A Reflection On My Treks Past

The bike I rode yesterday is the third Trek I've owned.

So, naturally, I got to thinking about the other two.

My first Trek was also the first "pure" racing bike I owned.  It might well have the tightest geometry of any road bike I've ever had.

The Trek 930 frame was made from 1977 until 1981.  Mine, I believe, was from 1979 and was made by master frame builder Tim Isaac, who began building frames for Trek that year.  

The 930--which should not be confused with a singletrack mountain bike bearing the same numerical designation, which Trek offered during the 1990's--was a classic lugged bike constructed from Columbus SL tubing.  (The larger sizes used the slightly thicker-walled Columbus SP.)  The one in the photo is the same size as mine was:  a 56cm seat tube.  But, like other racing bikes of the time, it came with a top tube of the same size as the seat tube.  That meant I had to ride with a short-reach stem, which made the steering less than optimal.

But the bike could accelerate, thanks to its short chainstays and wheelbase.  Being young and full of testosterone (and other substances), I could blast that thing on the flats.  Oddly, though, it didn't climb quite as well as some other bikes I've had, including ones with longer wheelbases and chainstays.

And there is one other difference between my 930 and the one in the photo:  Mine was black.  However, it had the same style of lettering you see in the image, and, unlike some other Treks, didn't have a contrasting-color band.  I equipped it with a mixture of racing components, a tan Ideale 2002 saddle and red handlebar wrap and cable housings.

Trek 930 with period components--except for the seat, of course.

I bought the frame while I was working at Highland Park Cyclery. If I remember correctly, I took that frame in lieu of three or four days' pay.  Later, I acquired my second Trek in a similar way.

That frame, a 1982 Trek 510, became the bike I would ride on my second European tour, which took me from Rome and up the coast of Italy into France.  If you have, or have ridden, a Rivendell Rambouillet, you have an idea of what that bike was like.  In the 1970's and 1980's, a number of bike companies offered bikes like it, which were called "sport tourers."  As you might have guessed, their geometry wasn't as tight as that of a racing bike, but it didn't have the "lumber wagon" dimensions of many touring bikes.  It's the sort of bike you could take on a quick training ride, or to which you could attach a rack and panniers for a short or light tour.  

The bike had a longer wheelbase and chainstays than the 930, although it was the same size.  Strangely, though, it had a top tube of the same length.  But I didn't mind riding a short-reach stem on the 510 as much as I did on the 930 because I often rode the 510 with a handlebar bag.

It was constructed of Ishiwata 022. I don't know whether Ishiwata tubing is still made, but a number of bike builders were building some nice frames from it.  Like Tange tubing, it was made in Japan and was a chrome-molybdenum steel.

My 510 came in the same colors--a burgundyish red with a silver/grey band on the seat post--at the one in the photo.  However, I didn't use yellow accessories:  My water bottle cage, like the rack I installed on it, was silver.  And I rode it with a tan leather saddle and brown leather handlebar tape--from Cannondale, I believe.

I actually got it after I'd "officially" stopped working at Highland Park.  However, Frank, the then-owner, let me work a couple of days to pay for it.  I think it was a "leftover" from the previous year that he wanted to move.

For about a year, I owned both the 930 and 510.  Then I sold the 930 so I could buy "the bike of the future."  But that's a story for another post.

Remembrance of Bike Past: Romic

So why am I posting a photo of a weird bike I've never seen in person?


Well, believe it or not, it's personal for me.  


Those of you who know me, whether in person or through this blog, know that I have never owned a bike that even remotely resembles that one, and that I've ridden such bikes maybe a couple of times in my life.


Did some hipster use his fixie in an anger management class?Or did some messenger smoke too much of, shall we say, something that's not made by a subsidiary of RJ Reynolds?


Actually, the original owner of that bike had the frame built that way.  Apparently, it was built as a pursuit track frame.  

One thing that makes it more interesting is that the frame was built by a builder with a conservative reputation (in building practices, anyway:  I know nothing about his politics!).


Romic bicycles were built by Ray Gasiorowski in Houston from the mid-70's until the mid-90's.  On some frames he used Nervex-style lugs; on others, he used plainer but elegant long-point lugs.  His work was very clean and solid, if not blingy.  

