From Rough Stuff To Gravel

 When you get to, ahem, a certain age, you become very skeptical when you hear the word “new.”  It seems that every genre of bike introduced and every “innovation” coming down the pike has been done decades, or even centuries, earlier.

I am thinking about all of the new and “revolutionary” bike and component designs and materials that appear on the market every year. Carbon fiber frame’s didn’t appear during the ‘90’s any more than the first aluminum frames were made by Alan during the ‘70’s.  Likewise, “rapid rise” derailleurs and disc brakes appeared on bikes decades before they attained their current popularity.

It could also be argued that “mountain” or “off-road” bikes are derivatives of earlier machines made to be ridden away from pavement. Oh, and the newest and latest trend—gravel bikes—is really six decades old, at least.

As a teenager in 1953, John Finley Scott drew a design for a “cow trailing” bike that reflected his interest in riding dirt, gravel and railroad grades.  At that time, few Americans rode bikes once they got their driver’s licenses.  So he looked to England, where there was a culture of “rough stuff” riding. 

John Finley Scott, with his Jim Guard bike as it came from England 

In 1961, he contacted British framebuilder Jim Guard, who brazed together Reynolds 531 manganese-molybdenum steel tubes with Nervex lugs. That was standard for high-quality, high-performance frames of the time.  So was the geometry:  72 degree head and seat tube angles on a 22 1/2 inch frame.  

Little did Guard or Scott know that configuration would become standard for gravel bikes six decades later.

Of course, the frame was outfitted with components very different from today’s.  Disc brakes for bikes were years away.  So Guard brazed on bosses for the most powerful brakes of the time: the extra-beefy cantilevers made for tandems. They, like the Specialites TA Pro Vis 5 (Cyclotouriste) cranks and chainrings Scott chose, would grace early mountain bikes two decades later.

The brakes were originally configured for 27 inch wheels, typical on quality touring bikes in the Anglophone world. Later, Scott had the brake bosses moved to accommodate the smaller-diameter 650b wheels, which allowed him to use wider tires.

Scott rode his proto-gravel bike on and off trails.  He thought it was the perfect way to explore the wonders of the American West. He continued his adventures until 2006, when he was a 72-year-old retired University of California-Davis professor of sociology. He hired a handyman he befriended to trim the trees around his property. That handyman cut down branches—and Scott’s life.

I would love to imagine a 90-year-old John Finley Scott tearing down a mountain pass with riders young enough to be his great-grandchildren on bikes that they probably don’t even realize he conceived, however unwittingly.

In 1962, It Was Superior

It was the "dark before the dawn" in what Sheldon Brown called "the Dark Ages of American Cycling."  Or it was the "dark before the dawn" of the North American Bike Boom that began, depending on whom you ask, around 1969.

I am talking about 1962: 60 years ago. At the end of Bob Seger’s "Night Moves," the reminiscing narrator is "humming a song" from that year: the Ronette's "Be My Baby,” according to Seger. 

That year, Algeria won its independence--at least, in name--from France as Jamaica did from England.  A certain English band was playing at the Star-Club in Hamburg, West (yes, it was West) Germany. And--what I am about to reveal might cause some of you to never read this blog again--my favorite baseball team, the New York Mets, made their lovably, comically inept debut. (Their manager, Casey Stengel, lamented, "Can't anybody here play this game?")

And, although there were a custom builders who made frames for the small but enthusiastic cycling communities of New York, Boston, Detroit, Chicago and a few other American locales, the name most Americans associated with quality bicycles was Schwinn.

Their company's top model, the Paramount, was built by hand in a separate area from the other bikes.  I have heard, from more than one source, that Schwinn actually lost money on Paramounts.  That sounds plausible:  Similar British, French and other European bikes with Reynolds tubing and Campagnolo components cost less (1962 Paramount price:  $175.00), mainly because the labor was less expensive.  Supposedly, Schwinn continued to build Paramounts because they were the official bike of the U.S. Olympic team and Arnold Schwinn saw equipping the riders who represented his country as an act of patriotism.  It also helped to support Schwinn's reputation as the only American bike-maker of that time with even a pretense of quality.

