In January, I wrote about an Ohio town that was best known for the bicycle company that, from 1925 to 1953, manufactured its wares right in its center. The Shelby Bicycle Historical Society was recently formed to commemorate the role bicycle-manufacturing played in Shelby, about 150 kilometers southwest of Cleveland.
Other communities have been defined by bicycle manufacturing. Although Raleigh is associated with Nottingham, the center of the British bicycle industry was Birmingham, where a company bearing its name--Birmingham Small Arms, or BSA--made the most sought-after componentry in the peloton, as well as some fine racing bikes.
Likewise, for most of the 20th Century, the nexus of France's bicycle industry was St. Etienne, a gritty industrial city about 50 kilometers from Lyon. Many editions of the Tour de France have included a stage that began, ended or passed through the city, and a French rider winning such a stage is a point of pride for the nation.
For much of the time Birmingham and St. Etienne dominated their respective country's bicycle industries, a certain bike-maker was a major employer on the South Side of Chicago. I am referring to Schwinn which, as Sheldon Brown pointed out, was the only American brand with even a pretense of quality during the "Dark Ages" of cycling in the US.
Chicago, Birmingham, Saint Etienne and Shelby all had their heydays as centers of bicycle (and, in the cases of Birmingham and Saint Etienne, component) making. But, like empires, those enterprises fell. Cheaper imports, mainly from Asia, are often blamed (less so for Shelby than the others). But the biggest reasons for their demise are their failures to keep up with changes in demand as well as innovations. Schwinn, like other companies, sponsored racing teams, but limited their efforts almost entirely to the US, until it was too late. So, the Paramount line, begun in 1938, was, by the 1960s, a dinosaur (its fine craftsmanship notwithstanding) compared to racing bikes from Europe.
More recently, the US city most commonly associated with bike-making has been Portland, Oregon. One difference, however, is that in the Rosebud City's bike-building scene has more closely paralleled its "craft" beer milieu than it has reflected trends and practices in mass-production bicycles. During Portland's frame-building heyday, from about 2005 to 2010, it was claimed that over a hundred builders practiced their craft in a city of about 600,000 residents.
It was during that time that the Oregon Handmade Bicycle Show began as an annual event in 2007. Builders enthusiastically set up booths to show their creations to ever-appreciative audiences. How much those exhibits translate into orders is, however, a topic of debate: Many people go to "ooh" and "aah" at frames they will never be able to afford, or simply don't feel a need to order, their fine artistry not withstanding.
The phenomena I've described are being blamed for the cancellation of this year's show. Some builders said it simply wasn't worth the time and money it took to, not only create and set up an exhibit, but to actually get to the show. Portland and Oregon are more spread out than, say, San Francisco or any number of East Coast cities one can name. That means it's harder to entice people to attend when an event is scheduled to be held in an out-of-the-way place, as this year's show was.
But other factors were chipping away at enthusiasm for the show. One is that more people are buying bikes and equipment online. Another, though, is the builders themselves: Some have had to scale down their operations, move or simply leave the business altogether. While the bicycle industry is trending larger--think bigger conglomerates selling more and more merchandise at lower prices--builders who make their frames by hand work in the opposite direction: They sell less, and for higher prices.
What that means is that in spite of the high price tags for such frames, most builders don't get rich. In fact, many barely make a living at all. All it takes is a major rent increase in their workspace to put them out of business: Building bikes requires a lot of space, and if builders are forced out of their loft or wherever they're working, they have can have a very difficult time finding a comparable amount of space for a rent they can afford.
Especially if the city is gentrifying, as Portland is. The things that made it so appealing--its roots as a blue-collar town, its scenery and its edgy arts and social scene--are attracting trust fund kids and other people with money. It's more or less what happened to places like Williamsburg, Brooklyn, which is now just as expensive as Manhattan but now manages to be as much a theme park as Las Vegas but with all of the character of Davenport, Iowa.
Now, I've never been to Portland, so I can't say whether it's becoming as dispiriting as Williamsburg is to me now. (A few years ago, I felt differently.) But from what I'm reading, the city sorts of folks depicted in "Portlandia" are changing their careers or lifestyles, or moving out. So are the kinds of unique and unusual businesses--including custom frame building--associated with the city?
Could it be that Portland is ceding its place as the bicycle capital of the United States? If it is, perhaps the change was inevitable: Small, labor-intensive enterprises with niche audiences generally don't last when the real estate becomes expensive. How many bike shops, craft beer breweries, fabric weavers or tatoo artists are on 57th Street in Manhattan?
