Did Drillium Hit A “Wall?”

 If you are a cyclist in, ahem, late midlife, you remember the “drillium” craze of the 1970s and early 1980s. Some component manufacturers offered “holey” stuff—usually chainrings (which sometimes looked quite nice, especially if they were black and the holes were silver) and other non-weight bearing parts. Most manufacturers, however, advised against customers drilling at home: They claimed that their parts were already as light as they could be without compromising safety.

The “drillium” craze also included fluting and slotting parts like brake levers, stems and seatposts.  Then there is this Zeus crankset, which I recently saw on Craigslist:

During the time this crankset was made, one of the ways Zeus tried to appeal to racers and weight weenies was by offering stuff that was “lighter than Campy.” (They were one of the first manufacturers to use titanium.) To me, this crankset represents the heights or depths, depending on your point of view, of “drillium,” just as some listeners will say that Pink Floyd’s “The Wall,” which came out at around the same time, highlights the best or worst things about progressive rock.

The Campag Kid Is Holey

 

No, this isn’t one of my Mercians—though you may be forgiven for thinking that it is.

Rather, it’s an almost-finished build by someone who calls himself “The Campag Kid.” Here in the US, we call Campagnolo “Campy,” but in the UK, the nickname is “Campag.”

That distinction is just one indication of how bicycle culture  in England differed from that of the US or Continental Europe in the 1970s. Bicycle racing—and cycling in general—was ending a long period of dormancy.  In countries like France, Belgium and Italy, the racing scene was dominated by one-day “classics” and multi-day time trials.  But in England, the chief mode of competitive cycling was the time trial.  So, perhaps, it’s not surprising that Campag Kid’s heroes were Alf Engers, Beryl Burton and of course Eddy Mercx. 

It was Eddy who, wittingly or not, started the cult of “drillium.” The word is a portmanteau of “drilling” and “titanium,” and the practice involved, basically, drilling components—usually Campagnolo—within an inch of their lives.

The bike Eddy rode for his 1972 hour record ride was adorned with “holey” stuff. The belief then—as in some quarters today—was that “lighter is faster.” As titanium was used only for small bits like fastening nuts and carbon fiber was a couple of decades on the horizon. So aluminum and steel parts were the ones that got the treatment.

The 1970s Mercian Superlight frame Campag Kid is building lived up to its name:  It was one of the lightest road frames—and had one of the tightest geometries—available  at the time.

As Campag Kid explains,  the cult of drillium—which was arguably even stronger in the UK than in the US—died in the 198Os as aerodynamics came to dominate high-performance bicycle component design. All of those holes came to be seen as “wind catchers,” and aerodynamic parts, although they were sometimes heavier than even non-drilled bits, were believed to be more efficient.

Whether or not drillium has any effect on speed, it certainly can be eye-catching. Oh, and I love the color of that Mercian—and the fact that it’s a Mercian!

Here's What You Need To Climb The Next Hill

Racers and cycling's trendistas (who generally spend more than they ride) have long been obsessed with having the lightest bikes and equipment possible because they've bought into the notion that lighter=faster.  Now, it's true that a lighter bike is easier to accelerate, all other things being equal.  However, once a bike reaches a given speed, a heavier bike will maintain its speed with less input from the rider: This phenomenon is known as momentum.  But it will also decelerate at a faster rate because of headwinds or other factors.

Anyway, during the 1970s and early 1980s, the obsession with weight led to a fad called "drillium."  It's what it sounds like:  holes were drilled (or slots were cut) into parts to reduce weight.  In most cases, the mass saved--a couple of grams, usually--wouldn't make any difference for any rider save perhaps a time trialist.  

Interestingly, track riders--whom one would expect to be most obsessed with weight-- don't seem to have embraced the "holey" look as much as other riders.  did. If I'm not mistaken, NJS, the governing body for Japan's Keirin racing system, prohibits the practice. And when some companies offered pre-drilled or -slotted parts--like Campagnolo's brake levers--they were actually heavier, if ever so slightly, than their smooth-surfaced counterparts.  The reason, I was told by a company rep, is that the Campy used slightly thicker material to compensate for what they believed was a loss of strength that resulted from drilling or slotting.