     
This is a road-racing bike he made, apparently, some time during the early '90's.  Like most of his bikes, it was constructed of Reynolds 531 tubing.  


Here is a Romic touring frame:

Some non-Reynolds Romic bikes were made of Columbus or Tange tubing.  Some of the builder's touring and sport-touring frames had Reynolds 531 main triangles and Tange rear triangles and forks.  I suspect that such was the case with the pictured bike.


My suspicion is an informed one: I had one of those bikes.  It was a sport-touring model, which featured geometry somewhere between the racing and touring bikes in the photos. It was the first frame I ever bought and built up.  


At the time, it was my only bike.  And it was the kind of bike you wanted to have if you were going to have only one:  I toured and raced with it.  The rear triangle was surprisingly stiff for a bike with its geometry; it gave a zippy ride when I put a pair of tubular wheels and tires on it but was remarkably stable when I rode it, with a rack, panniers and handlebar bag, through England and France.  


One of my youthful follies was deciding that I needed a "racier" bike.  So I sold my Romic and bought a Trek frame made from Columbus tubing.  In those days, some Trek racing frames--including the one I bought--had even shorter chainstays and wheelbases than most Italian criterium bikes.  A few cyclists still seek those Trek frames from the late 70s and early 80s for their stiffness.   However, some of them had a problem that could prove painful:  the seat clusters broke off them.  


As far as I know, nothing like that ever happened to a Romic.  Better yet, I still remember the bike--and, more important, the ride--all of these years later.  When I ordered Arielle, I had that Romic in mind.  You might say that my Mercian road bike is an updated, somewhat tighter, version of that Romic from my youth.


Note:  Romic mountain-bike shocks have no relationship to Romic bicycles.  In fact, I think the first Romic shocks were made after Ray Gasiorowski died in 1996.

My First Mountain (Bike)

There's a good chance you've seen one of these bikes:

For a time in my life, I owned and rode one.  In fact, I was one of the first people to do so.

Early in 1983, I was working at Highland Park (NJ) Cyclery again.  At that time, I had the Columbus-tubed Trek 930  racing bike and Peugeot PX-10 I've mentioned in other posts.  

I didn't really want or need another bike.  However, at that time, I couldn't help but to notice the then-newfangled mountain bikes that were appearing for the first time outside of northern California and New England.  

Two years earlier, the first mass-produced mountain bike came to market:  The Specialized Stumpjumper.  Up to that time, mountain bikes were made by specialty framebuilders like Joe Breeze and Tom Ritchey and had components that the builders made themselves or adapted from existing parts.  Needless to say, those bikes were expensive:  even more costly than the best racing bikes available at the time.  In spite of the time and effort that went into building them, most early bikes rode and handled like shopping carts, at least compared to today's bikes.

Although the Stumpjumper was "mass market", it wasn't cheap:  For its sticker price, one could get a decent racing bike or a good fully-loaded tourer.  It, too, is clunky compared to modern mountain bikes, let alone road machines.  However, every once in a while I see one outfitted with decent components (some of which are original).  Because of their long wheelbases and slack angles, those early Stumpjumpers offer a cushier and even more stable (at slow speeds) ride than some cruisers, which some people love.  And, it almost goes without saying, the early Stumpjumpers are collectors' items.

I'm not sure the Ross Force 1 will ever attain such status. Nonetheless,  it holds the distinction of being the first mountain bike Ross produced, as well as the first bike with cantilever brakes to be built in the company's Allentown, PA factory.  (To my knowledge, no such bikes were ever made in their Rockaway Beach, NY factory.)

Some time in the 1970's, I believe, Ross started to make ten-speed bikes with lugged high-tensile steel frames after a decade or so of importing them from Japan.  Until then, Rosses were made like most other American bikes of the time:  from welded steel tubes.  Not surprisingly, they were about as heavy as most other American bikes.

The Force 1 featured a frame that looked--and rode--the way one of their lugged high-tensile bikes would have ridden if its wheelbase had been stretched a few inches and its angles slackened by about seven  degrees.  I couldn't complain, though:  I knew I wasn't getting a high-performance machine.  

