakers" of that time.  Bikes at that time had to withstand being ridden over ruts, rocks and sometimes roots.

Some might argue that the velos a ballon one still finds in the French countryside are forerunners of today's velos a tout terrain. Other possible ancestors of today's mountain bikes could also include any number of wide-tired bikes used for transportation and even recreation in various parts of the world.

In England, there was a genre called the "Rough Stuff" bike.  Jack Taylor Cycles, most renowned for their tandems, actually used the catchy phrase as the name for  one model  of single-rider bikes they made. 



Isn't it funny how so many ideas that seemed so radical in the 1980's are present on a bike designed three decades earlier?  I'm talking about the sloping top tube, high bottom bracket and small (compared to a typical road bike) diameter wheels.  Also, this bike has the Mafac cantilever brakes and Specialites TA ProVis 5 (a.k.a. Cyclotouriste) cranks. 

Before the tries and cables were replaced.

The bike was first produced from drawings submitted by a nature photographer.  In the early 1950's, photography equipment was much bigger, bulkier and heavier than it is now.  The built-in rear rack, like the whole bike, is built to withstand the rigors of carrying such a load in the wild.

Here is a BBC documentary about Jack--and his brothers/fellow builders Ken and Norman--that aired in 1986:


 

"The First Brakes That Worked"

If you have a Peugeot--or almost any other French bike (Motobecane being one of the notable exceptions) made before the late 1970's, you are riding them.

No, I'm not referring to those plastic Simplex derailleurs or the longer-lasting but worse-shifting Huret models.  Unless you acquired a bike that was never ridden, you've probably had to replace your shifters by now.  Even If you didn't need to, you might have.

On the other hand, there's a good chance you're still riding your Mafac "Racer" brakes.  You might have replaced the pads and cables--actually, you should have because even if the bike wasn't ridden, the cables were probably corroded and the pads hardened.  If you did, and your brakes are adjusted, they work as well as--or even better than--most brakes available today.

I am mentioning them because, for about two decades, they achieved a distinction very few other bike parts held:  They were used on bikes at all price and quality levels, from the machines ridden by Tour de France winners to the most utilitarian city and town bikes.  Some time in the mid-1970's, Mafac came out with the "Competition", which was really the same brake with a shorter reach.  Later, it was cleaned up and polished (and still later offered with gold anodizing).  A longer version of the Competition --i.e., one with the same reach as the Racer--was also marketed.

 

The one other difference between the "Racer" and "Competition" was the straddle cable:  The one on the Competition had double ball ends, while the Racer used what was essentially a shorter link of derailleur cable (with the barrel-shaped end used on Campagnolo and Simplex shifters) bolted into hex-shaped ends.

While some may see these brakes as anachronisms, they have an important place in cycling history. Some cycling historians say they were "the first brakes that actually worked".  That is almost not hyperbole:  There seemed to be a mentality among brake-makers (at least those that made brakes for road bikes) that was expressed by a Campagnolo representative at a training session:  The purpose of the brake is not to stop, but to decelerate.  Some would argue that notion gave the brakes of the time too much credit.

(When I first got serious about cycling, there was a joke that the Universal 68 side-pull--commonly supplied on bikes that were otherwise all-Campagnolo--was a "courtesy" brake.)

One reason for Mafac's superior power was the way the brake block attached to the arm:  through an eyebolt.  This allowed a far greater range of adjustability along the vertical and horizontal planes.  This was particularly important with rims like the Constrictor Asp, which did not have flat parallel sides.

(The Asp seems almost like an embryonic version of today's V-shaped "aero" rims!)

Another advantage offered by the "Racer" brakes was that the length of the straddle cable could be adjusted to optimize the mechanical advantage of the brake.  This allowed the brakes to work well with a variety of different levers, as well as with the pads set all the way up or all the way down--or anywhere in between--on the brake arm.

Now, you might be thinking that the first working center pull--and the one on which others were based, at least in part--is not so important because sidepulls have advanced so much, and so Mafac has been relegated to la poubelle de l'histoire.  Well, even though Mafac hasn't been in business for about three decades, their place in cycling history is sure because of the very first product they made, about seven years before the "Racer" was introduced.

