One probable reason why I'm a writer, teacher and cyclist is that I'm not a particularly good "team player." Yes, I played football (soccer) long ago, in a faraway galaxy (i.e., high school). However, I developed a strong preference for individual pursuits--or, maybe, I was born with it. So, most of what I've done for work and fun has involved my working alone, or working, without necessarily collaborating, with people. And I very rarely join organizations of any kind.
But I might have joined this team:
Women on bikes--with clubs! What's not to like?
As the academic term begins in colleges all over this country (and world), thousands of students will purchase Professor N. Gregory ( Mankiw's Principles of Economics.
Those students will, I believe, learn more about economics by shopping for the book than by actually reading it or attending their Econ 101 classes: The most recent edition of Professor Mankiw's book goes for nearly $300.
I'll put that in perspective: The price of that book is nearly the same as my tuition for each of the first six semesters (out of eight) of my undergraduate schooling.
I mention this because of another lesson in economics I got, rather unexpectedly, a few days ago. And it didn't come from Professor Mankiw or anyone else who served as a Presidential advisor. Rather, it came from an authority I trust far more: a bike mechanic I trust with any repairs or other work for which I don't have the tools, time or patience.
I'm talking about Hal Ruzal of Bicycle Habitat. He was re-tensioning the rear wheel on Tosca (my fixed-gear Mercian), which he built for me seven years ago. That I rode it for so many miles--and, in fact, for a thousand or two on my DeBernardi before I transferred it to Tosca--is a testament to his skills.
We chatted about one thing and another and somehow we got onto the topic of past jobs or our youth, or something related. Anyway, he mentioned that during his senior year in high school, he had a job that involved drawing maps for an insurance broker. In two weeks of working that job, he said, he'd saved up enough money for the bike he was lusting after: a Frejus Competition.
As I mentioned in another post, that bike practically defined "Italian racing bike" for many of us who first got into cycling during the early days of the '70's Bike Boom. I never owned one myself, but I admired it if for no other reason that it was one of the prettiest bikes available at that time. And while accounts of its ride qualities vary--and the workmanship, while not bad, is not as nice as that of similar bikes I'd encounter later.
At the time Hal bought his, it retailed for around $375. The frame was constructed of Reynolds 531 double-butted tubes, rather than the Columbus SL or SP most Italian builders were using. The frame was adorned with then-top-of-the-line Campagnolo Record components, including the Nuovo Record rear derailleur. (Super Record was a couple of years in the future). And, from what I've heard, Tom Avenia--whose New York City shop was, for decades, the main retailer of Frejus as well as other Italian marques and Campagnolo components--would replace the stock saddle (a Unicanitor, I believe) with a Brooks for an additional five dollars.
Hal, not given to hyperbole, put his job and purchase in perspective: "Today, a kid could work all summer and not have enough for a 105 bike!" Shimano's 105 components are good stuff--I've used some myself--but they are not top-of-the-line, as Campy Record was. And, even though 105 derailleurs and brakes (or even cheaper ones) work better than anything produced at the time Hal bought his Frejus, nothing made today has the kind rugged construction or workmanship of those old Campy components.
Hal's lesson in economics followed one I heard recently in a lecture: For the minimum wage to have the purchasing power it had in 1968, when it was $1.60 an hour, it would have to be $10.90. Of course, even that doesn't get you much of anything--in terms of housing, food or clothing, let alone bikes--in places like New York (where I live), San Francisco or Boston. But what kind of lodging (or bike) can you get at the current minimum wage of $7.25?
On Charles Street in Greenwich Village--just a couple of pedal strokes from the Hudson River and the Greenway that rims it--there's a shop that calls itself the "Downtown Upright Bike Shop." I guess I'd prefer that to a Downright Uptown Bike Shop, and I'm sure I'd like it better than a Frowntown Uptight Shop.
In any event, Hub Cycles is an interesting place. With its open front, entering it is rather like walking into a flea market. It's somehow appropriate--among the rows of "Dutch style" and "city" bikes from Biria, Linus and like companies, one finds the unexpected, such as this:
The red bike behind the Biria has an unusual combination of design and construction: It looks as if someone crossed an English three-speed from the 1930's with an American baloon-tired bike from built by, say, Schwinn or Columbia during the same era.
As you can see, it has the "camelback" design common on the old Schwinns. The curved top tube connects the head tube with the seat tube cluster. On diamond-shaped bikes,the seat stays would connect the cluster to the rear drop outs or fork ends. However, on this bike, a pair parallel tubes arcs from the downtube, across the seat tube and down to the dropouts.
What's really oee is that the top tube is joined by lugs while the curved twin tubes are spot-welded. I guess there really is no other way to join them. Still, I was a bit surprised to see such a construction method on a British bike.
The bike, as it turns out, was made by Dunelt, one of the best-known manufacturers of classic English three-speeds. (It, like many other makers of such bikes, was acquired by Tube Investments--the parent company of Raleigh--during the 1950's.) The head badge and chainring bearing the manufacturer's name were present, as was a faded transfer or decal on the seat tube.
Perhaps the most interesting aspect of the bike is this:
The hole on the bottom bracket shell is meant for an oiler. If that sounds familiar, you probably have a classic Sturmey-Archer multigear hub--or, perhaps, some old BSA or Chater Lea pedals, hubs or headsets. Those components--and the bottom bracket in the shell of this bike--were not made to be greased. Instead, the oil--which had to be applied regularly--served as both lubricant and cleanser, helping to flush grit out of the mechanism.
Such designs make a lot of sense when you realize that bikes like the one in the photo were made to be ridden on dusty country lanes that frequently turned to mud developed ruts big enough to have their own representation in Parliament. People who rode such bikes often were far from the nearest bicycle shop and did not have specialized bicycle tools. So, bikes and parts were designed to need "tear downs" as infrequently as possible.
Generations of people who used such bikes as their main means of transportation as well as for recreational riding were accustomed to the notion that their Sturmey-Archer hubs needed a teaspoon of oil every month or every time they rode in heavy rain or other harsh weather.
Americans, on the other hand, got out of the habit of depending on their bikes--or of adults riding bicycles at all. So what was common knowledge in Britain and the rest of Europe was forgotten. That, I believe, is the reason why so many Yanks end up with otherwise-good three-speed bikes on which the gears don't work: Necessary maintenance, minimal as it was, went by the wayside.
The good news is that Sturmey-Archer three-speed hubs made before the mid-1970's or thereabouts can usually be resurrected if the inner parts haven't corroded or rusted together entirely. The bad news is that fewer and fewer mechanics know how to service those classic parts.
Anyway, in a rather perverse irony, the bike I saw today was equipped with a new-production Sturmey-Archer hub that doesn't need to be oiled. That, to me, was more offensive than seeing the other replacements and modifications--including the hammered fenders, which I actually like on the Dunelt.