So why did I buy it?  Well, for one thing, it was cheap:  The retail price was about the same as that of the company's mid-level ten-speed and, of course, as an employee, I didn't pay retail.  Also, I figured I could beat the stuffin's out of it, which I did.  Finally, as I said, I was curious about mountain bikes.

And, oh, I'll admit it:  I liked the way the bike looked, with its black frame and gold-anodized wheels.  

The bike was about what I expected:  heavy and sturdy.  It was the first bike I used as a messenger, and it served me well.  All through slushy, snowy, rainy deliveries, the bike held up nicely.  One particular surprise was the Normandy/Maillard five-speed freewheel that came with it.  For one thing, it was the only French, let alone European, part on the bike.  For another, it was the most impervious part:  The cogs barely wore at all, and none of the grit or slush seemed to enter the bearings or other parts of the mechanism.  Aside from cleaning the cogs when I degreased the chain, I didn't have to perform any maintenance on it.

Most of the other parts performed well (e.g., Sun Tour derailleurs) or were barely noticeable (cranks, seat post, and others).  The handlebars were rock-steady.  They should have been:  They were the "bull-moose" type, welded to the stem's two extensions.  I suspected that, removed from the bike, they'd make good weapons, though I never tested that idea.

It did come with one really weird component, though:  the Shimano Admas AX pedals.  In those days, Shimano had a reputation for weirdness, but these pedals made some of those early aerodynamic components seem sober.  Depending on which Shimano rep you believed, the pedals were more aerodynamic or more ergonomic than any others.  As far as I could tell, they simply had less ground clearance than any other pedal, save for one, I've ever ridden.  They met an untimely (or, perhaps not, for them) demise from curbs and such.

About a year after acquiring the bike--and a few months into my time as a messenger--I parked the Force I outside Rockefeller Center to make a delivery on a high floor. When I returned, it was gone.  All that glitters may not be gold, but it still attracts thieves, I guess.

Note:  The bike was eventually renamed the Mount Hood because of trademark issues with the Force 1 name.  The Mount Hood remained in production for several more years, first in Allentown and later in Taiwan.

Whither Campagnolo?

Photo by Will Jones

I can still remember the day I finally attained a full-Campagnolo Record-equipped bicycle.

My Trek 930 racing bike, made from Columbus SL tubing, had one last non-Campy part:  Galli brakes.  They were essentially lighter-weight Italian versions of late-1970s Dura-Ace.  I'd bought them for another bike because the price was reasonable and they were gold anodized--which, I thought, looked really bad-ass on the bike which, like the Trek, was black.

One of the mail-order companies--Nashbar, I believe--ran a dead-of-winter sale on Campy and other stuff.  I bought the brakes, for even less than I could have had them with my employees' discount (i.e., wholesale price) at Highland Park Cyclery, where I'd been working the previous season.  Frank, the owner and head mechanic, said he didn't blame me for buying them at that price--$59.00, if I remember correctly.  (They typically sold for around $80-100 in the early 1980s.)  

Did the Campagnolo Record Brakes stop or modulate any more efficiently than the Gallis?  No.  But in those days, having a bike that was tutti Campagnolo was like having a book by your favorite writer inscribed and signed by that writer.  Just as having such a volume wouldn't make you a better writer,  having a set of components designed by Tullio himself, and made by little elves in Vicenza (all right, I know that's not true)--and, more to the point, ridden by nearly everyone in the professional peloton--didn't make you ride faster or break the wind for you.  But it sure felt as if Campy's stuff--even his gold-plated corkscrew--held some sort of mystique.

Oh, and better yet, I had an all-Italian bike.  Well, sort of.  The Trek frame was made in the US--by Tim Isaacson--but, as I mentioned, from Columbus SL tubing (the lightest available at the time) in a more-or-less Italian style.  Oh, and the French Mavic rims and Ideale 2002 saddle (my favorite racing saddle at the time), were "honorary Italian:"  members of the peloton and rich Sunday riders alike rode them on their Campy-equipped machines.  Ditto for the DT spokes.

Now, to be fair, Campagnolo Record components had a mostly-deserved reputation for performance and durability.  To this day, I don't think a better traditional ball-bearing hub or bottom bracket has been made.  While the brakes weren't the best at braking, and the cranks sometimes cracked under heavy use, they held up well for most riders and were beautiful.

