That included railroad tracks. I assumed they were abandoned…until I heard a low rumble, clackety-clack and blaring horn.
It’s a good thing my reflexes were great. (I was younger!)
Even with suspension, riding those tracks was rough. Perhaps this is what I needed:
At that time, in the early-to-mid-1990s, mountain bike frames like my Jamis Dakota typically had 71 degree head angles, which are a bit more slack than road frames (73-74 degrees) but more aggressive than ‘80’s machines that, like the balloon-tired bikes from which they evolved—and many of today’s “hauler” and “rough stuff” bikes—had angles ranging from 69 all the way down to 66 degrees.
Bikes like my old Dakota, I believe, were attempts to inject some road-bike responsiveness into mountain bikes, some of which were, frankly, sluggish. But those bikes from three decades ago were comfortable and stable enough that they were often used for loaded touring (sometimes after switching the flat handlebars for dropped bars), as Trek and other bike-makers stopped making dedicated touring bikes around 1988.
Well, someone at the Dutch bike company Van Nicholas seems to have ridden—or simply recalls—one of those mountain bikes. Their new Nootau, billed as “the ultimate bike-packing machine,” is built around a titanium frame with a geometry nearly identical to a just-before-suspension off-road bike.
Of course, the Nootau’s componentry has almost nothing in common with what was in use around the time “Smells Like Teen Spirit” blasted across the airwaves. Like most of today’s new bikes, it has a threadless headset and stem, which were available but not standard. But, unlike the cantilever brakes on vintage mountain bikes, disc brakes stop the Nootau. Discs enjoyed brief popularity, mainly on tandems, during the late 1970s and have been revamped during the past few years.
Perhaps the most striking difference, however, between the Nootau’s equipment and that of vintage mountain bikes is in the drivetrain: the Nootau has no derailleurs. Instead, its single-sprocket crankset is mated to a Rohloff rear hub with 14 internal gears. (I’m trying to wrap my head around that: I’ve had Sturmey Archer and Shimano three- and five-soeed internally-geared hubs.
I may not have the opportunity to ride a Van Nicholas Nootau. I must say that I like its look—and relish the irony of how much its design resembles that of my old Jamis Dakota.
Sometimes I think the '90's were the end of an era: when you could care about aesthetics and still buy a high-end road racing bicycle.
Today, you can get a beautiful frame from a builder like Mercian or any number of other custom makers. But even though it can be sleek and relatively light, it's likely to be heavier and less aerodynamic than a new racing bike. Those gorgeous frames with their beautiful lugs or filet-brazed joints and lustrous paint jobs are most likely to be steel, whether from Reynolds, Columbus or some other maker, but most racers are now astride frames made of carbon fiber. Although I can appreciate the lightness and stiffness of carbon fiber frames, I know that their lifespan is nowhere near that of most good steel, titanium or aluminum frames. Also, their Darth Vader shapes and surfaces are too often plastered with cartoony or just plain creepy graphics.
But during that last "golden era" for road bikes, two seemingly-disparate groups of cyclists seemed to abandon any sense of velocepedic voluptuousness. According to Eben Weiss' latest article in Outside magazine, those riders were mountain bikers--especially of the downhill variety--and triathlon competitors. As he notes, mountain biking and triathlon racing came into their own as disciplines at roughly the same time, more or less independent of the prevailing cycling cultures (racing, touring, track, club riding). Although many mountain riders came from road riding, they tended to be younger and not as bound to the prevailing traditions and conventions of riding. Then there were those mountain riders who, like most triathloners, had little or no previous experience with cycling and were therefore even less wed to ideas about what bikes should look or ride like.
One result of that disdain for bicycle tradition was modern suspension systems. One irony is that those who developed it for mountain bikes thought they were doing something new and revolutionary when, in fact, bicycle suspension has been around for almost as long as bicycles themselves. The chief question seemed to be whether to suspend the rider or the bike itself: The former would offer more comfort and would, therefore, keep the rider in better control of the bike. The latter, on the other hand, would make the bike itself more stable at high speeds and in rough conditions: what would encounter in a downhill or on technical singletrack.
One of the earliest--and, perhaps, still most widely-used--forms of suspension is the sprung saddle, which would fall into the category of suspending the rider. Later, balloon-tired bikes from Schwinn, Columbia and other American manufacturers came with large bars and springs connected to the handlebars and front forks. How much shock they actually absorbed, I don't know. I get the feeling they were added, like the ones on the "Krate" and "Chopper" bikes of the '60's and '70's, so that kids could pretend that their bikes were scaled-down motorcycles.
Around the same time as those wannabe Harleys were made, Dan Henry's (of the Arrows fame) rigged up a Reynolds 531 fork with springs which, he said, allowed him to ride the lightest rims and tubular tires even in the roughest conditions. But the '70's and '80's saw little, if any, experimentation with, let alone manufacture of, suspended bikes or parts.
