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.

After Tom...

So you have that bike someone in your family brought bike from an overseas tour of duty. Or you have a Bike Boom era ten-speed you still ride--or want to pass on or simply don't want to give up.  Maybe you're holding on (and still riding) that beatiful machine from your racing days or the one that took you across a state or continent, and you want to keep it going for everyday riding or eroica-type events.

Sometimes you can replace old parts with modern ones.  They may not have the style of the stuff the bike came with, but they--especially derailleurs--might work better.  Other times, though, new parts simply won't fit or just won't look right on the old bike.

So what do you do?

These days, you can peruse eBay and other sites.  The Internet is also useful for learning about swap meets and the like.  But one often-overlooked source is the old "family" bike shops that have been in the same location for decades.  Folks in bike costumes with four-digit price tags astride bikes with five-figure tabs might turn up their noses (which, I admit, are often better turned-out than mine!) at such places.  But they often have freewheels, for example, or chainrings in bolt-circle diameters no longer made--or small parts for Mafac or Weinmann caliper--or Bendix or New Departure coaster--brakes.  

And, of course, such shops are called "family" shops because families are not only their owners, but their customer base.  The world-champion racer, globe-spanning tourer and the lifelong everyday cyclist almost invariably started riding as children, whether alone to school, with friends at a local dirt track or family at the park.  Those mom-and-pop proprietors and their employees don't get nearly enough recognition for the role they play in initiating the young into cycling and nurturing a cycling culture.

Tom Anderson, the retiring owner of The Bicycle Rack in Muskegon, Michgian.  (Photo by Cory Morse for MLive.

Tom Anderson of Muskegon, Michigan is such a proprietor.  For 46 years, he's catered to "the mom and pop, the bread and butter of bicycling"  in the western Michigan community.  At one time, the showroom of his shop, The Bicycle Rack, brimmed with 150 or more bikes of all kinds, from kids' trikes to high-end racers.  But like too many other small shops, he hasn't been able to re-stock bikes--or even parts--as the COVID-19 pandemic has disrupted production and supply chains.  

So now the lifelong Muskegon resident--who helped to spearhead the 12-mile Lakeshore Bike Trail on Lake Muskegon--is closing his shop and retiring. He considered selling his business, he said, but the next owner would have faced the same struggles that have confronted him.  Truth is, nobody knows when the bike business--or anything else--will "go back to normal," whatever that will mean.

When folks like Tom close up their shops, it doesn't mean only that there's one less place to buy or fix a bike.  Shop owners like him build relationships with people in their communities.  Even if they don't grow up to be dedicated cyclists, they fondly remember folks like him and his willingness to help. Oh, and where else--besides eBay--are you going to find that original lever for your 1950's English three-speed or French-threaded freewheel--without paying eBay prices?

And how can you not miss someone who says of his life's work, "I loved every minute of it"?

Mavic: Yellow Blues

Once upon a time, a "dream" bike would be outfitted with Campagnolo Nuovo or Super Record components.  I finally did get my dream after a few years of riding, a bunch of part-time jobs on the side and a few skipped meals.  

In those days, Campagnolo didn't make rims.  At least, no hoops bore the Campy's logo. (I have heard, from various sources, that the rims Campagnolo would offer later were actually made by FIR.)  So, you chose from a number of other manufacturers.  Super Champion of France was popular in the day; in fact, my first "nice" wheels bore their rims.  So were Rigida, Nisi, Fiamme and Weinmann.  But most of us agreed that the "name" brand for rims was Mavic.  I rode their jantes on my first all-Campy bike--and most of the bikes I've ridden since.

During the '80's and '90's, Mavic was a veritable juggernaut in the world of rims and wheels, much as Shimano was (and, arguably, still is) among other bicycle componentry.  They produced the best tubulars and developed the first lightweight clincher that, combined with Michelin's Elan tire, could rival the weight and performance of tubulars.  A decade or so later, they developed some of the first really good rims for the then-nascent sport of mountain biking.

