A Proteus Bicycle: They--Or You--Could Build It

The other day, in writing about the Tokheim "Gear Maker", I mentioned that a number of American manufacturers tried to cash in on their country's "Bike Boom" during the 1970s, even though those companies had no experience in making anything bike-related.  Most, like Tokheim, were either out of the bike business or defunct within a decade. 

 

Then there were companies like Cannondale and Bellwether that entered the market during the decade, which also included a "boom" in hiking, skiing, camping and other outdoor activities.  Bellwether made bike bags and clothing; they are still in the bike clothing business.  (I still use some winter items of theirs I bought years ago.)  And, of course, Cannondale is one of the best-known names in cycling.  They still offer small seat and frame pouches, but not the panniers or handlebar bags many of us used in tours past.  "C" also has a line of bike clothing in addition to their bikes.  Ironically, when Cannondale first appeared on the scene in 1970, they did not make bicycles or bicycle clothing (those items would not be part of the company's offerings for another dozen years); the hiking, camping and skiing  gear they made in those days hasn't been made since the mid-1980's.

 

During the 1970s in the US, there was also something of a mini-boom in hand- and custom-frame building.  During the days of the six-day races, there were many such builders, especially in the New York, Detroit and Chicago areas, as well as in California.  Some hung on during the "dark ages" of cycling after World War II and catered to the small but enthusiastic community of cyclists still found in the 'States.  But most of those builders had either died, left the business or retired by the 1960s.  So, the American builders of the 1970s were mostly a new breed.

 

One of the most respected was Albert Eisentraut, who worked in the San Francisco Bay area.  One way in which he and the other new American builders differed from those of the previous generation is that they were home-grown and, in many cases, self-taught, in contrast to earlier builders who came from the other side of the Atlantic or had spent considerable time there.  Also, the new builders didn't even have the remanants of a racing or general cycling culture the earlier builders could draw upon.

 

That lack of precedent was both a hindrance and a help.  Of course, it was a hindrance because it steepened the learning curve for the newcomers; also, there were some (whom we don't hear about today) who didn't stay in the "game" because they overheated frame tubes or made other mistakes that resulted in their frames failing or simply not riding satisfactorily.  On the other hand, the lack of antecedents also gave the newcomers the freedom to approach their work in ways traditional builders never would have dreamed of.

 

 

A Proteus touring bike, circa 1977

 One of those new builders was really a collective known as Proteus Cycles.  Founded by Barry Konig, Larry Dean and Steve Schuman in 1971, they weren't French-style constructeurs who built the whole bike from the ground up with custom-made components.  They even, in some ways, parted company with British builders like Ron Cooper, from whom they learned many of their skills.  Builders like Cooper, Bob Jackson and Mercian usually sell frames, whether custom or stock, and customers or their local shop build them up with components the customer chooses (although those builders sometimes sell complete bikes).  But the frames you get from such builders are entirely their own work; while the customer might have a say in designing it, he or she leaves the actual building to the builder.

The customer could order such a frame, or a complete bike, from Proteus.  Or, he or she could let them build it, and finish it him or herself. Or he or she could build the frame and Proteus would finish it.

Dan Rovelli's 1979 Proteus.  From Classic Rendezvous

That last option was particularly intriguing.  You see, at its peak, Proteus held frame-building classes and even published a book about frame building, penned by a fictitious "Dr. Paul Proteus."  Konig, Dean and Schulman were, of course, the probable authors, and they recommended that anyone who wanted to build a frame should read it first--even before taking their classes or ordering one of the frame-building kits (which included tubing, lugs and other fitments) Proteus sold.  It was even possible to buy individual frame fitments, such as fork tangs, from the builders.

Ben Dillingham's Proteus, with modern touches

I like to think that Proteus was more like a studio or a gallery combined with an art-supply shop than a traditional bike-building enterprise:  the artists/artisans not only worked on their creations; they also conducted classes and the organization sold the materials needed as well as related publications.  To my knowledge, no European or Japanese (or, for that matter, any other American) builder offered such a wide range of products and services.

I have tried to find out when, exactly, Proteus stopped being, well, Proteus.  Apparently, that happened some time in the late 1980s or thereabouts.  At that time, technology started to displace craftsmanship in the bicycle world, and I think that people simply didn't have as much time (or money) to spend on classes or to build their own bikes. I know that when I have a limited amount of time, I'd rather ride my bikes than work on them!

Today there is a bike shop called Proteus that is a descendent of the legendary bike-building collective.  Apparently, the Proteus partners continued to operate a bicycle retail business after they stopped building frames and, in time, sold the business to others.  According to the shop's website, it holds social events and holds classes as well as rides.  I guess, in some way, they are keeping up the spirit of "Dr. Paul Proteus."

