Paint...I Mean, Anodize...It Black

To many bicycle enthusiasts, “classic” components come in a spectrum of colors ranging from silver mist to gleaming chrome.  Some purists—or pedants who fancy themselves as such—believe that all components worth using are polished, preferably to a mirror finish.  Cranksets like the Stronglight 93, 63 and 49, Specialites TA Pro Vis (a.k.a. Cyclotouriste) or Nervar Star are among the preferred components of those with such aesthetic preferences.  So do Maxicar hubs, Huret Jubilee derailleurs and old-style 3TTT bars and stems.  

Stronglight 93 crankset in its natural habitat:  on a Peugeot PX-10.

 They’re all lovely pieces and perfectly valid on modern as well as classic bikes.  And, oh, yes, Campagnolo Gran Sport and Record stuff made until 1985 or so.  They had a more buffed finish but took on a nice sheen that looked great on just about any bike, especially a silver Cinelli.

Huret Jubilee in its natural habitat:  a Rene Herse

 

But not all components made before the lava field of carbon fiber oozed across, and blanketed, the cycling landscape looked like they were chromed or polished so that you could use them for shaving or putting on your makeup.  A couple of years before I started taking rides of more than a few miles—a year or two after the ‘70’s Bike Boom ended—a cult of sorts developed around black anodized parts.  

Original Campagnolo Super Record rear derailleur, circa 1974

It seems to have started when, in the middle of the decade, Campagnolo introduced its Super Record line.  It was identical to the Record line (which included the Nuovo Record rear derailleur) but included titanium bolts and bottom bracket and pedal axles.  And, to distinguish it visually from the Record line, the knuckles of the rear derailleur were anodized black.  So were the pedal cages and chainrings.  

(The hubs and brakes were the same as those in the Record line.  The brake levers had drilled-out handles and, ironically, weighed two grams (!) more than the non-drilled levers.  Apparently, the handles were made of thicker metal to compensate for the drilling.)

Sugino Mighty crankset, circa 1975

Maillard 700 pedals.  Don't you just love rhe red dust caps?

Once Campagnolo introduced its Super Record components, other companies got onto the black-anodized bandwagon.  Stronglight, Shimano, Sugino and other chainrings were available in noir versions.  Lyotard, Maillard, Mikashima (MKS) and Kyokuto (KKT)—the leading pedal makers, along with Campagnolo, at that time—offered black-caged and all-black versions of their products.  And, once 3TTT and Cinelli started selling black handlebars and stems, Phillipe and Pivo of France as well as Nitto and Sakae Ringyo of Japan followed suit.

SunTour Cyclone rear derailleur, circa 1975

SunTour and Shimano, naturally, offered several models of their derailleurs with black knuckles, like Campagnolo, or all-black versions.  I think the SunTour Cyclone silver rear derailleur with black accents is the prettiest shifting mechanism, besides the Huret Jubilee, ever made.  

Shimano Dura Ace hub, circa 1976

And Shimano went as far as to offer all-black versions of its Dura Ace components.  I think their hubs, with bright silver oil hole covers and axle nuts, looked particularly nice.  Their silver crankset with black rings was also nice.

Original Jim Blackburn rack on a Dawes Galaxy:  verrry '70's!

When those black components—and Jim Blackburn racks and water bottle cages—found their way to the market, I—like most novitiate cyclists of the time—had never seen anything like them before.  But a very few longtime riders—like Fred DeLong, the long-serving technical editor of Bicycling! Magazine—had seen an earlier fad for black anodized components in the years before World War II.  DeLong mentioned it in one of his columns.  And he—or some other bicycle writer of the time—mentioned a still-earlier time, around the turn from the 19^th to the 20^th Century, when black parts were all the rage.

The mid-70s mini-craze for black parts lasted a few years.  Then, most component makers quietly dropped them.  About a decade later, black chainrings and, later, other parts, started to appear on mountain bikes.  Road bikes reverted to the polished- (or buffed-) silver look in parts.  That wasn’t all bad, especially if said components were from SunTour’s Superbe Pro line.