To this day, Mavic is best-known for its rims and wheels.  But it also produced some really nice componentry.  Its 451 brakes are believed, by some, to be the finest single-pivot sidepulls ever made. (Actually, Dia Compe made them for Mavic, who designed them.)  They are certainly among the most beautiful.  And, interestingly enough, Mavic's first products in 1889 were mudguards (fenders to us Yanks).

Mavic has contributed to the world of cycling, not only through its technical innovations and quality manufacturing, but also through its support of various teams throughout the years--and its neutral technical support of the Tour de France.  Their support cars and bikes are yellow, like the comany's label--and the Tour de France leader's jersey.

Sadly, however, reports from Agence-Presse France say that Mavic has been placed into receivership by a commercial court in Grenoble, near the company's Annecy, France, base.  "Receivership" is initiated by creditors or banks that believe a company cannot pay its debts.  This differs from "administration," which can be initiated by a company's directors.  The result of "receivership" is that the company is taken over by a court-appointed "reciever" who controls the assets and tries to keep the company out of liquidation.

As much as I like Mavic's rims and some of their other stuff, I'll admit that if I were more of a weight weenie, I'll admit that they're no longer the "go-to" they were, say, twenty or even ten years ago.  Some of that drop in prestige has to do with other companies making stuff that's lighter or just sexier.  So, it's not a surprise that Mavic's sales have not kept pace in recent years.

The real problem for Mavic, though, seems to be that nobody seems to know who actually knows it. Solomon, best known for ski equipment, bought Mavic in the mid-90's; a few years later, Adidas bought Solomon.  Amer Sport, a Finnish group,  would later become the main shareholder of Mavic.  Amer removed Mavic from its accounts in 2018 and sold the company to Regent LP, a California investment fund, last July.

So, the employees of Mavic, who are unionized, believed that their company was in the hands of Regent.  But, for some reason, they were not informed that the sale didn't go through and Mavic was instead acquired by a Delaware-based entity called M Sports International LLC, which has no links to Regent--and practically no traces on the Internet.

This sounds like the makings of a mystery novel.  The thing about novels (and plays) is that if they're great to read or watch, you should be happy that you don't have to live them.  The employees of Mavic want to know what their future is.  So do many of us who use their products.

Serious Mojo In The Shadow Of Power

Last week, I spotted a pair of Sun Tour shifters on eBay.  The item's location was listed as "New York, NY."  So I asked whether I could pick them up.

Turns out, the seller was even closer to where I live than I expected:  only about 4 kilometers away.  Woodside, Queens, to be exact.  And he said his "shop" was located behind a restaurant on one of the neighborhood's commercial strips.

The reason I'm not revealing the name of that restaurant, or the name of the shop, is that Damon asked me not to.  In fact, on his website, he says his "shop"--which is really more of a workshop--is in a "secret location" and that he meets customers only by appointment.

Damon is actually an engaging and friendly fellow.  The reason for his arrangement, he says, is that his shop--a garage, really--is a "passion" and he doesn't want to deal with the more mundane parts of the bike business.  (He once had a regular shop, he explained, and running it was nothing like he expected it to be.)  Also, I sensed that he wanted to deal only with customers who shared his passion for vintage bikes.

One of our common loves, as it turns out, is frames from British builders.  He showed me a Claud Butler from the '50's that he's fixing up, along with a few other frames from Claud's countrymen.  When I revealed my own love of Mercians, he knew he'd found a soulmate, at least in bicycle terms.

(Oh, and he did some of his studies for his profession--his "day job"--in Paris and, quelle coincidence, was living in the City of Light at the same time I was there. How do Francophiles become aficionados of British Frames?  Hmm...)

All of the frames in his "shop" were steel, except for one older Vitus bike.  Among his Butlers and early '80's Treks stood one of what might be the most sought-after (by collectors and enthusiasts) bike from a mass manufacturer:  Raleigh Lenton.  It was in really good shape, except for the cellulose fenders--which are almost always broken.  