But even if you never won--or entered--a race, having a Campagnolo Record-equipped bike gave you cred, to yourself and possibly to others who shared your obsession or were simply status seekers.

It's that last group of riders --or, in some cases, non-riders-- who, according to Will Jones, Davide Campagnolo (the grandson of founder Tullio) is courting.  The Cycling News tech writer, in sighing, "meh!" to the Campagnolo's latest offerings, wondered about the company's direction, if any.  He got his answer in Signor Davide's declaration that Campagnolo is becoming a "sports luxury" brand.

He's thus said the quiet part out loud. Although Campagnolo had a near-monopoly on the peloton for about two decades, many weekend cyclists bought their stuff as much for prestige as for performance.  So, in that sense, for those who weren't racing or racking up thousands of miles every year, Campagnolo has been indeed a luxury brand.

Jones inferred that the emphasis will be on "luxury."  That, to me, begs this question:  How would whatever Davide is planning be different from, say,  Armani or Versace offering bicycle clothing? Or Ferragamo cycling shoes or Gucci bike bags or other accessories?

Here is another indication that the emphasis will be on status and fashion:  Last year, among World Tour teams (the ones that compete in the Tour de France, Giro d'Italia and other prestigious races)  only AG2R-Citroen's bikes sported the Italian maker's components. This year, no World Tour team is riding them.

Going Dutch When It Gets Ugly

In today's post on Lovely Bicycle!, "Velouria" presents the Trek Cocoa, which seems to be Trek's "take" on what is commonly called the Dutch-style bicycle.


Way back in 2000, Tammy and I took a trip to France.  We talked about buying two bikes like those and bringing them back.  Buying the bikes wouldn't have been so expensive, at least relatively speaking as, in those pre-Euro days, the dollar enjoyed a favorable exchange rate almost everywhere on the Continent.  However, we figured out that we would have had to buy another plane ticket to get them back.


They might have worked for us as commuters or "town" bikes, and they certainly would have been conversation pieces, as almost no American who hadn't spent some time in Europe knew what a "Dutch-style bike" is.


But I digress.  I agree with Velouria that the Cocoa is a lovely bike. So was the Belleville, Trek's take on the traditional mixte bike.  I was tempted to buy one of the latter, which seems to have been discontinued, before I decided to save my money for Helene.  However, two mechanics at a shop that sells Treks talked me out of buying a Belleville.  Of course, one shouldn't infer that the Cocoa isn't a good bike:  Perhaps Trek learned from something from making the Belleville.

I will admit that both are very nice bikes to look at.  It seems, though, that Trek applies Newton's First Law of Motion to the aesthetics of its bikes:  For every pretty bike they make, they make a really ugly one. (One might also say that it's a Hegelian dialectic.)  To wit:

In case you're a glutton for visual punishment, here's a detail:

It used to be that bike makers' racing bikes were their prettiest.  That was especially true of the Italian bike makers but was also the case for nearly all makers, big or small, in the days when nearly all quality frames were lugged steel.  


Then again, at the same time Trek introduced the Belleville, they also came out with this monstrosity:

The graphics and color scheme reminded me of a Huffy, circa 1978.  Why anyone would emulate a Huffy in any way is beyond me.

With Or Without Cage

Unless you’re a purist who keeps your fixed gear bike NJS-compliant or someone who doesn’t ride much beyond your neighborhood, you use some sort of hydration system. 

Some of you use “Camel Back” type backpacks that hold bladders.  I did when I was doing a lot of mountain biking, although I’ve never really liked carrying anything on my back when I ride. But now I, like most of you, use a bottle-and-cage system.  For all of the diversity of cage materials and designs, most bottles marketed for use on bicycles fit on most cages.  That means you can buy a cage from someone who makes cages, not bottles (like King, who made the stainless steel cages I use) and not have to worry about whether your bottle will fit into it.

Most bikes sold today have threaded  bits on the downtube (and, sometimes, the seat tube) for mounting cages.  But, back in the ‘70’s Bike Boom--around the time I became a dedicated cyclist—most bicycles didn’t have them.  In fact, about the only bikes that came with such provisions were made by constructeurs and other custom builders.  Even top professional-level bikes like the Raleigh Professional and Schwinn Paramount didn’t have bottle mounts.