SunTour Superbe Pro track hub

That aesthetic—and SunTour itself—disappeared around the time carbon-fiber bikes and parts reached the mass market.   The past few years, though, have seen something of a resurgence of shiny silver stuff as cyclists (mainly non-racers) are discovering (or re-discovering) the versatility, durability, beauty and ride quality of classic steel frames, or modern frames inspired by them. 

The Best Kind Of "Retro": Simplex "Teardrop" Shifters

Yesterday I wrote about what may have been the most jewel-like bicycle component I ever rode:  the Huret Jubilee rear derailleur.

Today I'm going to write about the part that might be a close second in the beauty contest.  I mentioned them in yesterday's post:  Simplex "retrofriction" levers--in particular, the "teardrop"-shaped ones. 

Most retrofriction levers in that shape were made to fit brazed-on lever bosses. I rode with those levers on several of my bicycles, including the Colnago Arabesque and Miyata 912.  The levers were also available in other configurations, including a "coke spoon" version made for Gipiemme.  

Simplex also made the levers in other shapes and colors for Mavic, Galli and other component manufacturers.  And, of course, there was the original version, which was usually attached to a clamp but was also available to fit braze-ons:

Although they all functioned in the same way, the Gipiemmes might have offered the best hand-feel.  (I am only guessing, as I never tried them myself.)  But whatever their shape, they offered the smoothest action of any lever I've ever used.  That is because they had a spring-clutch mechanism on the inside that kept the lever from slipping (and, thus, the derailleur from shifting accidentally) but allowed a shift with a lighter touch than was needed for other levers.  

Campagnolo and other friction levers, on the other hand, relied on nylon bushings and D-shaped screws to hold them in place--which made them more balky to shift.   The ratcheted SunTour levers were like Simplex's retrofrictions in that they,too, stayed in place when they weren't shifted but were easy to shift.  However, they had a clunkier feel and it was a bit harder to fine-tune shifts on them in much the same way that a one-bolt seatpost with notches is more difficult to adjust to exactly the right seat angle than one without notches, or a two-bolt post.

So, SunTour's "power" shifters tended (at least in my experience) to work better with wide-range slant-pantogaph derailleurs on which only the lower pivot was sprung like the SunTour's VGT or Cyclone GT.  On the other hand, Simplex's more nuanced action seemed to work well with just about every derailleur, with narrow-range racing or wide-range touring gears.  But they seemed especially well-suited to derailleurs that required smaller amounts of cable travel, such as the SunTour Cyclone S and Superbe, Campagnolo Record--and, of course, the Simplex Super LJ.

And, oh, yes, the Huret Jubilee.  It and the retrofriction levers seemed to go together like croissants and coffee.  The original Jubilee levers were made with a large drum that pulled too much cable for the Jubilee, which caused it to overshift.  Later, Huret made a lever with a smaller drum that was intended for both the Jubilee and the titanium Success rear derailleur.  But Huret's lever operated on friction, so Simplex's shifter was smoother.

If I were going to set up a bike with friction shifting, I'd definitely want the retrofriction levers.  However, that would mean using no more than seven cogs in the rear:  what made them so pleasant to use with derailleurs like the Jubilee is the small drum, which cuts down on the amount of cable the levers can wrap up.   In other words, even pulling the lever all the way back probably won't get it to shift onto an 8th cog.  (At least, it didn't on my bikes.)

But, of course, if I wanted to choose components purely on aesthetics, I would choose the Simplex retrofriction levers--and Huret Jubilee rear derailleur.

My First Piece Of Jewelry: The Huret Jubilee Derailleur

When you get to be my age, you realize that had you saved the stuff you wore in your youth, you could sell it today as "vintage."  It seems that some people are trying to do the same thing with bike parts.  I find myself shouting things they don't teach you in French 101 whenever a Craigslist or eBay listing refers to a Simplex Prestige derailleur as "rare" or "vintage."

Whenever I see that testament to French plastic technology--or the Campagnolo Gran Turismo with its scimitar-like cage or the Huret Luxe Super Touring, which looked like a disjointed crane's neck made from steel plates--I think, "They don't make them like that anymore--Thank God!"  If those things are "vintage", I'm all for the present and the future

But there are a few no-longer-made components that can be called "vintage" without making me wince.  Such parts are, of course, sought out by collectors or even still used on everyday riders.  Such parts were not only "good for their time" but still are valid today because they have some feature or another that today's stuff lacks.