I could have spent all day at that shop, and with Damon. Because he's trying not to publicize his operation too much, I didn't take photos--except for one particularly intriguing machine.

Damon equipped this Olmo city bike, which probably dates from the '50's or '60's, with Campagnolo Gran Sport equipment, except for the Weinmann centerpull brakes. (The Gran Sport brakes wouldn't have been long enough or played nice with the fenders.)  He was impressed that I've actually written posts about GS equipment and Weinmann brakes, but I was even more taken with some other features of that bike:

Those bars put those narrow "city bars" I see on hipsters' fixies to shame--both for function and style.  But perhaps the best (or at least my favorite) part is something Damon customized.

He bent it to accommodate the front derailleur.  That alone would have made me want to make a return trip to his "shop"--which is just a few blocks away from where Dick Power had his framebuilding shop and retail store.

Before I left, I noticed that he had some vintage Silca pumps that, he explained, had been stored away from sunlight which, apparently, is what makes the plastic on them brittle.  I bought one, in black, for Negrosa, the 1973 full-Campy Mercian I picked up last year.  I know that the Zefal HPX (or even the earlier HP and Competition) pumps are easier to use and sturdier, but most full-Campy bikes of the time had Silca Imperos--and Regina freewheels, which I also have, even though I know the SunTour New Winner and Winner Pro are better in almost every way.  

That trip was short but sweet, to say the least!

What’s This, Mulder?

While pedaling streets that straddle and crisscross the Brooklyn-Queens border, I came across this:

It looks like a decent bike, but the frame is obviously not custom or even the product of a small-volume builder.  That is why it caught my eye:  Rarely, if ever, are mass-produced mixte or women’s frames found in such a large size.

I tried, but couldn’t, determine its provenance.  A couple of details, like the heart-shaped cutout in the seat lug, led me to think it’s Japanese because my old Nishiki had a similar detail.  Also, the largest mass-produced diamond frame on a 700c-wheel bike—71 cm—was made, ironically, in Japan by Panasonic.

On the other hand, the shape of the twin laterals made me think of French bikes.  Also, the only part that seems to be original—the Weinmann centerpull brakes—indicates a European bike of some sort.

I would love to know more about it—and how it ended up on    Halsey Street by the Brooklyn-Queens birder.

A Mercian That Looks Like a Motobecane?

It has one of the most iconic looks of '70's bicycles:

The Motobecane Grand Record was also finished in other color schemes, such as silver/black and yellow/black.  But the black with red panels and headtube, and gold lug lining, is the most eye-catching and probably the most sought-after.

But it wasn't just a "looker":  From all accounts, it was a nice rider--sort of a  more refined version of the Peugeot PX-10.  

Like the Peugeot, the Grand Record was constructed with Reynolds 531 tubing and Nervex lugs, though Motobecane's finishing work was clearly better.  The two bikes share another trait that isn't surprising:  French components.  Well, the PX10 was all French, except when it came with a Brooks Professional saddle. (Sometimes it was supplied with an Ideale 90.)  The Grand Record, on the other hand, always sported the Brooks Pro, and usually came with the Swiss short-reach Weinmann Vainqueur centerpull brakes.  (Occasionally they arrived with Mafac Competitions.) It also had non-French components that, ironically, gave the bike its name:  Campagnolo Record derailleurs and shifters. Otherwise, with its TA Pro Vis 5 or Stronglight 49 double crankset, Normandy Luxe Competition hubs, Super Champion rims, Robergel spokes and Phillipe bars and stem, it was as Gallic as the PX-10.

Of course, people have turned Grand Records into touring bikes or classy commuters/city bikes because of its performance--and looks. (It was also available in a twin-tube mixte models, unusual for a bike so high on the food chain.)  In fact, the black-and-red scheme was so popular that Motobecane would later offer some other models with it.

Now, if you have been reading this blog, you know I'm a Mercian aficianado. (I own four of them.)  So, here's my question:  If I love Mercians and the look of the Grand Record, should I want a Mercian that looks like a Grand Record, sort of:

Well, that's what someone's selling on e-Bay.  And it has a vintage Campagnolo gruppo.  The price is good--and the bike is my size, more or less.  Hmm...Do I want a Mercian---that looks like a Motobecane?