That leads me to another point about "drillium:" the parts that were drilled or slotted were usually among the lightest to begin with.  As an example, I've seen Huret Jubilee derailleurs--to this day, the lightest made--with pinpoint apertures in it pulley cages. And the poked and gouged parts were almost always intended for racing.

So, I was surprised (even if I shouldn't have been) to come across this:

Now, the SunTour Vx-GT wasn't porky:  Even by today's standards, it's more than reasonably light for a rear derailleur that can handle a 34 tooth rear cog. (And, it shifted better than almost any other wide-range derailleur made before indexed shifting became the standard.) But that capacity is the main reason why racers and others who rode with narrow-range gearing didn't use it:  If they rode a derailleur from the Vx series, they used the shorter-caged version.

So...I guess someone thought he or she simply had to save weight on the rear derailleur to make up for something he or she carried in a pannier or handlebar bag.  It reminds me of someone I knew who made floats with Haagen-Dazs ice cream--and Diet Coke:  the lack of calories in the latter, she said, balanced out the abundance of same in the former.

You Know The Drill

So why am I writing a post about drillium when the world is going to hell in a handbasket?

Well, I could get cute (as if I could, at my age) and say that COVID-19 is poking holes--or exposing them--in the structures of our societies.  Or some such thing.

But, truthfully, I'm writing this post because I can't say anything you haven't heard about the corona virus epidemic--and because somebody sent me this picture:

Apparently, someone in Germany is selling that stem on eBay.  Don't worry:  I'm not going to buy it.  It caught my notice because a stem is one component I would never think of drilling.  I've seen fluted, milled and pantographed goosenecks.  But I can't remember the last time I saw a drilled-out stem.

Mind you, I'm not anti-drillium.  In fact, I've seen some lovely pieces, including this Stronglight crankset:

But sometimes folks get silly with their drills (Hmm..."silly with their drills"...such an odd phrase).  You really have to wonder what purpose saving a couple of grams actually serves.

Then again, how many people actually believed that it was about function or performance? 

They Need It Like A Hole In The....

A few years ago, it seemed that "drillium" might make a comeback.  A few companies, including Velo Orange, were offering drilled-out versions of  chainrings and other components. Some still are. VO's drilled-out chainrings are actually pretty:  They seemed  seemed to be covered with pindots.  I'd actually put them on one or two of my bikes.

Back in the heyday of drillium, it seemed that anything and everything that could take a drill--and a few things that couldn't--got the treatment.  In addition to chainrings, shift levers and brake lever handles commonly got drilled.  When I first began to work in a bike shop, one of the jokes about Lambert/Viscount bikes was that they came with drilled-out tires and water bottles.

Seriously, though, some cyclists were manic with drills.  I saw toe clips and other kinds of clips--for brake cables and water bottle cages--perforated, ostensibly in the name of saving weight.  Sometimes, components that really didn't need to be any lighter were riddled with pockmarks, like the Huret Jubilee, still the lightest (and to my eye, prettiest) rear derailleur ever made.  Or this derailleur I saw on eBay:

The first-generation SunTour Cyclone might be the second-lightest rear derailleur ever made.  It's certainly lighter than any made today.  Oh, and I think the silver version with the black inset is the second-prettiest derailleur ever made:  all the more reason it shouldn't be defaced with a drill!

This Isn't Why They Bought Their Volvos

Why don't I want to spend five figures (even if I could afford to) on a carbon fiber bike?

I'll give you the same answer that many other longtime bicycle enthusiasts would give:  It's plastic!

All right, I know it's not as simple as that.  Carbon fiber tubing consists of carbon strands molded together with resin, i.e., plastic.  As such, it's stronger than plastic alone, though I still have to wonder just how much use--or abuse--a CF frame can take.

Also, I came into cycling when it was touted as environmentally conscious and friendly.  Making carbon fiber is certainly neither:  Like all plastics, it's made from fossil fuels.  And, if crashed or otherwise broken, it will sit in landfills longer than a trashed steel or even aluminum frame will.

To be fair, though, CF is an advancement over regular plastic.  That (at least to my knowledge) no one has tried to make a plastic bike in at least three decades is testament to that fact.