In 1962, Schwinn's second-line bike was the Superior.  Its frame was similar to the model of the same name Schwinn introduced in 1976:  chrome-molybdenum tubing filet-brazed without lugs into smooth joints and forged rear dropouts.  Both bikes also had Weinmann centerpull brakes (the cool engraved version on the 1962 bike) and rims with Schwinn-approved large-flange hubs made in France, probably by Normandy.

Oh, and I love the stem and handlebars--made for Schwinn by Gerry Burgess (GB) of England.  I can't get over that "lugged" sleeve on the handlebar:

 

 

Beyond those features, though, the 1960s and 1970s versions were very different. While both had Huret rear dropouts, the older version was equipped with the Huret Allvit derailleur:  standard touring gear of that time.  

The later Superiors came with Schwinn-branded Shimano or SunTour rear derailleurs--with, interestingly, Huret front derailleurs and shifters.  While the Shimano and SunTour mechanisms shifted much better almost any condition, they seemed to have an almost unfair advantage on the 1970s bike, a ten-speed with the Nervar crankset that used the Specialites TA Pro Vis 5/Stronglight 49D bolt pattern and a wide-range rear freewheel.  On the other hand, the Allvit had to wrap up the yards and yards (OK, that's just a slight exaggeration) of chain necessitated by this:

The 1962 Superior certainly had 15 speeds--exotic for that time.  To achieve it, Schwinn used something I've seen maybe a couple of times in all of my years of cycling and working in bike shops:  a triple (with three chainrings)  Ashtabula (one-piece) crankset. Made from solid forged steel, it probably weighed as much as the frame!

To be fair, there weren't as many cotterless cranks, or triples,  available as there are now.  Schwinn used three-piece cottered cranks only on their early Paramounts.  Even the heaviest cottered cranks were lighter than any Ashtabula cranks, and some companies like Chater Lea, Stronglight and Duprat made cranks with pencil-thin arms.  But, once Stronglight and Campagnolo came out with durable alloy cotterless cranksets, cottered cranks disappeared from high-end road bikes (though they would continue to be used on the track until around 1960).  

Still, even in light of what I've just mentioned, that Ashtabula crank seems so incongruous with the rest of the bike.  But, for most Americans in 1962, the Superior would have seemed as other-worldly as a spaceship.

By the way:  the Superior cost $132 in 1962.  That model was made for only another year and, interestingly, the price dropped to $126.50.  From 1964 until 1970, the Super Sport--basically, a ten-speed version of the Superior--was Schwinn's #2 bike behind the Paramount.  In 1971, the Sports Tourer would knock the Super Sport to #3 and become the new Superior in 1976.

Cranking (and Gearing) Up Arielle

So...How do you spend another dreary winter day on which the streets are still full of ice?  I know, ride a trainer or rollers.  I may just go out and get one or the other.  I used to ride rollers, back when I raced and when I told myself I was "going to get back into racing."  I know it helped to keep me in shape and improved my bike handling skills.  But it was boring, boring, boring!

So I spent today--part of it, anyway--modifying Arielle a bit. 

There was nothing wrong with her;  as I mentioned a while back, I didn't feel I needed the triple I had given her.  So I swapped the crankset for a "compact" double and changed the cassette (and chain, which needed it).  The gearing change allowed me to switch from a long- to short-cage rear derailleur and from a triple to a double front derailleur.