Their cantilever brake, introduced in 1946, remained in production throughout the company's history (about four decades).  It's not the first of its type.  But, compared to the ones that had been made before, it was easy to set up and use, and was more powerful.  For as long as Mafac made them, nearly every lightweight tandem was equipped with them.  So were many high-quality bikes made for fully-loaded touring, and most cyclo-cross racers.  For the latter, cyclists often brazed the necessary posts to old racing frames to accommodate the cantilevers which, in addition to offering superior stopping power, were not as easily clogged by the mud that is an essential element of any cyclo-cross race.

The early mountain bikes also used Mafac cantis.  When Dia-Compe and Shimano made  cantilever brakes that appeared on off-the-shelf touring bikes (and second-generation mountain bikes) sold in the US, their designs were basically adaptations and refinements of Mafac's.  Weinmann also more-or-less copied Mafac cantis and, apparently, bought Mafac's tooling and continued making cantis, in steel as well as alloy, until their own demise in the 1990's.

Many of us still use cantis today.  Those of you who use V-brakes also have to thank Mafac, because Vees were developed from cantis.  And even those of us who use dual-pivot sidepulls owe a debt of gratitude to Manufacture Auvergnoise de Freins et Accessories pour Cycle for developing the centerpull that helped to make it possible!

For me, it's interesting to recall that Frank Chrinko, the proprietor of Highland Park (NJ) Cyclery when I was working there, would not ride any brakes but Mafac centerpulls.  In fact, he put a set of Competitions, along with a mixture of Campagnolo and top-shelf French and Japanese parts, on a frame that was built custom for him. 

My First Mountain (Bike)

There's a good chance you've seen one of these bikes:

For a time in my life, I owned and rode one.  In fact, I was one of the first people to do so.

Early in 1983, I was working at Highland Park (NJ) Cyclery again.  At that time, I had the Columbus-tubed Trek 930  racing bike and Peugeot PX-10 I've mentioned in other posts.  

I didn't really want or need another bike.  However, at that time, I couldn't help but to notice the then-newfangled mountain bikes that were appearing for the first time outside of northern California and New England.  

Two years earlier, the first mass-produced mountain bike came to market:  The Specialized Stumpjumper.  Up to that time, mountain bikes were made by specialty framebuilders like Joe Breeze and Tom Ritchey and had components that the builders made themselves or adapted from existing parts.  Needless to say, those bikes were expensive:  even more costly than the best racing bikes available at the time.  In spite of the time and effort that went into building them, most early bikes rode and handled like shopping carts, at least compared to today's bikes.

Although the Stumpjumper was "mass market", it wasn't cheap:  For its sticker price, one could get a decent racing bike or a good fully-loaded tourer.  It, too, is clunky compared to modern mountain bikes, let alone road machines.  However, every once in a while I see one outfitted with decent components (some of which are original).  Because of their long wheelbases and slack angles, those early Stumpjumpers offer a cushier and even more stable (at slow speeds) ride than some cruisers, which some people love.  And, it almost goes without saying, the early Stumpjumpers are collectors' items.

I'm not sure the Ross Force 1 will ever attain such status. Nonetheless,  it holds the distinction of being the first mountain bike Ross produced, as well as the first bike with cantilever brakes to be built in the company's Allentown, PA factory.  (To my knowledge, no such bikes were ever made in their Rockaway Beach, NY factory.)

Some time in the 1970's, I believe, Ross started to make ten-speed bikes with lugged high-tensile steel frames after a decade or so of importing them from Japan.  Until then, Rosses were made like most other American bikes of the time:  from welded steel tubes.  Not surprisingly, they were about as heavy as most other American bikes.

The Force 1 featured a frame that looked--and rode--the way one of their lugged high-tensile bikes would have ridden if its wheelbase had been stretched a few inches and its angles slackened by about seven  degrees.  I couldn't complain, though:  I knew I wasn't getting a high-performance machine.  

So why did I buy it?  Well, for one thing, it was cheap:  The retail price was about the same as that of the company's mid-level ten-speed and, of course, as an employee, I didn't pay retail.  Also, I figured I could beat the stuffin's out of it, which I did.  Finally, as I said, I was curious about mountain bikes.

And, oh, I'll admit it:  I liked the way the bike looked, with its black frame and gold-anodized wheels.  

The bike was about what I expected:  heavy and sturdy.  It was the first bike I used as a messenger, and it served me well.  All through slushy, snowy, rainy deliveries, the bike held up nicely.  One particular surprise was the Normandy/Maillard five-speed freewheel that came with it.  For one thing, it was the only French, let alone European, part on the bike.  For another, it was the most impervious part:  The cogs barely wore at all, and none of the grit or slush seemed to enter the bearings or other parts of the mechanism.  Aside from cleaning the cogs when I degreased the chain, I didn't have to perform any maintenance on it.