Sometimes that factor is aesthetic.  Let's face it:  Most bikes and parts from the past look better than almost anything made by anyone besides a custom builder or small-scale manufacturer today.  I admit that there are some things I own and ride for that reason alone.  But some of those same bikes and parts--and others--are designed in ways that are more practical or versatile, or simply "made better", than what you can buy today.

And, believe it or not, some old parts are actually lighter. A case in point is the Huret Jubilee rear derailleur.

I actually owned and rode two--a short-cage and a long-cage version-- for a number of years.  I raced, toured and even did some "rough stuff" on them.  And I even took a tumble or two on them.

My short-cage Jubilee adorned my Cannondale racing bike for a few months.  Then it graced my Colnago Arabesque--on which I raced and trained and did a number of long rides--for another half-dozen years.  I rode the long-cage version for a couple of years on a Bianchi that I turned into a light tourer, then on my Miyata 912.

On all of those bikes I shifted the Jubilee with what is, to my mind, the best non-indexed lever ever made: the Simplex retrofriction.  And I had the "teardrop" version--to my eye, the prettiest shift lever in history--on the Cannondale and Colnago. 

With those levers, the Jubilee shifted quite well, especially given the standards of the time.  It wasn't quite as easy or accurate as the SunTour Cyclone (or, for that matter, anything in SunTour's "V" series).  But I actually preferred the Jubilee to any other manufacturer's (besides SunTour's) top-of-the-line derailleur.  For one thing, it shifted as well--or, at least, not noticeably worse than--the Campagnolo Record series, Simplex LJ or Shimano Crane.  To be more precise, the Jubilee shifted about as quickly and perhaps a bit more accurately, and definitely more smoothly, than any of those mechanisms.

I bought my first (short-cage) Jubilee from Frank Chrinko, the proprietor of Highland Park Cyclery, where I worked for a time.  He thought well of them (and used the Success, Huret's other high-end derailleur) and said he hadn't noticed any problems among the (admittedly few) customers who used them.  On the other hand, I heard horror stories about how if you looked at it the wrong way, it would explode into a million little pieces.  Such fears, I found, were greatly exaggerated: Both of my Jubilees survived falls and continued to work as well as they had been working.

I think that Jubilees lasted longer than many people expected precisely because they were so minimalist:  There weren't as many ways it could be struck or snagged.  That is the reason why, interestingly, a few early mountain bikers and some cyclo-cross riders used it.

The Jubilee also holds the distinction of being one of the few rear derailleurs that was completely disassemblable for cleaning and maintenance.  Huret actually offered spare parts, though they weren't easy to find (at least in the US).  I'll admit that, once disassembled, it wasn't the easiest thing to put back together, especially if you didn't have a diagram (which was even harder to find than the spare parts).  

So how did the Jubilee get its name?  Huret was founded in 1920 and in 1970 decided to celebrate by creating the lightest derailleur ever made.  They succeeded--the short-cage version weighed only 140 grams (the long-cage version weighed 157).  Ironically, the later "drillium" version was five grams heavier!

The Jubilee was first introduced in 1972 (the same year as the Simplex Super LJ and SunTour VGT) and found its way to the US a couple of years later.  The Motobecane Grand Jubile came equipped with it and other high-quality French components; so did the Raleigh Competition.  In 1974-5, Raleigh's two-steps-up-from-entry-level Super Course, with a frame that had straight-gauge Reynolds 531 in its main tubes, came with a version of the Jubilee that fitted to the non-forged dropout with a "claw" hanger.  From what I heard in bike shops at the time, Raleigh was trying to offer the lightest bicycle available at its price point (about $175 at the time), and the Jubilee shaved those few grams that gave the bike its edge over whatever the next-lightest bike was in its price category.

Sachs took over Huret in the early 1980s and continued to produce the Jubilee until the end of the decade.  Later versions bore the Sachs-Huret logo, and later simply "Sachs", in the black-and-gold badge that sported the Huret name in the familiar cursive lettering for so long.