Bikes From The Night The Lights Went Out

I took Tosca, my Mercian fixed gear, out for a spin this morning. My plan was to finish before the worst of the heat and humidity we would experience this afternoon.  I succeeded at that, and at avoiding the downpour that would end them.

My ride took me through, among other places, the non-hipster parts of Williamsburg, Brooklyn.  Believe it or not, they still exist, mainly south of the Williamsburg Bridge and east of Bedford Avenue.  They are, in some ways, time-capsules of what this city was like, say, 40 years ago.

On this date in 1977, one of the most infamous blackouts in history darkened New York City.  Brooklyn's Broadway, which cuts through the borough from the East River to East New York, incurred some of the most serious looting and arson that night in a city that was already suffering from a reputation for anarchy.  

At that time, all of Williamsburg--and much of the rest of this city--bore more resemblance to  today's South and East Williamsburg than it does to the nightlife capital to its north and west.  Hipster-equivalents of that time never would have ventured into such a place:  In fact, about the only young white people to be found were those who were born and raised there and hadn't gone to college, joined the military or gotten out in some other way.   And, perhaps, a few punk-rockers and anti-establishment artists, who are practically the antithesis of hipsters.

You see, in the year Howard Cosell supposedly exclaimed, "The Bronx is Burning!", most residents of neighborhoods like Williamsburg were poor or blue-collar.   If they were white (usually Italian, German or Irish) they weren't young.  Those who were young, or even middle-aged, were likely to be Puerto Rican, Black or Hasidic Jews--like the folks who live in the non-hipster enclaves today.

I saw them on the streets today: the kids running and doing the kinds of things kids do everywhere when school's out.  Their mothers were never more than a few steps away, propped against poles or fences or sitting on stoops in front of the houses.  

Even with the hipsters nowhere to be seen, I saw plenty of bikes.  Some were being ridden, mainly by folks like me who were pedaling through the neighborhood.  Others were chained to parking meters, signposts and other immovable objects.  Ironically, they might have been new--or, at least, not more than a few years old--during the days to which I've alluded, but I probably would not have seen them because, in those days, there were relatively few cyclists in this city, and almost none in neighborhoods like the ones I've mentioned.

I saw this French ten-speed bike from around the mid-1970's as I spun down Franklin Avenue:

Paris Sport was a "house" brand for bikes imported by Park Cycle and Sports of Ridgefield Park, New Jersey.  They were made by several French manufacturers, most commonly Dangre-Starnord, a company based in Valenciennes (a northern French town along the Paris-Roubaix race route) that also sold bikes under the France-Sport and Nord-Star brands.

So it's not surprising that the bike resembles machines from Gitane, Jeunet and Mercier made in that era.  What I found interesting, though, were some of the apparent changes.

The reason this bike caught my eye was the Sun Tour bar end shifters ("Barcons").  One rarely sees them on any bike parked on a New York street, and they certainly were not original equipment on the bike.  More likely, the bike had shifters on the down tube or handlebar stem, and they probably would have been made by Huret, the manufacturer of the "Svelto" derailleur that probably is orignial equipment.

Seeing Weinmann "Vainqueur" centerpull brakes on a French bike is not unusual. However, if you look closely, you will see that the "yoke" that pulls on the straddle cable is not Weinmann's.  This one looks clunkier, and the cable hangers on the steerer tube and seat bolt are thinner than the ones that usually came with Weinmann brakes.  The hangers look like they could be Mafac, but may have been from CLB, whose  brakes and fitments (except for their later "Professional" sidepulls) looked like cruder versions of Mafac's offerings.

I am guessing that someone simply replaced parts as they needed replacing, or simply didn't have the money to do a complete "makeover".  (I mean, what else would explain such good shift levers with such ordinary derailleurs?)  I am also guessing that whoever rides the bike now "inherited" it from somebody and has no idea of what I'm talking about.