That meant you needed a pair of clamps—which, in those days, were usually supplied with the cage.  Some would argue that a true “vintage” restoration should include a cage with such clamps—unless, of course, the frame is from a constructeur or other custom builder.  If you look at racing photos from before the early ‘80’s or so, even the top professional riders—including Eddy Mercx on his sunset-orange De Rosa—you can see the clamps.

It was during that time that a few enterprising companies—some of them in the US—came up with some interesting ways of mounting bottles on bikes.

One-clamp cage from Specialites TA, ca. 1975.

Specialites TA of France, which made the cages most racers and high-mileage riders used in those days, made a single-clamp cage.  I mounted one on my Romic and never thought about it:  Like TA’s other cages, it held the bottle securely while allowing easy removal and was all but indestructible.

A Tennessee-based company called Hi-E, which made ultra-lightweight (for the time, anyway) hubs, pedals and other components, came up with their own version of TA’s cage.  Hi-E made their cage from aluminum alloy and it was fixed to the frame with a stainless steel hose clamp.  American Classic would later make a similar cage in Ohio, along with its own lightweight components.

Others found ways of doing away with the cage altogether.  Rhode Gear came up with what was probably the most popular of them.  Their bottle had an extrusion with “tracks” on each side that fit into grooves on the plastic clamp mounted onto the bike.  It was actually quite good—I had one on myPeugeot “fixie”—and became very popular with club cyclists.  Other companies imitated it.

Rhode Gear bottle, ca. 1978

Its advantages were its simplicity and (if you’re a weight weenie) the elimination of 100 grams or so of steel cage and clamps.  Also, it could be mounted on the seat tube of a bike with short chainstays and little clearance between the tire and seat tube.  In fact, I put another Rhode Gear bottle on my Trek racing bike, which had water bottle mounts on the down tube but not the seat tube.

Plus, after a while, they were made in a bunch of colors as well as basic white and black.  The white ones could be had with the logos of a few large bike manufacturers (I had one with a Peugeot emblem) or, for a time, with club logos or other custom designs.

The disadvantage, as you may have figured, is that it was a proprietary design:  You could only use the bottle designed for the system.  At least the bottle was easy to use and sturdy:  I never heard of one cracking or springing a leak, though a few wore out at the tracks, albeit after a lot of hard usage.

Cannondale made a bottles that attached to its “mated” holders with Velcro.  I never tried such a bottle, but a few riders I knew liked them.  The best thing about them, it seemed, was that the bottle could be put into the holder from any angle.  As one fellow club rider said, “When I’m tired, my aim isn’t as good.”  While riding, he could put the Velcro-coated bottle back in its holder without looking at it.

Cannondale bottle and "cage" with Velcro

One other cageless bottle I used had indentations on its sides designed so that the bottle would “snap” in between the seat stays of most bikes. Most bikes at that time had parallel stays of more or less the same diameter placed more or less the same distance apart.  Of course, such a bottle wouldn’t work on many of today’s bikes, including those with monostays.  Also, as you might expect, the bottle was small:  less than half the size of a standard water bottle.  It did come in handy, though, especially on a training ride on a hot day.  

I don’t know what happened to that bottle.  I think I stopped somewhere, drank from it and absentmindedly left it.  When I realized I no longer had it, I couldn’t find another:  Apparently, they were made only for a year or two. 

As water bottle cage fixtures became standard features on mass-produced bikes, the demand for cageless bottles and single-clamp cages fell off.  By the late 1980s, it seemed that no one was making them anymore. 

RDR Bologna bottle

  

 However, a few years ago, RDR Bologna made a water bottle with a slot in the rear that’s designed to slide directly onto the water-bottle braze on.  I haven’t used one, and don’t know anyone who has.  But, from what I can see, it has all of the advantages and disadvantages of the Rhode Gear bottles I used back in the day.

Fitness And Birth Control In One?

If you peruse the listings on eBay, Craigslist or other selling sites, you'll find bikes for sale from sellers who have no interest in cycling or no idea of what they're selling.  Those bikes might be part of an estate sale, or they might have been left behind when someone moved.  