Arielle's drivetrain now consists of:

• Sugino "Alpina" 170mm cranks with Specialites TA "Syrius" chainrings, 50 and 36T
• Phil Wood bottom bracket with 108mm stainless steel spindle and rings
• Shimano "Dura Ace 7700" (9-speed) rear derailleur
• Shimano "Dura Ace 7402" front derailleur
• SRAM 850 8-speed cassette
• SRAM 890 chain
• White Industries Platform Pedals with MKS steel toe clips, Velo Orange leather toe clip covers and Velo Orange Straps
• DiaCompe "Silver" downtube levers.

I had been using the levers before the switch.  I like them very much:  They have a smooth action and feel good on my fingers.  I like the simplicity of downtube friction shifters:  After riding with Shimano STI and Campagnolo Ergo brifters for about a decade and a half, I came back to them about two years ago.

Interestingly enough, the same size bottom bracket worked with both the triple and the double.  Of course, that does not mean that you can get away with using the same bottom bracket when switching from one crank to another:  That depends on which model you're switching from and switching to, and on various dimensions of your frame.

I had been using the 50T chainring on my triple.  I decided to keep it because it gives me some gears that I really like.

Now all I need is some decent riding conditions.  I'm not fussy about temperatures, can stand some wind and don't even mind light precipitation.  But I'm not about to ride when there's ice everywhere.  Arielle deserves better than that!

Barelli: Raising The Bar On The Hill

Throughout my life, I've read various books, poems and other works of literature that brought me into other worlds.  Among them are, of course, Shakespeare's plays and Charlotte Bronte's Villette (which I liked even better than Wuthering Heights). Currently, I'm reading Colson Whitehead's Nickel Boys, which brings me into yet another world I can scarcely imagine.

While it wasn't a work of great literature, in its own way the Palo Alto Bicycle catalogue did something similar for me.  Its pages were filled with images and descriptions of equipment even more exotic--and less affordable--than Campagnolo's.  At that time, I probably could've counted, on one hand, the number of Campy-equipped bikes ridden by people I actually knew.  So, in perusing the pages of PAB, I found myself imagining, not only the components themselves, but the folks who rode (or simply bought) them.

Among those parts were pedals that, to this day, I have not seen in "real life" but recently came across on eBay when I was looking for another part. In the mid-1970s, it seemed that every other cyclist with an engineering background, or simply a lathe, was trying to improve in one way or another in what they were spinning in races or club rides.  Among those folks were Bob Reedy, the folks at East Rochester Tool and Die--and Geoff Chapman.

A member of Cambridge (Town & County) Cycle Club in the UK, Chapman owned an engineering firm in nearby Bar Hill.   He would use a near-anagram of that name, with an Italian touch,  for the brand of his products:  Barelli.

At that time, the North American Bike Boom had crested.  Many of classic British builders were still producing their legendary frames, but the country's bike component industry was in steep decline, in part  because some manufacturers didn't update their designs or factory equipment.  As an example, Williams, which made some of those pencil-thin cottered cranksets found on classic British lightweights, finally produced a cotterless crankset--years after Campagnolo, Stronglight, Specialites TA and other companies introduced theirs.   And Sturmey-Archer, which was all but synonymous with internally-geared hubs, was losing not only because derailleurs had become more popular, but also because the quality of its products was slipping. (SA 3-speed hubs made from about the mid-80s until 2000, when the company went into receivership and was bought by SunRace, are all but unrideable.)  

So it was interesting, to say the least, that someone like Chapman would not only try to improve upon the design of what he was riding, but would also produce something worthy, quality-wise, of a Jack Taylor, Bob Jackson, Mercian, Hetchins or Ron Cooper frame.

Barelli Supreme

Barelli B-10

He seems to have produced two models: the Supreme and B10.  The former looks like an amalgam of platform pedals like the Lyotard Berthet and traditional quill pedals.  The latter took a shoe cleat that fit into the body and was secured with a traditional toe clip and strap.  (Shoe cleats of that time typically had a slot that fit onto the pedal cage.)  The B10, perhaps not surprisingly, seems to have had some following among track riders because it had such a secure hold which some described as "impossible to get out of."