The same might be said for this bike parked a few blocks away:

It's the first time I've seen a Royce Union--or, for that matter, any bike with a chainguard like that--in such a color.

It looks like the same model as (or one similar to) the Royce Union three-speed my grandfather gave me about three years before I could ride it. Like my old bike, it was made in Japan.  But the color--and the head tube that could have passed for aluminum if not for the rust spots--reminded me of a bike I often saw a couple of decades later:

The Vitus 979 was, of course, one of the first widely-ridden aluminum frames.  It was available in anodized blue, green, gold, red, purple and the pink shown in the above photo.  As much as I love the other colors, whenever someone mentions the Vitus 979, that rose hue is the first that comes to my mind.

Somehow I doubt that the Royce Union came with such a finish.  I suspect that the bike had once been purple or magenta, or perhaps even red, and had faded--a common fate for the paint on Japanese bikes of the time.

At least it's being used, or looks as if it is, if not by its original owner--who may or may not have lived in the neighborhood the night the lights went out.

It's Done--I Think!

My "winter" project is more or less complete.

Back in December, I found a 1981.5 Trek 412 at an estate sale.  It was looking for a good home.  I thought I'd finish it during my January recess from school and ride it during the winter.

Well, as with almost any project, not everything went exactly as planned.  Some parts I'd intended to use didn't fit or work with other parts, and, well, I changed my mind about a couple of things along the way.

I finally got it into rideable (for my purposes, anyway) condition by Spring recess, in April.  And, as I mentioned a few days ago, gearing wasn't quite to my liking--and the crankset (which had been sitting in my parts box for I-don't-know-how-long) stripped when I tried to remove it.  So I had to "destroy it in order to save it", to paraphrase one of the more unfortunate commands of all time.

But now I think the only thing I might change is the bars--to drops. (Actually, I might make this bike "bi" and switch between drops and Porteurs as need, and whim, dictate!)

In putting the bike together, I didn't try to do an "original" or even a "period" restoration.  Instead, I tried to rebuild the bike in the spirit of the original (Yes, I know, that's an extremely elastic term!) while suiting my needs and tastes as a rider.  So, I decided not to refinish the frame (also, in part, because I didn't want to spend the time or expense) and when I didn't use parts that came with the bike, I installed components and accessories from within a few years of when the bike was made--or that at least don't look out of place on a bike of its time.

What that means is that the bike now consists of the following:

Frame and fork-- Trek 412, of Ishiwata 022 tubing.

Headset--  Stronglight A9 roller bearing (came with frame)

Wheels--   Rear:  Specialized sealed bearing hub (made by                                       Sansin) sealed bearing 
                          Sun CR 18 Rim, 700C
                          36 DT spokes, 2.0 straight gauge, 3 cross
                
                  Front:  Suzue sealed bearing hub
                           Sun CR 18 rim, 700 C
                           36 Wheelsmith spokes, 2.0 straight gauge,                                3 cross

                  Continental Gatorskin Hardshell tires, 700 X 32

Crankset--   Shimano A 124 triple (1986 model), triple
                            46/42/28 rings

Derailleurs-- Rear:  SunTour VxS with sealed pulleys
                    Front:  SunTour Spirt (top-normal)
                    Shifters:  SunTour PD-M (racheted)

Freewheel--  SunTour Winner Pro five-speed, 13-26

Chain--         SRAM PC-830

Pedals--        MKS GR-10 Platform (like Lyotard Berthet)
                    MKS "Basket" toe clips
                    Generic leather toe straps

Brakes--        Weinmann Carrera (first version)
                       with Mathauser "Kool Stop" pads
                  
                    Tektro 4.1 inverse levers 

Handlebar--    Velo Orange Porteur 

Stem--           Specialized 9mm, made in Japan (Nitto?)

Seat post--     SR Laprade alloy (came with frame)

Saddle--         Brooks B17

Fenders--       Velo Orange Hammered, 45mm, with flap                              from RuthWorks SF

Rear Rack--     Blackburn Expedition stainless steel

Front Rack--    Nitto M18.