Most of the other parts performed well (e.g., Sun Tour derailleurs) or were barely noticeable (cranks, seat post, and others).  The handlebars were rock-steady.  They should have been:  They were the "bull-moose" type, welded to the stem's two extensions.  I suspected that, removed from the bike, they'd make good weapons, though I never tested that idea.

It did come with one really weird component, though:  the Shimano Admas AX pedals.  In those days, Shimano had a reputation for weirdness, but these pedals made some of those early aerodynamic components seem sober.  Depending on which Shimano rep you believed, the pedals were more aerodynamic or more ergonomic than any others.  As far as I could tell, they simply had less ground clearance than any other pedal, save for one, I've ever ridden.  They met an untimely (or, perhaps not, for them) demise from curbs and such.

About a year after acquiring the bike--and a few months into my time as a messenger--I parked the Force I outside Rockefeller Center to make a delivery on a high floor. When I returned, it was gone.  All that glitters may not be gold, but it still attracts thieves, I guess.

Note:  The bike was eventually renamed the Mount Hood because of trademark issues with the Force 1 name.  The Mount Hood remained in production for several more years, first in Allentown and later in Taiwan.

Where Are The Bikes In Sochi?

This year's Winter Olympics are scheduled to begin tomorrow in Sochi.

While I love both speed and figure skating and some of the other sports, I have never understood why there isn't a cycling event in the Winter Games.

After all, countless cyclists ride in snow and over ice, down mountains and across ponds.  Some even do those things on purpose.

I admit that, at various times in my life, I was one of them--especially when I had a mountain bike.  I suppose I could put some knobby tires on an old bike and make myself a faux cyclo-cross machine, which could work well in wintry conditions.

If I were to do something like that now, it would take me a long time to be as accomplished a rider on snow and ice as these folks in Poland seem to be:

Both photos are from Icebike.

A Franken-Barracuda

Spend enough time in New York City, and you're sure to see some "Frankenbikes".  Such machines have been modified to serve some purpose for which they weren't built.  So, an old racer becomes someone's "pedal taxi" by changing the dropped bars and clipless pedals to flat versions of both, wider tires and, in some cases, clip-on fenders and lights.  Sometimes such bikes, which could have originally had anywhere from 10 to 20 speeds, are converted to single-speed or fixed-gear use.

Old mountain bikes might undergo similar treatment.  The difference is that these bikes' tires are often swapped for narrower ones or slicks (rather than the knobbier treads found on mountain bikes).  

Other "Frankenbikes" include ones in which one frame is stacked on top of the other, or "parts bin specials", in which a bike is assembled, basically, from whatever is lying around.

Today I spotted an interesting version of the latter kind of bike:

I wish I could have gotten a better angle on it.  At first glance, it didn't seem so unusual.  However, in passing it, I noticed this:

It's not the first time I've seen side-pull caliper brakes on a bike made, as most mountain bikes were until a few years ago, for cantilever or V-brakes.  Still, they look pretty strange (a least to me) on a front fork with suspension.  It was then that I realized that 700 C (road diameter) wheels were substituted for the original 26" mountain bike wheels.  The brake would not have been long enough to reach the rim of the smaller-diameter mountain bike wheel:

The same thing was done on the rear.  As I looked closer, I saw that the crankset had also been changed. 

What's interesting is that the crankset and brakes more than likely came from the same bike, most likely a mid-to-upper level Japanese road bike of the late 1970's or early 1980's.  The brakes were Gran Compes, which were a Japanese near-copy of Campagnolo's Record brakes.  And the crankset was forged by Sakae Ringyo, known in bike circles as SR.  

That they ended up on what appears to be a Barracuda A2B from 1995 or thereabouts is a story I'd like to follow.  Moreover, they ended up on that bike with a current Quando wheelset, yet the rear derailleur is a Shimano of later vintage than the bike.

Barracuda bikes had a meteoric "career", if you will. Two lifelong friends from Grand Rapids, MI founded the brand in 1992 in the mountain biking hotbed of Durango, CO.  After the business and its race team were well-established, manufacturing was moved to Taiwan, as was typical at that time.