That might be the reason why Barelli didn't share the same fate as Reedy and ERTD, whose designs were used by companies like SunTour. While Reedy and ERTD were really just lighter and more aerodynamic versions of traditional pedals (albeit with sealed bearings and a nicer finishes), Barellis--especially the B10--might have been just too radical.  Or the difficulty of dismounting B10s might have reminded them of the Cinelli M71, often nicknamed the "suicide" pedal.

So, while I'd like to see some Barellis in "real life," and might buy a pair if I were more of a collector (or simply had more money), it's probably a good thing I couldn't afford them when they appeared in the Palo Alto Bicycle catalogue.

They Don't Make 'Em Like This Anymore!

The other day I was wandering some familiar haunts in Brooklyn with Arielle, my Mercian Audax special.  Along the way, I made a quick detour to look for a sign the world hadn't ended.

All right, so it wasn't so dramatic.  I was, however, relieved and gratified that one of the truly gentle people I've known still has his shop.  If the repair bicycles weren't locked to a rack in front of the store, it would be easy to miss.  

Arnold's Bicycles and Trains is no bigger than my apartment but is chock-full of history. It has been on the same block of Sunset Park for decades.  I don't think Arnold has sold any trains in a while, but I suspect he may have a few leftover tracks or cars in his basement. (Do kids still pine for model railroads at Christmastime?)  He says he still has a few nice old parts but "I've sold most of them over the past few years" as people are restoring all sorts of old machines.

These days, I suspect he makes most of his money from repairs, helmets and other accessories, as well as the occasional new kid's bike.  In addition to his gentleness, everyone who's dealt with him remarks on his honesty, which is probably why his store has weathered the changes in the surrounding neighborhood.

It's hard to believe, but when I stopped by, one of the repair bikes I saw is older than the shop--and possibly Arnold himself:

Like Arnold, it's "the real deal".  In other words, it's what lots of bikes today claim they are:  a Dutch city bike. (Brand:  Victoria) It could have been parked next to an Amsterdam canal yesterday, or 50 years ago, and it wouldn't have looked out of place.  This bike is meant for commuting, as evidenced by at least one interesting feature:

People pay custom frame builders and constructeurs good money for internal generator-light wiring, but here it is on an everyday utility bike!  But the thing that fascinated me most is the crank:

We expect most bikes of this type to have cottered cranskets.  Cotterless sets, we're told, were the province of Campagnolo, Stronglight, Specialites TA and other makers of high-end racing and touring gear.  

This one is made of steel.  Its chainring cannot be changed, but I suspect that it will never need to be.  

Nor will Arnold.  Whatever he sells in his shop, people go to it because of him.  Oh, and there's a place on the next block where you can eat some of the best pork buns you can get without taking a flight to Shanghai!

Vera Gets New Bags From Ely

Vera doesn't seem to have suffered any structural damage from the accident a few weeks ago.  I feel confident in saying that after doing some work on it.

In the course of doing some maintenance and repair, I decided to make a few changes.  One involved going to a slightly longer handlebar stem extension.  I took the opportunity to install one with a built-in cable hanger:

And, as you will notice, I did something to the stem.  Look at how the bell is attached.  Yes, I drilled a hole and tapped it so that the bell, which I unscrewed from its bracket, threaded in.

The bell, by the way, is Japanese.  I bought it from Velo Orange.  From what I understand, it's also available from Jitensha Studios.

One reason I decided to set up the stem that way was to de-clutter the front.  Also, having a cantilever brake means having a hanger, and whoever originally set up this bike didn't leave much room in the steering column for much besides the headset.  There was enough room for the hanger, but I wanted to put something else in there:

Yes, I made the plunge:  I'm using a decaleur, also from Velo Orange.  More to the point, I'm using it on a great piece of kit:  RuthWorks' Randonneur bag.   