Bottle Cages--  Twofish

Pump--            Zefal Competition, converted

I plan to put a decaleur made by Mark Guglielmana on the stem.  I've been using it on Vera (my Mercian mixte) and like it a lot.  The reason I want to shift it to the Trek is that there isn't enough room under the headset nut for a decaleur (or anything besides a headset spacer).  The Stronglight A9 that came with this bike isn't the original:  Apparently, the original (probably Japanese) had a smaller stack height.  Moving the decaleur will allow me to use my RuthWorks Randonneur bag on this bike.

Rebuilding this bike has been an interesting--and so far worthwhile--experience!

A Trek Through The Heat Wave

The weather has been so strange this year.   February was warmer than April (or so it seemed), and after a spell of summer-like heat and sun in the middle of last month, skies turned gray and the air as chilly as that of early spring.  Now we are experiencing a heat wave:  For the third day in a row, the temperature topped 90F (32C).  

So I packed a mini-picnic lunch and rode to the most logical place:  the water--to the ocean, to be more exact.  I took a familiar route down to Rockaway Beach and along the south shore of Queens and Brooklyn to Coney Island, and along the Verrazano Narrows and East River back to my place.  In all, I did about 85 kilometers of riding.

And I took my winter-project Trek for the ride.  I've made a couple of changes on it, both of which turned out for the better.

For one thing, I converted the double chainring setup to a triple.  Actually, the crank is made for triples, but I had originally used  "Gran Fondo" 46/30 gearing on it, with a 46 in the middle position and a BBG bashguard/chainguard replacing the outer chainring.  

After a couple of rides, I remember why we used to ride half-step gearing.   If you ride, say, a 12-25 or even a 12-27 nine-speed cassette, the differences between the gears aren't nearly as great as they are on almost any five-speed freewheel, except for the "corncob"  (a.k.a. "straight block) ratio--which, at my age and given the fact that I'm long past racing, I will never use.

As it happens, I've been riding a 12-25 nine-speed on Arielle, my Mercian Audax.  On the other hand, the Trek now has a 13-26 five-speed freewheel, with between-gear gaps nearly twice as wide as those on the nine-speed cassette.  So, the 46 tooth chainring gives a 3.54 ratio (or, a 95.5 gear), while the next cog--15 tooth--provides a ratio of 3.06 (82.8).  I find ratios in the 3.2 to 3.4 range very useful--at least, that's what I often ride on Arielle (48 tooth chainring with 15- or 14-tooth cog).  

Now, I know the Trek is inherently a heavier bike with somewhat more relaxed geometery, and that I've added racks and fenders to it.  Still, I missed having gears in the 3.2 to 3.4 range.  So, I added a third chainring to the front:  a 42 tooth in the middle, with the 46 tooth in the outer position.  

Now it will just be a matter of re-acclimating myself to more frequent front shifts than I've become accustomed to making.  On Arielle, and even on Vera, my Mercian mixte (which has a 46-30 setup), I almost always ride the larger chainring.  

The other change I've made to the Trek is the brakes.  The Weinmann 605s, especially with the Mathauser Kool-Stop pads, were fine.  But I got a good buy on a lightly-used set of Weinmann Carreras.  I noticed the difference (also with Mathauser Kool-Stop pads) immediately:  The Carreras have a firmer, more positive, feel.  I think it's mainly a result of their beefier arms.  Next to the 605s, they're a bit clunky. But the Carreras have a nice finish, which looks especially good next to the hammered fenders, I think.

I may make one more change to this Trek.  I like the way they look with the Velo Orange Porteur bars, but I get the feeling the bike is really made for dropped bars.  And, now that Helene is gone, I've thought about returning the Porteur bars to Vera.  While Vera's been fine--not surprisingly, a bit more aggressive--with dropped bars, I liked her ride with the Porteurs.  And I liked the way she looked with them, too!

Then I have to name the Trek.