Other communities have been defined by bicycle manufacturing. Although Raleigh is associated with Nottingham, the center of the British bicycle industry was Birmingham, where a company bearing its name--Birmingham Small Arms, or BSA--made the most sought-after componentry in the peloton, as well as some fine racing bikes.
Likewise, for most of the 20th Century, the nexus of France's bicycle industry was St. Etienne, a gritty industrial city about 50 kilometers from Lyon. Many editions of the Tour de France have included a stage that began, ended or passed through the city, and a French rider winning such a stage is a point of pride for the nation.
For much of the time Birmingham and St. Etienne dominated their respective country's bicycle industries, a certain bike-maker was a major employer on the South Side of Chicago. I am referring to Schwinn which, as Sheldon Brown pointed out, was the only American brand with even a pretense of quality during the "Dark Ages" of cycling in the US.
Chicago, Birmingham, Saint Etienne and Shelby all had their heydays as centers of bicycle (and, in the cases of Birmingham and Saint Etienne, component) making. But, like empires, those enterprises fell. Cheaper imports, mainly from Asia, are often blamed (less so for Shelby than the others). But the biggest reasons for their demise are their failures to keep up with changes in demand as well as innovations. Schwinn, like other companies, sponsored racing teams, but limited their efforts almost entirely to the US, until it was too late. So, the Paramount line, begun in 1938, was, by the 1960s, a dinosaur (its fine craftsmanship notwithstanding) compared to racing bikes from Europe.
More recently, the US city most commonly associated with bike-making has been Portland, Oregon. One difference, however, is that in the Rosebud City's bike-building scene has more closely paralleled its "craft" beer milieu than it has reflected trends and practices in mass-production bicycles. During Portland's frame-building heyday, from about 2005 to 2010, it was claimed that over a hundred builders practiced their craft in a city of about 600,000 residents.
It was during that time that the Oregon Handmade Bicycle Show began as an annual event in 2007. Builders enthusiastically set up booths to show their creations to ever-appreciative audiences. How much those exhibits translate into orders is, however, a topic of debate: Many people go to "ooh" and "aah" at frames they will never be able to afford, or simply don't feel a need to order, their fine artistry not withstanding.
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| Framebuilder Joseph Ahearne at the 2017 Oregon Handmade Bicycle Show |
The phenomena I've described are being blamed for the cancellation of this year's show. Some builders said it simply wasn't worth the time and money it took to, not only create and set up an exhibit, but to actually get to the show. Portland and Oregon are more spread out than, say, San Francisco or any number of East Coast cities one can name. That means it's harder to entice people to attend when an event is scheduled to be held in an out-of-the-way place, as this year's show was.
But other factors were chipping away at enthusiasm for the show. One is that more people are buying bikes and equipment online. Another, though, is the builders themselves: Some have had to scale down their operations, move or simply leave the business altogether. While the bicycle industry is trending larger--think bigger conglomerates selling more and more merchandise at lower prices--builders who make their frames by hand work in the opposite direction: They sell less, and for higher prices.
What that means is that in spite of the high price tags for such frames, most builders don't get rich. In fact, many barely make a living at all. All it takes is a major rent increase in their workspace to put them out of business: Building bikes requires a lot of space, and if builders are forced out of their loft or wherever they're working, they have can have a very difficult time finding a comparable amount of space for a rent they can afford.
Especially if the city is gentrifying, as Portland is. The things that made it so appealing--its roots as a blue-collar town, its scenery and its edgy arts and social scene--are attracting trust fund kids and other people with money. It's more or less what happened to places like Williamsburg, Brooklyn, which is now just as expensive as Manhattan but now manages to be as much a theme park as Las Vegas but with all of the character of Davenport, Iowa.
Now, I've never been to Portland, so I can't say whether it's becoming as dispiriting as Williamsburg is to me now. (A few years ago, I felt differently.) But from what I'm reading, the city sorts of folks depicted in "Portlandia" are changing their careers or lifestyles, or moving out. So are the kinds of unique and unusual businesses--including custom frame building--associated with the city?
Could it be that Portland is ceding its place as the bicycle capital of the United States? If it is, perhaps the change was inevitable: Small, labor-intensive enterprises with niche audiences generally don't last when the real estate becomes expensive. How many bike shops, craft beer breweries, fabric weavers or tatoo artists are on 57th Street in Manhattan?