I've written about his Brevet and wedge bags in other posts.  Ely Rodriguez makes RuthWorks bags and seems to have a great time doing it.  Not only does he offer canvas (and other materials) in all sorts of colors; he pays great attention to detail.  So, his bags are full of all sorts of thoughtful features as well as great workmanship.

I love the way the top flap opens.  I suspect that it provides greater protection against the elements, though I have not yet ridden with this bag in bad weather.  

It's hard to believe that in all of the years I've ridden, I've never before used a front bag like this one, much less a decaleur.  It seems that those things disappeared from the face of the Earth right around the time I got involved in cycling.  I didn't even see them in Europe:  It seems that all of the traditional manufacturers of bicycle luggage and the stuff you need to use them on bikes disappeared, or started to use synthetics where they once used cotton duck canvas and more modern methods of attaching the bags. 

And, it seemed that the world was forgetting about how to position bags. (I actually had a Specialites TA front bag that I never used because no one had any idea of where to find the hardware I'd need for it.)  One ironic result was that we were always complaining that our handlebar bags bounced:  All of the lore and science that would have told us that they were really meant to be front bags, not handlebar bags (which meant they'd mount lower on the bike , close to the wheel rather than high up on the handlebar) disappeared like the scrolls and books that burned in the Library of Alexandria.

What this means is that I wish I'd known about bags like this, and how to use them, when I took my European, New England and California-Nevada tours.  I would have been so much more comfortable about carrying the Honeywell Pentax I brought on those trips!  And, let's face it, with a bag like the one Ely made for me, I would have been riding in style.

My bag includes large velcro strips that wrap around the rails of a front rack.   It might be possible to use the bag with just those straps and no decaleur.  (Perhaps the bag could also be lashed to the rack's "tombstone".)  It's also possible to use it with something like the Nitto F15 handlebar support or the Rixen Kaul "Klick Fix" system.  Either of those supports, however, attach to the handlebars themselves and render the bag more like a traditional handlebar bag.

If you order one of these bags, you can ask Ely to make it without the loops for the handlebar rack or the Velcro straps.  You can also ask him to make other accommodations for whatever racks and attachment systems you use.  He's very willing to work with you on helping you get a bag you like.  He even makes "vegan" bags, without leather or other animal products.

Now, I grant that this is my first experience of using such a piece of bike luggage.  So I can't honestly compare it to other boxy Randonneur bags.  However, I can wholeheartedly recommend this piece of kit for its details, convenience features and Ely's workmanship.

And, oh, can you tell that I love the color?  It's called Nantucket Red, but it's really more like a salmon pink.  My other RuthWorks bags in that color are great on my other Mercians, with the purple/green "flip=flop" (#57) finish.  I was tempted to ask him to make a gray or black bag for Vera, but I think I like this color with the British Racing Green finish.  What do you think?

(You've noticed another bag on the rear of Vera.  I'll write about it soon.)

Fixie-ing A Ron Kit

 Every once in a while, I'll see another cyclist astride a Mercian.  About as often, I'll encounter somoene riding a Bob Jackson, Ron Cooper, Hetchins or Holdsworth.  While a significant part of those builders' work made its way to the United States, the segment of the cycling world who rides any high-end bike is actually very small. And each of those builders probably made fewer frames in a year than Raleigh or other manufacturers produced in a day.

It never occured to me, however, that one less-known (among cycling enthusisasts, let alone the general public) marque would be even rarer, at least here in the US, simply because I hadn't seen it here--until yesterday.  And I encountered it in a way I hadn't expected--but, upon reflection, makes perfect sense.

For three decades, Ron Kitching's catalogue was a kind of Whole Earth Catalogue for British cyclists.  He was the chief UK importer of well-known manufacturers like Cinelli and Specialites TA, and he introduced English riders to Shimano and SunTour.  The latter reflected part of his philosophy of offering products that offered high quality and good value for the money.  That ethos was also reflected in parts and accessories he imported, mainly from France and Italy and rebranded as "Milremo." 