The bikes had a loyal "cult" following, like many iconic mountain bike and component makers of the 1990's.  But those companies--often started, like Barracuda, by a couple of guys who liked to ride or a twenty-something in California whose father had a lathe and a drill press--often were run on unsound business practices.  In an odd way, this story parallels the dot-com boom and bust that followed it by a few years.  

Also, some smaller mountain bike and component makers of that time were done in by warranty claims or, in a few cases, litigation when a product was faulty.   It only took one or a few such cases to sink some of the smaller manufacturers, especially the ones that were operating out of someone's father's garage.

Late in 1995, in spite of positive reviews of their bikes, Barracuda was hemorrhaging money.  At the end of that year, Ross Bicycles bought the company. While they didn't change that year's models considerably, the ones that rolled off the assembly lines in the brand's later years bore almost no resemblance to the ones that had become virtual legends among a small group of mountain bikers.  By the end of the decade, Barracuda production had stopped.

Ironically, Ross--which was headquartered in Rockaway Beach, Queens--actually made a bike called the "Barracuda" during the 1960's and 1970's.  It was a small-wheeled bike with a stick shifter on the frame, similar in many ways to the Raleigh "Chopper" or the Schwinn "Krate" series.  So, one might say that the "Barracuda" I saw today was a Frankenbike even before anybody altered it!

 

What's Your Idea Of A "City Bike"?

What is your idea of a "city bike"?

Some--including Grant Petersen of Rivendell--think that an old mountain bike with a good rack is, if not ideal, then at least the best possible.

Others, such as hipsters and some messengers would tell you that a fixed-gear bike is the only thing you should ride in the concrete canyons.  They would argue for the sheer simplicity of it.  A few would even go for a pure track bike with no brakes and a tight wheelbase, which makes them maneuverable.

Then there are those who want a plush bike to ride over sewer grates, potholes and all of the other hazards of the urban landscape.  Such riders--particularly those who do no other riding but their commutes--might opt for a hybrid or mountain bike with suspension in the front fork, and even in the rear.  Or they might ride cruisers or other fat-tired bikes.

There's also the English three-speed camp.  They are probably the most immune to fads:  Such riders will clatter along on their vintage Raleighs, Dunelts, Rudges and other machines from Albion.  Because they're immune to fads (at least in bikes), they never think of their mounts as "vintage," even if they those bikes were made before they were born.

Cousins, if you will, to the English three-speed crowd are the ones who like Dutch-style city bikes.  Some might also argue that these cyclists are variants of the comfort-bike crowd.  The difference is that, not only are the Dutch bikes built for comfort and durability, they also come with features that you may have never thought of having on your bike but "might come in handy", such as built-in locks and lighting.

And then there are those who like the speed and nimbleness of the road bike, but want a more upright riding position and a bit more style.  They're the ones who ride French-style city bikes and porteurs, which are based wholly or in part by the elegant machines made by constructeurs such as Rene Herse and Alex Singer.

Finally, there are the rat-rodders.  In other words, any bike that looks like it's been to hell and back is the right bike for the city.  Lots of cyclists here in New York follow that credo, which makes a lot of sense when you have to park your bike in high-theft areas.  The rat-rod can be just about any kind of bike; these days, the majority (at least here in New York) seem to be ten- or twelve-speeds from the '70's or '80's, or mountain bikes from the '90's.  Think of the guy (Yes, he's almost always a guy.) who delivers your supper from the Chinese restaurant or diner:  He probably brought your meal on a "rat-rod."

A variant on the rat-rodder is the urban cyclist who rides a Frankenbike.  You've seen them: the Specialized Rockhoppers with Schwinn Varsity rear wheels; the Peugeot ten-speeds with high-rise bars and forks in a color (and style) that clashes with everything else on the bike.

In the nearly three decades in which I've been riding in New York, and through the years I biked the boulevards of Paris---and while biking on trips to other large cities like London, Prague, Amsterdam and San Francisco, I have seen my notions of the "ideal" city bike evolve and change.  Sometimes I want comfort; other times, I want a bike that I can leave in urban combat zones as well as those areas--like the neighborhood around St. Mark's Place--to which thieves gravitate.  At times, I've craved speed and the ability to slice between parked cars and belching buses; at other times, I've worried about preserving dental work.  But I've always thought about what's practical for my errands, commutes and other ride-and-park activities like shopping.  And, of course, I've changed, and so has the city in which I live.