My becoming a dedicated cyclist more or less coincided with the '70's North American Bike Boom.  That is when large numbers of Americans discovered bikes with derailleurs.  Even the cheapest and heaviest of them were lighter than the balloon-tired bombers or even the three-speed "English racers" most people had grown up with.  

Those ten-speeds not only showed Americans that there were lighter bikes than the ones they rode when they were kids; they also gave people (some, anyway) that bikes could be lighter.  Also, I think that racers of that time started to obsess about weight in ways their predecessors didn't because they felt that they couldn't refine (at least for the purposes of cycling) their bodies much further than they already had.  

This was also at a time before "scientific" training became the norm:  At that time, most racers were still following regimens that their grandfathers followed.  As an example, on the morning he set the new hour record in 1972, Eddy Mercx's consisted of ham, cheese and toast.  No racer would consume such a pre-ride meal today.  Nor would he or she smoke: a practice that was common among earlier generations of riders because it was said to expand the lungs.

So, in the early-to-mid-1970s, the general cycling public and elite racers shared a passion that at times bordered on fanaticism about light weight.  That is when "drillium" became popular, and Huret produced its "Jubilee" derailleur, which is likely still the lightest production derailleur ever made.

That fanaticism is one factor that led to attempts to make all-plastic bicycles.  Another factor was, I'm sure, cost.  But lightness and durability would be the selling points of a plastic bicycle.  At least, that's how people who designed them sold their idea to investors.

I recall one such attempt.  I never actually saw one of the bicycles, but I saw the ads in Bicycling! and Popular Science magazines.  Everything--with the exception of the chain, hubs and spokes--on bikes made by "The Original Plastic Bike Inc." was said to be made of injection-molded Lexan.  Not many of them were produced, and no one knows whether anyone bought any of them.

A few people bought a later attempt at a plastic bicycle--but not nearly as many as such bikes were produced.  Those bikes were sold, unassembled, in boxes, with tools and instructions for assembly.  Still, some of the people who bought those bikes never got them running, either because they got frustrated or because some of the necessary parts weren't included.

If those bikes sound like home furnishings from a well-known chain, there's a good reason:  Those bikes were sold by Ikea in the early 1980s, when the chain was still all but unknown outside of Northern Europe.  In one of its most egregious failures, the company was stuck with thousands of bikes that didn't sell.  Worse yet, a high percentage of the ones that did sell were returned because parts (or even frames) broke and replacement parts weren't available:  almost nothing on metal bikes was compatible with the Itera, as the plastic bike was called.

Itera bicycle, circa 1981

In another irony, another iconic Swedish firm was involved with the Itera.  Volvo wasn't looking to become a bike manufacturer.  But it was interested in making mini-cars, and was looking for ways to make parts smaller and lighter.  Designers and engineers at the company came to the conclusion that their best hope was with plastic.  So, somebody at Volvo decided that it would be best to make other products out of plastics to test their durability.  One of those products was the bicycle that became the Itera.

Itera racing model.  An Ofmega "Maglia Rosa" rear derailleur would be just perfect on this bike, don't you think?

In yet another twist to this story, most of the unsold Iteras that piled up in Ikea warehouses went to the Caribbean, where rust is a problem.   That makes for a further irony, in that Volvo is known in the region less for its cars than its boats and marine engines.

But perhaps the most ironic part of this whole story is that Volvo was, to a large degree, responsible for one of the most brittle and fragile bikes ever made.  Nearly everyone I've met who has owned or even just driven a Volvo car or truck touts its durability and reliability.  Probably none of them ever bought or rode an Itera.  I wonder, though, whether they ever managed to assemble anything they bought in Ikea.

But, if they're curious, they can check out eBay:  Believe it or not, I just saw an Itera listed!

Back When I Weighed Less, There Was Weyless!

Someone--I forget who--told me that you know you're middle-aged when you see all the young people wearing something and you remember the last time it was in fashion.   

Another definition I've heard for "middle age" is when young people wear what you wore in your youth and call it "retro" or "vintage".

And I started my gender transition just in time for my middle age!