Unless you've spent time perusing his catalogues, you might not realize (or might have forgotten) that he also sold high quality frames under his own name. The best of them were constructed, like most high-end British frames of the time, of Reynolds 531 tubing  by builders such as Arthur Metcalf and Wes Mason.  In fact, for a time, frames were sold under the "MKM" marque, with the middle initial representing the "silent" partner of Kiching between those of the builders.

I've seen, probably, a couple of MKM frames, as at least one mail-order company (Bike Warehouse, which became Bike Nashbar, comes to mind) offered them. But until yesterday, I hadn't seen one with Ron Kitching's name on it.

Finding it at all was surprising enough. But to see it only a kilometer from my apartmet--on 41st Street in Astoria--was even less anticipated. 

Should I have been surprised that it's in its current state?

It looks like it was intended as a long-distance race or audax bike, given its geometry--a race bike in its time, but more like an all-arounder today--and the lack of rack or fender eyelets on the dropouts.  So it makes sense as a single-speed or fixed-gear bike for the city:  It's probably responsive and maneuvarable, given its geometry and Reynolds 531 double-butted tubing and forks.

Yes, it's made in England.

Given how rare Ron Kitching bikes are in the US, I surmise that someone brought it with them in a move from England.  I'm also guessing that whoever brought it here gave or sold it to whoever is riding it now--who may or may not have any idea of the history behind it.  

A Grand Record And, How I Became Queen of the Road

I didn't post yesterday because I was a bad girl.  I stayed up well past my bedtime and partied.  At least I rode my bike to and from the bash.


Being the warmest day we've had since October, lots of people were riding for the first time this year.  One of them, I suspect, rode this bike:

It was parked in the same rack, at my second job, where I've seen a Pinarello.  I couldn't get a better photo of it because the bikes were parked so close together.  But I think you can see that it's a nice bike:  a Motobecane Grand Record, circa 1973.

The frame was made with Reynolds 531 double-butted tubing, those nice curly Nervex lugs and Campagnolo dropouts.  The bike was originally equipped with a mixture of high-quality French components and Campagnolo Nuovo Record shifters.

This specimen still has the shifters.  However, the crankset was replaced with what looks like a late-model Sugino AT triple.  It's a fine piece of kit, and allows for a small sprocket of 24 teeth.  I'm guessing that its owner wanted a triple, which wasn't possible with the original crankset.

This is the Specialites TA "Professional" crankset, which is what originally came on the Grand Record.  A number of European bikes, including a couple of models from Raleigh, sported this fine piece of machining and polishing.  Notice that the chainrings were attached to only three arms, as was common on cranksets (including Rene Herse's) until the 1970's.  Nearly all modern chainrings attach to either five or four arms.  The newer designs are supposed to be stiffer and more secure.  That may well be true, but plenty of really strong riders rode--and even raced--on three-arm cranks.


Anyway, these days replacement chainrings for those three-arm cranks aren't available from many other sources besides eBay.


After work, I went to the party I mentioned.  A colleague was celebrating a round-number birthday; the guests included some other colleagues as well as friends of hers I'd never met before.  They were all astounded that I rode there.  "But it only took me 45 minutes," I pointed out.  


The colleague offered to let me stay at her place.  I would've accepted, except that I remembered Charlie and Max.  Did I leave enough food for them?  And how full was their litter box?, I wondered.


So I assured my colleague that I had a good time.  I think she knew that, as I was one of the last people to leave.  But I fibbed about something else:  I said I would ride my bike to the Long Island Rail Road station, which was only two blocks away, and take the train home.  


You can guess what I did instead.  I rode home, about twenty-one miles.  It's not a great distance, certainly, and as I didn't drink any alcohol (I never do.), I could easily ride in a straight line.  As it turned out, even if I couldn't, it wouldn't have been much of a problem because the roads I took were almost completely free of traffic at that hour.  