Most of the time, the ads read something like "I don't know anything about bikes, but I know this is a good (or expensive) bike."  The bikes usually are misrepresented, though not deliberately, and are often overpriced because, as an example, the seller knows the bike is a Peugeot but doesn't know a PX-10 from a U-08 and tries to sell the latter for the price of the former.  

Then there are those ads in which the seller tries, unsuccessfully, to describe what he or she is selling.  Parts are misnamed; brands are confused with other brands, and wheels and frames are mis-measured.  

Rarely, though, does one find so much disdain expressed for a bicycle and for cyclists as I found in this Irish ad:

Description

Do you want to spend several hours of your day staring at a man's spandex clad buttocks? Do you want to preplex co-workers and family with details of how you spend most your weekend in uncomfortable, sweaty, silence? Or do you just want an excuse to escape from your significant other for large periods of time? Then look no further, for I have a racing bike for sale!

It has a carbon fibre fork but the rest of the frame is aluminium. It has those pedals that clip your feet in, this is apparently good for cycling but it sucks if you need to stop suddenly because you'll probably fall over, to much pain and embarrassment. It also has a saddle that goes up ridiculously high. This is also good for cycling, I'm told, but I think it really goes up that high so you can present your posterior to other, similarly engaged cyclists as a form of mating ritual. 

The seat is also designed with racing in mind, by which I mean it's light, by which I also mean that it's not padded a huge amount. It can't imagine it does much good to your reproductive health, but maybe that's the point. Fitness and birth control in one.

It has many toothy wheel things, which I am reliably informed are called 'gears'. My brother says it has 20 but I count 12, but I never was any good at maths. There is no combination of switches you can press on this thing to make climbing hills any more pleasant, unfortunately.

It's got twirly handles, I haven't got much to say about those. Probably aerodynamic or summat. It also has kevlar tyres, which I assume makes them bulletproof. Now, I'm not the biggest fan of cyclists but I would draw the line at shooting at them.

Comes with a free helmet to protect your brain when some braindead Irish driver inevitably knocks you into a ditch, despite the fact that your colour scheme is so fluorescent that you could be radioactive.

(In all seriousness, my brother gave this to me as he spent god knows how much on a new carbon-fibre bike, and I have no interest in it. Here's more details on the bike:

http://www.roadbikereview.com/cat/latest-bikes/road-bike/trek/1000/prd_290760_5668crx.aspx )

Shipping: To be arranged

Payment: Cash

What To Do With A Rescued Frame

About a week ago, I mentioned that I "rescued" a rather nice old frame.

Turns out, I have most of the parts I'd need to build it.  So now the question is:  Into what kind of a bike should I build it?

As best as I can tell, this frame is a 1983 Trek 560.  That year, it was sold as a complete bike with SunTour Blue Line derailleurs along with a mixture of other Japanese components, most of which were reliable if not fancy.  However, in that component mix was a Helicomatic freewheel.  It was a good idea, and, had it been better-executed,  we might be riding it, or other hubs based on its design, instead of Campangnolo- and Shimano-style cassette hubs.

The frame itself was made from Reynolds 501 tubing.  Apparently, Reynolds made it for only a few years during the 1980's.  It's butted, but heavier than 531, 631 or 853.  Also, it differs from those higher-quality Reynolds tube sets in that it has a seam.   It's actually much like the tubing used to make the Bridgestone RB-2 I rode briefly, until it was stolen.  

A number of entry-level racing bikes (or relaxed road bikes) were constructed of 501 during the mid-1980's.  In addition to Trek, Peugeot, Gitane and a few other European bike manufacturers made bikes from this tubing.

The paint on this Trek is in pretty rough shape.  It's better on the seat tube because there had been a "panel" decal there, which was removed.   I suppose I could paint it and build a pretty bike from it.  But I'm thinking of turning the bike into a "beater" or winter bike.  If I do that, I will probably use a single speed (perhaps a "flip-flop" hub) on the rear and a single chainring.  And I have a scratched-up pair of Velo Orange Porteur bars (which have become my favorite upright bar).  