I found myself thinking about such things when I came across this in an eBay listing:

The fact that they're water bottle cage clips alone earns them the label of "retro" or "vintage":  Most new bikes (and a lot of not-so-new ones) have bottle cage mounts brazed on, or otherwise integrated into, the frame; thus, most new cages are designed to be used with them.  The few new cages that are made for bikes that don't have built-in mounts are likely to have some sort of mounting system built into them, or come with straps.

When I first became a dedicated cyclist, some four decades ago, few frames--even at the highest quality and price levels--came with water bottle mounts.  Gradually, they began to appear on top-tier racing and touring bikes and trickled down to bikes in the lower price ranges.  Still, most cages--like the classic Specialites TA and REG models-- came with clamps, even if they were designed to be used with braze-ons.

The Weyless bottle cage, however, was designed to be used with the clips shown.  It did not fit on braze-on mounts.  Even though it was, even with its clamps, one of the lightest cages available (It claimed to be the lightest), it sank like a stone in the cycling marketplace of the late '70s.  That was just about the time high-level racing and touring bikes started to come with braze-ons. Within a few years, that feature would be found on bikes at all price levels.

But there's something else that makes those Weyless bottle clamps "retro." It's a trait shared with another Weyless part:

Yes, they both got that treatment called "drillium".  If you look at racing photos from that period, most bikes had drilled-out brake levers; sometimes chainrings and other parts also had holes in them.  Sometimes it looked silly, but I rather like the way it was done on the brake cable clip in the above photo:  The holes are bigger in the wider part of the clip, near the top, and taper down as the clip narrows toward the mounting screw.

I can remember when Velo Orange and other companies started to offer "drillium" parts about a decade or so ago. I couldn't help but to think back to my early days as a cyclist, when I so wanted one of those racing bikes with drilled-out Campagnolo parts!

Today, almost anyone who buys "drillium" parts or accessories--whether they're vintage or modern-production--is trying to achieve some sort of "retro" look.  The same can't be said, however, about everyone who bought something with the Weyless name on it.

How's that?, you ask.  Well, the company that made those Weyless bottle cages and clips--as well as some of the lightest seatposts, pedals and hubs ever produced--went out of business some time during the late '70's.  Depending on who you believe, its demise was a result of the '70's Bike Boom ending, founder Lester Tabb's shady business dealings or the warranty claims that resulted after it started a line of bike clothing made from wool that wasn't supposed to shrink--and, of course, it did.

I am guessing that the copyright on the name "Weyless" had expired when, during the '90's, Southern California-based mail-order (and, later, online) retailer Supergo used the name for their line of bikes and parts.  I never used any of them myself, but from what I've read and heard, they were made in the same factories, and to almost the same specs, as bikes, parts and accessories from better-known brands, at a lower price.   And most of the riders who used them seemed satisfied with them.

The funny thing is that most folks who bought Supergo's Weyless stuff had probably never heard of the earlier incarnation of the Weyless brand. That is because most of Supergo's Weyless offerings were for mountain biking, in which most of the riders were (and are) younger than those in road cycling.  Most of them weren't even born--or were drinking out of baby bottles rather than Weyless bottles--when the original Weyless parts and accessories were produced!

It's also likely that those young riders didn't know that Supergo, at the time the original Weyless brand was on the market, was known as Bikecology, one of the first large mail-order bike retailers spawned in the '70's Bike Boom!

Hmm...If I'd called this blog "Bikecology", I wonder how many readers would have gotten it.  Perhaps I could have had a contest and the first person to identify it would get some original Weyless part.  The only problem would have been that I didn't, and don't, have any!

Note:  Supergo was bought out by Performance (who else?) in 2003.

No, That Hole Is Not In Your Pants

Many, many years ago, I took chemistry.   Let's just say it wasn't my best subject.  I think I realized as much when I had to memorize the ninety-nine thousand elements of the  periodic table.  ( All right, I was exaggerating just a bit.) I think I remembered about five or six. Then we had an exam in which some of the questions consisted of a single word, which we had to spell with the elements from the table.  One of those words was a synonym for excrement, which of course, is spelled with Sulfur, Hydrogen, Iodine and Titanium.  Oh, right, Titanium is Ti.