That all changed when the first Rock Shox forks and Girvin Flex Stems were introduced in 1989. The latter defied all notions of the graceful "gooseneck" in mirror-polished or milky silver, and Rock Shox looked nothing like those curved or tapered blades seen on classic road bikes. Then, it seemed, all sense of aesthetics went out the window--unless your idea of art is a sex toy or something that would render a man incapable of bringing any new cyclists into this world--with the Softride.
I must admit I never tried Softride: Even though I was leaner and lighter than I am now, I was leery of mounting anything that didn't have support from below. (Read that as you will.) Weiss rode one recently, three decades after its introduction, and found it to be "more subtle" than he expected though, he pointed out, he could have been just as, and more elegantly, cushioned from road and trail shock with a leather saddle or wide tires. Subtract the "diving board" and Girvin Flex stem, he notes, and one is left with a rigid mountain bike like the ones riders had been riding before.
If I had a couple of barns or garages, I'd probably acquire a Soft Ride to complete the collection I'd have. But even if I liked its suspension qualities, I'm not sure how much I'd ride it: I'm still too wedded to my vision of a beautiful bicycle. There are some things I just don't want to be caught dead on.
The other day I took a ride to the ocean.
And I took another yesterday.
From those images, you probably can tell that I'm not talking about the Rockaways, Point Lookout or Coney Island, my most common sea-bound treks.
For that matter, I don't mean the Jersey Shore, where I haven't gone in some time. Rather, for the past two days, I've done two other seaside rides I've mentioned--though, again, not for some time--on this blog.
I arrived in Florida on Friday evening. The purpose of this trip is a visit with my father, whom I hadn't seen in three years, since my mother's funeral. We'd planned another visit but, like so many other plans by so many other people, it was put on hold when "COVID happened."
Since arriving, I've had nearly perfect weather for cycling and, of course, have taken advantage of it. The bike I rode during previous visits--a balloon-tired beach cruiser--got rusty and dusty. My father, thinking the bike was beyond redemption (it just looks that way) went and bought another bike--a cheapo full-suspension bike--from a friend. I rode it on Saturday, along the Lehigh Trail, over the bridge in the first photo and up Route A1A through Beverly Beach and Painters Hill.
Along the stretch from Flagler Beach to Beverly Beach, I was looking at some of what Hurricane Ian wrought. While the damage wasn't nearly as widespread as what befell Sanibel Island or Fort Myers, there were piles of debris on roadsides, testaments to damaged or destroyed buildings and trees. As I looked at one of those ruins, a car door opened. Just when I thought I was about to be "doored" again, a woman emerged from the half-opened portal and said, "You write a bike blog!"
Nothing like being famous, eh?
Actually, she is someone I met during a previous visit, about seven years ago. I'd stopped at a gas station-convenience store for a cup of coffee or to use the bathroom--possibly both--when Rita broke me out, for a moment, from my stereotypical New York "don't talk to strangers" mode. (If I recall correctly, I had just arrived the night before.) We stayed in touch for a time but I think her number was part of the data that didn't transfer from my old to new phone, in spite of the salesperson's promise that everything, including a bunch of photos, would make the journey.
I didn't experience a near-catastrophe-turned-happy-coincidence the following day, when I pedaled up to the Castillo San Marcos in Saint Augustine--49 kilometers, or 30.5 miles--into a gusty wind, on the rusty and dusty balloon-tired beach cruiser. Upon arriving, I wended through the shops and houses of the historic old town before enjoying a picnic lunch on the waterfront promenade and riding back--with that same wind, of course. So, I reckon that I at least rode a metric century on that rusty beach cruiser, though that was not the point of this trip.
After that ride, I showered, got dressed and went out to Mezzaluna for a delightful meal of mussels in a sauce of butter, garlic and lemon with even more delightful company, which included my father and his friend Maureen, a retired Canadian nurse. She, as it turns out, was something of an avid cyclist and hiker before, as she said, "arthritis found me." Afterward, we went to her house, filled with her plants and handicrafts, photos and paintings by friends and her late sister, all against backdrops of walls and alcoves painted in very Floridian shades of blue, green and yellow, and "guarded" by my newest friend--Delilah, her cat.
So now there are two Delilahs--well, a Delila and a Dee-Lilah, on this blog. Both are synonymous with delight, even if one is furry and black and white, while the other is lilac-colored and probably would have loved the ride I took today.
So why did I come to the Sunshine State this weekend? Well, today is Columbus Day, Italian American Pride Day or Indigenous People's Day. (I prefer the latter because, not in spite of the fact that, I'm of Italian heritage: Why should our "pride" day be in honor of a guy who got lost?) That meant a long weekend and, while some people traveled--There were quite a few out of state plates along A1A and foreign languages spoken at St.Augustine--it isn't nearly as hectic or expensive as traveling at, say, Thanksgiving or the Christmas-New Year season. Plus, I didn't want the focus of my visit to be a holiday. Rather, I wanted to see Dad again, and because I wondered what it would be like to meet him without Mom or other family members.
I met him into a new phase of his journey--and, I suspect, mine, as I took familiar rides for the first time in a long time.