If I turn it into a "beater" or winter bike, the parts are going to be functional but not fancy.  On the other hand, if I take more care and make it prettier, I might end up selling it.  Whatever I do, this is going to be an interesting project, I think.

What Have We Here? I'm Starting To Find Out

I haven't started to work on my estate-sale find yet.  I have, however begun to rummage through some components I have on hand and order a buy a few things (small parts) I need.

I did, however, begin to do a little research.  According to the serial number on the frame, and the information I found on the Vintage Trek website, my bike is probably a 1982 model.  The serial number pattern fits in with 400 series bikes made from 1980 to 1982, but the presence of a color band on the seat tube points to 1982.  On the other hand, the 412 pictured in the 1982 brochure has brazed-on brake cable guides and water bottle bosses, which my bike does not have.  Perhaps it's a 1981.5 model:  According to the VT website, the highest-priced Treks (Pro and 900 series), started to come with such bands in 1981. (The white bikes with blue panels are particularly nice, to my eye.) That feature "trickled down" to the 700 series bikes in the middle of that year (1981.5).  The 1982 brochures show 500 and 400 series models with it but, according to the website, some of those models came with color bands in late 1981.  

(Mercians, at least those made after 1970, are easier to track:  I had no trouble finding out Vera was made in 1994, as her original owner told me.  And, of course, I know that Arielle, Tosca and Helene are from 2006, 2007 and 2010, resepctively, because I had them custom-made in those years.

OK, so now I know the bike's origins, more or less.  Now I'm starting to learn a bit about the bike's quirks, aside from the ones I've already mentioned.  Actually, it's not a terribly quirky bike, from what I can see:  Threadings and other dimensions are standard, and in design it's much like other bikes of its type made around the same time, though perhaps somewhat better.

One quirk I found is in the componentry:  specifically, the Sakae crankset.  I know that some cranksets of that time were made with the 110 BCD chainring pattern, which is common today--and of which I have a few chainrings on hand.  I was hoping that the SR crankset--which looks rather nice--shared it.

Alas!  If you ever wonder what difference a few millimeters can make, you can see it here.  The black ring that I superimposed on the crank is a 110 made by Stronglight; the rings on the crankset have a slightly bigger bolt circle.  From the measurements I made, and Sheldon Brown's "crib sheet", it seems that the crank has the now-obsolete 118 BCD.  That means, of course, that I could find replacement chainrings only through swap meets and,  with luck, on eBay.

(My surprise is, I'm sure, mild compared to the frustration an owner of a Nervar Star crankset might feel:  Its 128 BCD, as close as it is to the 130 BCD of modern road racing cranks, still precludes interchangeability!) 

The rings on the bike don't seem to have much wear, so I think I'll keep them on for now:  They, and the crankset, look pretty nice.  (From what I can see, the arms are forged.)  The 52 tooth outer ring, standard for the era when the bike was made, is bigger than anything I ride now.  On the other hand, I am using 12 tooth rear cogs with my 46 and 48 tooth chainrings  (and a 17 with the 47 tooth ring on Tosca, my Mercian fixed gear):  something that didn't exist at the time the bike was made.  Then, most cyclists rode with freewheels on which the smallest cog had 14 teeth, which is what orignally came with the bike; racers sometimes used 13 tooth cogs.  If I use a freewheel with a 14 tooth cog, my highest gear will still be slightly lower than those of Arielle, Helene and Vera, my geared Mercians.  (Arielle, the road bike, has 48X12, while Helene and Vera have 46X12.)

One thing I have to say about the crank:  The bottom bracket--which, I believe, is the original--turns very smoothly.  I think someone recently overhauled it; still, I might take it apart if, for no other reason, to be sure that it has an intact protector sleeve.

Speaking of smooth bearings:  The headset feels good, but I might clean it anyway, just because I don't know when I'll do it again.  And I have a rear hub that I'm thinking of using.  The Phil that came with the bike is great, but it's 48 hole, and the rim it's laced to is 27 inches--which I'm not going to use, since I don't have a 27 inch front (The one that came with the bike wasn't salvageable.) rim, wheel or tire, and don't want to buy new ones.  The hub I have is pretty nice, though not quite as good as the Phil.

This is going to be an interesting project.  I'll probably start working on it in a couple of weeks, after classes have ended.