It's also not the only element ending in '-ium":  lithium, sodium and potassium are among the best-known.  One thing I learned from working in bike shops, though, is that you shouldn't get all of your education, even in the sciences, from school.  Indeed, in those velocipedic variora, I found out there were other elements besides molybdenum and titanium.  Like "can't-affordium", that mythical material used to make bikes for those who spend more dollars than miles (or even kilometers) on their machines.  And then there was that material that developed holes whenever it was made into bicycle parts.  I am referring, of course, to drillium.

Now, some drillium bits were stylish and, on occasion, even made sense.  Drilling brake levers often improved their grippability:  That, I think, is one reason why Campagnolo and other companies actually made lever blades with holes or slots built into them.  Interestingly, the slotted Campy Record brake levers actually weighed a few grams more than the plain ones.  Someone from Campagnolo explained that the material was actually slightly thicker so that strength wouldn't be compromised. 

While drilling didn't serve any purpose, other than minute weight reduction, on chainrings, I think those are the components that looked best when touched by drill bits.  Some derailleurs also looked good with it, though on some components--like the Huret Jubilee--drilling was impossible and, really, pointless because they were so light. 

Believe it or not, there were also drillium saddles.  I was reminded of them when I came across this photo:

I wonder whether Monsieur Herse punched the holes in that seat.  Or was it made that way?  Back in the '80s, Tioga--the maker of some of the best parts and accessories found on early mountain bikes--offered a seat for BMX that wasn't what most of us would think of as "drillium", but was in the spirit of it.  The "Spyder" seat was very popular on the BMX circuit--and, interestingly, is still made today:

From what I've heard, some cyclists--time trialists, mainly--even took took off the covers and padding of Cinelli Unicanitor seats and drilled out the plastic base.  Of course, most people never saw their handiwork, at least if the padding and leather cover were glued back on.  But a few such cyclists took the plain plastic-shell model (without the padding and cover) and drilled that out.  Hmm...I wonder what it was like to sit on such a thing with unpadded shorts!

I imagine that not even those Unicanitors survived the treatment for very long, which may be the reason why we don't see very many "drillium" or "spyder" seats today!

Is the symbol for "drillium" "Dr"?  Or just "D"?  As I said earlier, it's been a while since I took chemistry!

The Cosmos, By Zeus

Last year, "The Retrogrouch" wrote an excellent article about the Basque component (and bicycle) maker Zeus, which was based in Spain.  They began manufacturing in 1926--a decade before Campagnolo--and seem to have continued until the late 1980s, or possibly the early 1990s.

Zeus is interesting for a number of reasons. One is they made almost everything on their bicycles:  Apparently, only the tires, tubes and spokes were not made by them, or one of their subsidiaries.  Perhaps only Raleigh, at least before the Bike Boom and on their three-speed models, manufactured as much as, or more of, their bikes than Zeus did. ("Schwinn-Approved" components were made by other manufacturers, e.g., Weinmann and Dia-Compe brakes, and Huret and Shimano derailleurs.)

Another reason why Zeus is worth looking at is that, while they developed a reputation for copying the designs of other manufacturers, they added their own touches and enhancements.  For example, their centerpull brakes were patterned after Weinmanns but were made with tighter clearances, tire guides (like the ones found on high-end sidepull brakes of the time), recessed allen bolts in the pivots--and a nicer finish.  And other components, such as the cranksets and derailleurs, used their Campagnolo counterparts as their starting points but departed in some details that didn't change their function but gave them character--and, often, made them lighter.  And perhaps no components more conspicuously exemplified the "drillium" trend of the 1970s than the "2000" line of components.

The funny thing is that the more Zeus came up with their own designs --they accumulated over 100 patents in their history-- the more they were criticized as "Campy copies".  Or so it seemed.

Even more ironically, those who made such criticisms probably never saw the Zeus part that was, perhaps, the nearest clone of the Campagnolo part that inspired it.  Actually, most of those critics didn't even realize the part in question--and others of the "gruppo" of which it was a part-- were made by Zeus because they were sold under the name "Alfa".