What's your ideal city bike?  Has your idea of it changed?  If so, how?

A Parts-Bin Bike That Changed The World

The Trek I recently sold was a "parts bin bike."  That is to say, most of the components I hung on the frame were ones I had lying around after being stripped from other bikes--or acquired in swaps, or given to me.  

Practically every bike mechanic has put together at least one such bike for him or her self, and possibly for someone else.  Sometimes I think a true bike mechanic will not ride any other kind of bike.

Every once in a while, a "parts bin bike" gains some sort of significance beyond its maker's life.  Such was the case of this machine:

In the immortal words of Tom Cuthbertson, if you had a grand of cash and dreams of riding the Appalachian Trail on a bicycle, you went to Joe Breeze and he built you a bike like this one.

I have always liked the look of it:  an apparent cross between a diamond and French mixte frame.  (In fact, his first bikes were usually equipped with mixte bars.)  There was a reason for this design:  When Breeze, Gary Fisher and others who have claimed (or have had others claim for them) the title of the Inventor of the Mountain Bike were barreling down Marin and Sonoma County fire trails, their frames broke with alarming regularity.  The short life-spans of their bikes had to do with the abuse they incurred, to be sure. However, those pioneer mountain bikers were using bikes they picked up in thrift shops and garage and yard sales.  Some were not terribly strong bikes to begin with, but others were old bikes that probably had hairline cracks and other damage when the Downhill Dudes bought them.  Also, the old Schwinn and Columbia cruisers--which, in those days (late 1960's-mid 1970's) could be found for as little as $2--were made of mild steel.  That is why they were so heavy:  A lot of metal was used to make up for its lack of strength.

Back to Breeze's bike:  The frame was built from tubes and other pieces from wildly differing kinds of bicycles.  For example, take a look at the dropouts, fork, cranksets and brakes:

 

A mountain bike with track dropouts?  Or a fork from a newsboy-style bike of the 1950's?  How about a crankset and brakes from a tandem or touring bike?

When Joe Breeze built that bike nearly four decades ago, there were, of course, no mountain bike-specific parts.  The TA Cyclotouriste was one of the few cranksets available that could handle the kind of gearing needed.  And the Mafac cantilevers were, by far, the strongest brakes available at that time.  As primitive as those parts may seem to some people today, they were the best Breeze could find for his purposes.

I have to admit that I get a kick out of seeing a Brooks B-72 (which was standard equipment on many English three-speed bikes) on Breeze's rig.  What mountain biker rides such a seat today?

Whether or not Joe Breeze "invented" the mountain bikes, many agree that the bike pictured was the first to be built specifically for the nascent sport of mountain biking.  If nothing else, it's a parts bin bike (sort of, anyway) that changed the world.

In-Your-Face Gray

It's been a gray, rainy day.  You know the kind of day I mean: one in which you just can't escape the gray. It's not about my mood; I've actually been feeling good these past few days.


Here's another example of gray that you can't escape--or, more precisely, something gray that somehow manages to be in-your-face:

Now, of course, the bike seems even more in-your-face with an orange bike behind it.  Of course.

Just having the name "Giant" on a bike is pretty audacious.  Now, I've never owned one and have only test-ridden two.  I don't mean to disparage the bikes:  One of the Giants I tried was actually a nice ride.  I don't remember which model it was; I recall only that it was a mountain bike.


Anyway...I never realized a gray bike with black trim could be such an eclat to the senses!

The Gates To The Seasons

Today I took out Tosca for the first time since the week before Christmas.  In fact, this is the first time any of my Mercians have been out since then.


At Alley Pond Park, we got an interesting welcome:

The "gate" is in Alley Pond Park, near the Queens-Nassau line.  I hadn't been there in a long time.   In fact, the last time I was there, I was on a mountain bike.  So were the three guys who were riding with me.


We didn't need--or, in my case, want--an open gate or door. We used to feel more drawn to entrances like this one:

We were young.  They were guys; I was living as one--and trying desperately to show that I was one of them.  We wouldn't talk about the signs of spring we saw or felt; the seasons didn't really matter.  Nor did the quality of the light.  Actually, I cared about that and other things I didn't talk about then.  

At the end of the day, there was the day's ride and the bike.  Some things don't change.  In fact, even though I'm not and probably will never be in the kind of shape I was in back then, some things are better.  That includes the ride and the bike.

Each of them has brought me to the gates of a new season.