Late in the 1980s, Sachs (which had also taken over French component makers Maillard and Sedis) became part of SRAM.  It seems that around that time, the Jubilee was discontinued as all of the SRAM-Sachs derailleurs were modeled after the Shimano models with slant paralellogram bodies and two sprung pivots.

Oooh...Those Lines...Those Curves

Of course we all know that sex sells.  Not for nothing are photos that highlight velocipedic lines and curves called "bike porn".  

Some parts, and some types of frames, lend themselves particularly well to hints of eroticism.  The classic handlebar stem (often referred to as a "gooseneck"), crank arms come to mind for me.  And, during the late 1970's and early 1980's, it seemed that every other hub was made in an hourglass shape.

It seems, though, that some people thought hubs were sexy even before that time:

Now tell me...what do you make of a poster with a fadeout of a nude model--for a hub called Mussel-man?

Hey, it gets even better.  Read this morsel from the penultimate paragraph of the copy:

     These beautiful broad flanged hubs appeal to all riders who like to go places and do things in Olympic fashion.  Their dazzling brilliance and rugged racy lines appeal to every boy who hears the call of the open road.

A siren call?  I find it interesting that the first sentence is an appeal to "all riders" but the second is to "every boy".

With Mussel-man hubs, would he get the girl?  Would I?

Crankin' Up The Insanity

Back in the good ol' days--the '90's--it seemed as if every twenty-something dude in California whose father had a lathe in his garage was making bike parts. Most of them were intended for mountain bikes, but a few were made for road and fixed-gear bikes, which were just in the process of being discovered by the hipster-equivalents of that time.

A few, like Chris King and the makers of Paul components, still make superb, if pricey, stuff.  However, a number of would-be challengers to Shimano (and, later, SRAM) fell by the wayside--some deservedly so.  It seems that some of the more notable and spectacular casualties are those who tried to make the lightest cranksets they could.

One such misguided attempt was the original Kooka crank.  Back in my off-road riding days, I knew a number of riders who rode--and broke--them.  But, hey, they were the hippest and lightest things available.  And they were available in all sorts of color combinations, including some that were conceived by folks who smoked things not made by RJ Reynolds and Philip Morris:

and some of them weren't even Rastafarians:

(My dear Bob Marley, I mean no disrespect to you or any other Rasta!)

These cranks had an alarming habit of breaking on where the spider attached to it, or around the square axle mounts or the holes into which pedals are installed.  The latter makes sense, as those are the weaker areas of the cranks.  But the for a spider to separate from an arm means that--well, it wasn't attached very firmly in the first place.  In the case of those early Kooka cranks, only a set screw held them together.

I mean, it had been known for much of the history of cycling that a crankset is stiffer and stronger when the spider arms are integral with the drive-side crank arms.  On the best cranks, they are cold-forged; on less-expensive but still-serviceable cranks, they are melt-forged.  On still less expensive cranks the spider is swaged (pressed) to the arm.  Still, I know of many people who rode the latter kind of crank, as I did, for many miles without any problems.

But, oddly enough (Well, was anything really odd when it came to these cranks?), axle-mount failures usually came on the non-drive side, where there is supposed to be less stress.  The reason, it seems, is that the spider was actually designed to reinforce the drive-side arm, which was otherwise identical to the non-drive-side arm.

Even though I would have loved to get the "ultra violet" finish, I had my doubts about their strength even before some of my old riding buddies trashed theirs.  I'm glad I listened to those misgivings.

Kooka later redesigned their cranks in a more traditional way, but the damage to their reputation was done.

Another example of how, in spite of what Robert Browning wrote in Andrea del Sarto, less is not always more, can be found in the Topline cranks of that era.  To be fair, the few people I knew who rode them on the road had no problems with them.  But some off-roaders had failures similar to those on the Kooka cranks--though, again to be fair, they weren't just riding the local trails.  

Like Kookas, Toplines were redesigned after a few years and became part of the Cook (no, not Koch) Brothers' line of components. That is probably what kept them in the marketplace, as CB had by that time established a reputation for sound, reliable design.

 Oh, but I love that purple.  I really do.  But not enough to pay $350 on eBay.  Believe it or not, people are actually paying even more for the original Kookas!