(The Spanish language doesn't have "ph" and "gh" diagraphs, as we have in English.  That is why it's spelled "Alfa", not "Alpha".)

Now tell me this "Alfa" derailleur doesn't look like the first version of the Campagnolo Valentino Extra:

Zeus Alfa

Campagnolo Valentino extra, first version

About the only visible differences between the two are the toothed pulleys on the Alfa, and the finish on the pivot bolts and adjustment screws of each one (black on the Alfa, chrome on the Valentino).  I never tried the Alfa, but I imagine that it doesn't shift much, if at all, differently from the Valentino--which was unexceptional, even for its time.

At the end of my first paragraph, I said that Zeus seemed to have continued until the late '80's or early '90's.  I could not find any information on when they succumbed (If Nietzsche were Greek, would he have declared that Zeus is dead?), but I had long thought that it was in the early or mid-80s, not long after they produced the 2000 series, their most renowned components.  Yet, while trolling eBay, I came across this:

European derailleur makers began to copy Shimano and SunTour designs during the early and mid-1980s, when those Japanese companies' patents started to expire.  Now, for all I know, Zeus may have made the "Cosmos" derailleur before that, as Spain was notorious for its lax patent laws.  Then again, it may have been made for them by someone else, although Zeus wasn't known for contracting other manufacturers.

Whatever the case, I never saw a "Cosmos" derailleur before.  Perhaps they were not produced for very long, or were not exported to the US.  If nothing else, it--ironically enough--belies the stereotype of Zeus as a "Campy copier".

Drillium Jewelry

You might say that I came of age (as a cyclist, anyway) in the late 1970s:  the heyday of drillium.

It seemed that, for a time, everyone was trying to drill as many small holes into whatever bike parts they could.  Even parts that were already ethereally light did not escape the probing and boring of high-speed steel bits.

Some drillium parts were rather lovely; others were just insane.  This, I believe, is beyond either category:

Uploaded to Pinterest by Henrik Jakobsson

I would like to meet the person who gave this Campagnolo Nuovo Record "the treatment".  Did he or she have a regular job (or was this part of that job)?  A family?  I can only imagine how much time that person spent on this project.

And I have to wonder whether that person did the same thing to the bike that this derailleur was hung on.  Or was it ever installed on a bike?

All right, I'll stop the snide rhetorical questions and admit that I actually like it.  No, I take that back:  I love it.  It's over-the-top in its minimalism. (Is that a contradiction?)  I would even say it's jewelry, of a sort.

Vera Goes Gran Fondo

You tell yourself, "This is it!"

You're not going to buy another bike, you tell yourself.  The bikes you have are "for life".

No more changes, no more upgrades, you say.  You're not going to buy another part unless you absolutely have to replace something that's worn out or broken.  You won't buy another bike accessory, no matter how great it looks or whether you really wonder how you've lived without it. And you absolutely swear not to go to any more swap meets, spend any more time hanging out in bike shops or while away your evenings looking at bikes and parts on eBay.

And you promise yourself you won't lift another allen key or screwdriver, or squeeze your oil can or grease gun, unless you're doing maintenance that absolutely must be done to keep your bike rolling.

But you know, deep down, you're lying to yourself: Once you learn how to tinker with your bikes, you won't stop--no matter how little mechanical aptitude you thought you had before you picked up that first repair manual, that first edition of Anybody's Bike Book.

You always find something to fix, even if it doesn't need fixing.  And there's always some experiment you want to try.

So it is with Vera.  Just before I went to Paris, I had an idea:   I'd turn  her gearing from a typical "compact" road setup (well, with slightly lower gears) to something I'd never before tried:  Gran Fondo gearing.

Turns out, I had everything I needed for the experiment. Well, almost.  The crankset that originally came with Vera--a Shimano Deore triple from the late '80's or early '90's--was sitting in a box, just begging to be reunited with her.  A BBG 46 tooth chainguard/bashguard, also sitting in that same box, would look good on that crank--and on Vera--I thought.   And I had a nice Stronglight 46 tooth chainring I'd been using with my the compact double as well a Shimano UN-52 bottom bracket that, according to the folks at Harris Cyclery and Velo Orange, would work. All I'd need is a 30T chainring with a 74mm bolt circle, which I found easily enough.