(P.S.:  Jill Di Mauro bought the shop in 2002.  In 2007, Di Mauro married her Canadian partner in Canada.  Though Maryland would legalize same-sex marriage four years later, federal laws--including immigration statutes--didn't recognize their union.  So, when Di Mauro's wife's visa expired, she had to return to Canada.  In 2012, Di Mauro sold the shop and moved to upstate New York to be closer to her wife while she applied to return to the US.)

 

 

Braving The City, Saving The World

Now here's someone I admire:

 

 

even though, after seeing him, I'd still be reluctant to ride a recumbent bike in traffic.

The photo appeared on This Big City, where I also found this infographic:

 

The Gear Maker

During the 1970's Bike Boom, millions of Americans bought ten-speed bikes.  Many people rode them only a few times, or once.  Some didn't like the dropped handlebars or small "hard" seats; others couldn't quite get the hang of shifting derailleurs.  Given the fragile nature of most derailleurs of the time, the results weren't pretty, especially when the derailleurs were out of adjustment or the rider tried to shift while standing still or under pressure.

Then there were the engineering types and tinkerers who look at any mechanical device and think "There must be a better way."  And, finally, there were lots of newly-minted lawyers with too much time on their hands who saw all sorts of potential lawsuits lurking. (Some of them helped to found the CPSC.)

One of the best-remembered attempts to correct the "deficiencies" of derailleur gearing was Shimano's Front Freewheeling system.  Basically, it incorporated a freewheel-like mechanism between the chainrings and crank so that the chainrings spun as long as the wheels were spinning. This allowed riders to shift without pedaling. 

Some people who were accustomed to internally-geared hubs (like Sturmey-Archer three-speeds) liked this new innovation, which is probably the reason why it developed something of a following in Germany, where many people still cycled for transportation but few were accustomed to derailleurs.  However, the FF system was heavy and complicated, and was equipped only on entry-level bikes.

Another attempt to bypass the idiosyncrasies of derailleurs and multiple rear sprockets is all but forgotten today.  But it was interesting in its own way.

Before its foray into the bicycle business, Tokheim had about seven decades' worth of experience in manufacturing fuel dispensers and pumps, and equipment for payment terminals and retail automation systems.  So, if you've ever owned or managed a gas station, you've seen or used Tokheim equipment.

Like a few other American companies, Tokheim thought the Bike Boom was an opening for a new profitable market.  And, like those other companies (including, of all companies, Beatrice Foods!), they thought they could make bike parts and accessories even though they had absolutely no experience with them--or, it could seem, cycling. 

Then again, Tokheim's experience with pumps and other kinds of machinery had, it would seem, at least some applicability to designing and manufacturing a bicycle gearing system.  It was at least somewhat in evidence in their "Gear Maker" system.

The Tokheim Gear Maker

When drivetrains with derailleurs are shifted to their extreme positions (small chainring with the smallest rear cog or largest chainring with largest rear cog), severe chainline angles can result.  This usually results in noisier running; in worse cases, it leads to premature chain and cog wear.  In the worst cases (especially with an inexperienced and unskilled rider), the chain can be thrown off the cogs and into the wheels or get stuck between the chainrings and chainstay.

Most cyclists learned, in time, not to shift into the extreme gear positions--or to do so carefully.  However, some could never get past that first experience of a missed shift.  Or, if they had no previous experience with multi-cog systems, they were intimidated.

That is the "need" the Tokheim system was intended to meet.  Imagine an old-fashioned Ferris wheel:  the kind with a "spider" that rotates around an axle at its center and "cars" or "gondolas" at the end of each arm.  Those cars and arms are in fixed positions and will always reach the same height at the peak of their rotation. 

Now imagine that between those arms, there are other arms, except that these arms are expandable and retractable.  Thus, the Ferris wheel operator could expand the diameter (and height) of the wheel for more adventurous customers.  But the cars of those expanded and contracted cars would rotate in the same plane as the cars on arms with fixed lengths.

The gear in the "gear maker" was like that Ferris wheel.  It was operated with a twist-grip shifter.  When the shifter was in its "high" position (slackened cable), the chain ran on the smallest gear, which was fixed to the axle.  Shifting down made an interposer arm push a series of bars out successively.  At the end of each bar were teeth like those of a typical rear sprocket.  The chain ran on a larger sprocket something like the "skip tooth" cogs found on some 1970s freewheels.  A tensioner--basically a derailleur cage and pulleys--took up chain slack.

For a time, the Tokheim system came as standard equipment on a few Huffy and Murray bikes.  I never saw a bicycle sold in a bike shop that was equipped with the Tokheim system, and I don't know whether anyone ever retrofitted it to a bike.  For that matter, I didn't know anyone who rode it, and only got to work on a couple of them, so I don't know how they performed in the "real world".  However, as the gears were made of plastic, I suspect they wore fairly quickly.  And, as Tokheim stopped making it around 1980 and, to my knowledge, never offered replacement parts (and because most of the bikes that came with them have long since ended up in landfills), I don't suspect that very many Tokheim Gear Makers are in use today.  But, I think, they are interesting nonetheless.