Surprisingly, I didn't feel tired, even though I started to ride at about four in the morning.  The weather had gotten chillier, but I didn't put on the tights I'd brought with me.  So I rode with my legs bare below the hem of my skirt.  I didn't feel cold; I felt invigorated.  And the full moon was so bright that, had I stopped, I could have read Ulysses.  But I didn't stop, not even for a traffic signal.  Some of them were blinking their red lights, but--OK, I was a bad girl--I ran a couple of red lights.  OK, maybe more than a couple.  If a girl runs a red light and no one's there to see it....


And, I'll admit something else:  I took some main roads on which I wouldn't normally ride.  I'm not talking about the Long Island Expressway; I'm talking about main local thoroughfares like Jericho Turnpike, Hillside Avenue and Queens Boulevard (a.k.a. The Boulevard of Death).  


As I was riding those nearly empty streets, I thought for a moment about a Pinky and the Brain episode.  In it, Brain carries out his latest scheme for taking over the world:  He gets Pinky to help him create an alternative planet Earth.  He lures people to it by offering free T-shirts, which he correctly identified as an irresistible draw.  So, emptied of its former inhabitants, Brain finally "takes over" this world.


The difference was that I didn't suffer the empty feeling Brain had in the end.  Instead, by the time I got home, I was starting to feel tired.  And I fell into a very nice sleep--after I fed Charlie and Max.

Propulsion Avant?

 Yesterday, I mentioned Specialites TA founder Georges Navette's attempts to make a front wheel-drive (Traction Avant) bicycle.  They failed, but he succeeded in creating a crankset with chainrings of widely varying sizes.

What if he had continued in his quest for alternative ways of powering a bicycle?

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.

Rough Stuff From The Brothers

Back when mountain bikes were new--well, they weren't.  Not really.

When Gary Fisher, or whoever, broke his twentieth or thirtieth balloon-tire bomber frame while barreling down the fire trails of Marin County and decided to fashion a lighter, stronger frame with the same geometry--and provisions for multiple gears, dearailleurs and cantilever brakes--it wasn't a radical new idea.

That's not to say that it wasn't important, which would be like saying that Levi Strauss has had no effect on the way people dress.  At the time Gary Fisher, Keith Bontrager and those mountain-bike pioneers were introducing their rigs, almost no other Americans--or, for that matter, people in other parts of the cycling world--had seen a bike made for the rigors of trail riding.

The idea of such a bike has been around since the dawn of cycling itself.  It makes sense, when you think about it:  When the first vehicles we recognize as bicycles appeared about 130 or 140 years ago, there were few paved roads.  Riding even those could shake one's bones even more than the "boneshakers" of that time.  Bikes at that time had to withstand being ridden over ruts, rocks and sometimes roots.

Some might argue that the velos a ballon one still finds in the French countryside are forerunners of today's velos a tout terrain. Other possible ancestors of today's mountain bikes could also include any number of wide-tired bikes used for transportation and even recreation in various parts of the world.

In England, there was a genre called the "Rough Stuff" bike.  Jack Taylor Cycles, most renowned for their tandems, actually used the catchy phrase as the name for  one model  of single-rider bikes they made. 



Isn't it funny how so many ideas that seemed so radical in the 1980's are present on a bike designed three decades earlier?  I'm talking about the sloping top tube, high bottom bracket and small (compared to a typical road bike) diameter wheels.  Also, this bike has the Mafac cantilever brakes and Specialites TA ProVis 5 (a.k.a. Cyclotouriste) cranks. 

Before the tries and cables were replaced.

The bike was first produced from drawings submitted by a nature photographer.  In the early 1950's, photography equipment was much bigger, bulkier and heavier than it is now.  The built-in rear rack, like the whole bike, is built to withstand the rigors of carrying such a load in the wild.

Here is a BBC documentary about Jack--and his brothers/fellow builders Ken and Norman--that aired in 1986:


 

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.