I installed the chainguard in place of the outer chainring.  The Stronglight ring, made to be an outer ring for a double or triple, went on the middle position.  And, of course, the 30T ring was bolted on the inside.  

I installed the Stronglight chainring with the logos facing out, as if it were in the outer position.  That meant the chainring fixing nuts wouldn't sit flush with the surface of the ring, as the holes for the chainring bolts are countersunk on the opposite side of the ring.  That didn't seem to matter.  I've ridden the setup about 200 kilometers and it doesn't seem to be coming loose--and the nuts standing proud of the chainring surface doesn't seem to affect the shifting.

In this image, you can see the countersinking of the holes for the chainring fixing nuts.  You can also see a segment of an example of drillium at its best or most extreme, depending on your point of view!

Speaking of which:  I've shifted, well, only to see how it shifts.  I haven't ridden on the 30T ring.  But part of my intention in setting up the gears as I did--and, by the way, I set up the gears on Arielle, my Mercian Audax and Helene, my other Miss Mercian--was to spend most of my riding time on the larger ring and to use the smaller one as a "bail out" gear.

In any event, the shifting was even smoother than I expected it to be.  The Shimano 105 front derailleur from the 8-speed group is made to handle, as most modern road front derailleurs are, a 14-tooth difference between the chainrings.  Part of the reason why I haven't had problems with shifting is, I believe, that I'm using a non-indexed downtube shifter.  I wonder how (or whether) the setup would work if I were using Ergo or STI levers, or even bar-end shifters.

The bottom bracket's axle is 127 mm long.  The crank is actually made for the old-style asymmetrical axle:  The original bottom bracket is what's known as "121+5":  In other words, 5 mm are added to the right side of a 121mm axle.  Using the modern bottom bracket doesn't seem to affect shifting or my pedal position"  It just leaves more axle showing on the left side than what you see with modern cranks and bottom brackets.  However, if I keep this setup, I might splurge (if finances permit) for a Phil Wood bottom bracket with the asymmetrical axle.

In reality, riding with this setup isn't different from riding with the compact double, as I am using the 46T ring nearly all of the time.  But I think that it will allow me a greater range of gears, should I ever want or need them.

Vera seems to like it.  Truth be told, I think she likes getting the nice old crankset back.

When Does Width Matter?

The importance of tire width is one of the cycling world's long-running debates.

Because I came of age in the aftermath of the '70's Bike Boom, I was inculcated with the notion that, in the immortal words of Robert Browning, "less is more".  That meant, among other things, that a lighter bike is always a better bike.  Not surprisingly, the minimalist aesthetic ruled:  What other decade could have brought us the Huret Jubilee or SunTour Cyclone (first version) rear derailleurs--or drillium?

(The Jubilee is so minimalist that the version with drilled-out cages almost seems extreme.  Talk about "less is more"!)

So, it makes sense that I would also grow up with the idea that narrower tires would make your bike faster.  All other things being equal, they do, because less rubber on the road means less resistance.  But I've since come to learn that riding too narrow a tire for your purpose can actually slow you down if it's making you ride more cautiously--or simply wearing you out with the extra shock and vibrations it transmits.

If a very narrow tire can defeat the a cyclist's purpose in riding it, then I think it's fair to ask whether too wide a tire can do the same.  Or, more precisely, is there a point at which any additional tire width doesn't add traction, resiliency or durability?

Over the years, I've come to the conclusion that on loose, powdery snow, a tire's tread or compound makes more difference than its width.  On the other hand, on deep, heavier-packed snow, knobby mountain bike tires are a better idea.  

But what about ice?  My guess, based on limited experience, is that a wider rear tire might help with initially gaining traction, but once the bike is moving, whether you slip or fall isn't going to have much to do whether you're riding 700X23 or 26"x2.5 tires.  If anything, I think having studs or spikes on your tires will do more than anything else to help you across a glacial expanse.  

From Jonny Cycles

Hmm...It looks like someone might have actually tested my hypotheis.  I wonder what his conclusion might be.

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.