If someone rolls a bicycle over someone else's head, could that be construed as excessive use of force?
Hmm...I must admit I'd never pondered that question. Most likely, there aren't very many people who have. One who had to is Andrew Myerberg.
He is the director of Seattle's Office of Police Accountability (OPA). The poor fellow who got tire tracks on his forehead was Camillo Massagli, who was known for showing up at street protests and playing his trumpet. At one of those events last year, held in the wake of a grand jury's decision not to indict Louisville police officers in the killing of Breonna Taylor, Seattle PD Officer Eric D. Walter rolled his Department-issued bike--with two flat tires--over a supine Massagli's head.
Massagli, for his part, declined to pursue charges because, he explained, "I cannot use a penal system I reject for revenge, not in good conscience," though he added that Walter's and other officers' actions showed "disregard for human life."
King County Sheriff's Detective Mike Mellis investigated Walter for assault but did not find probable cause. He reasoned that Walter and other officers had a right to "peacefully" remove protesters from the street. Although he conceded that Walter "purposely rolled his bike over" Massagli's head, as recounted in an OPA summary, he said that such an action "would not necessarily be expected to cause someone pain."
Okay...I'll try that if I ever roll a bicycle over someone's head: "Officer, I really meant no harm!"
At least Mellis, Walter and the officers who worked with him weren't the only ones who had input on the OPA summary. It didn't dispute Walter's claim that that he "needed to stay on his line and could not move as it might confuse the officers following behind him." It, however, averred that a review of video from that day found "no indication that he ever lifted the bicycle while walking over" Massagli.
So what was the result of this investigation? Walter got a seven-day unpaid suspension. (It's unclear as to whether or not he's served it.) Walter and the union are, of course, appealing it. As a 14-year veteran of the force, Walter had a base salary of $130,471 in 2020 and made another $20,544. (I wonder whether working that protest was part of his regular salary or overtime.) So the suspension, should or has he served it, would cost him about $2509 of his base pay. One wonders whether Massagli will pay in some other way--whether through physical pain or emotional trauma, now or in the future, whether or not Officer Walter meant to hurt him.
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| Screen grab from a video at the protest. (Courtesy of C.J Halliburton and Joey Weiser, for the Seattle Times. |
I've been called "crazy" and worse for crossing city, county, state and national boundaries--and mountain ranges--on my bike. And for working as a bike messenger in Manhattan. And riding on a velodrome.
But I admit there are some things I haven't tried, and don't plan to. I don't know whether I fear heights more than other people, but what these women are doing is above my pay grade.
They weren't doing a "one off" stunt. Rather, the contraption they're pedaling almost 1000 feet above Wansheng Ordovician Theme Park in China is an attraction open to the public.
What are some telltale signs of an early '90s mountain bike?
One might be bar ends, especially those from Onza and Club Roost. Another could be early Rock Shox or Manitou suspension (or "telescoping," according to the Brits) front fork--or a sprung rear triangle.
Another popular form of suspension was built into handlebar stems, such as the ones from Girvin or Softride. I never tried one myself, but I suspect they didn't do nearly as much to dampen shock--and make a ride more stable--as a suspended fork or rear triangle. I suspect, though, another reason why they fell out of favor is that spension forks led to two nearly-simultaneous changes: 28.6 mm (1 1/8") steerer tubes replaced 25.4 (1") as the new standard, and threadless headsets became an industry standard. Girvin and other suspension stems were of the "quill" type and manufacturers couldn't, or didn't want to, make threadless suspension stems.
Well, in the cycling world, very few ideas actually die. SunTour made cassette hubs and indexed shifting in 1969. I've never seen them, but from what I've read and heard, they worked well. The market wasn't ready for them, however, until Shimano re-introduced them a decade and a half later. Likewise, suspension stems didn't end up as road- (or trail-) kill. A recent trend has brought them back from the dustbin of cycling history.
Gravel biking is credited for showing that wider tires aren't only for mountain bikes or beach cruisers. It also has renewed interest in minimalist, lightweight forms of suspension. Most suspension forks are simply too heavy, and too dampening, for gravel bikers' tastes. Those forks also have straight or nearly-straight blades, which negate the benefits of the low-trail bikes' geometries. And I don't know how feasible rear-triangle suspension is for a gravel bike.
During the past couple of years, some new suspension stems have appeared on the market. Unlike Girvin and Softride, the new Shock Stop and Kinekt models are threadless stems. The former uses swappable elastomer inserts, rather like a few of the 90s suspension forks and USE fork. Not coincidentally, Shock Stop offers an elastomer-equipped seatpost to complement its stem. Kinekt, on the other hand, uses a parallelogram system reminiscent of the Soft Ride.
In my limited experience with suspension systems, one problem I found with elastomers is that dirt, moisture or cold stiffened them. A mechanical system like Kinekt might be heavier, but more reliable, and avoids the problem of manufacturers who discontinue replacement elastomers (or go out of business). I am not making any recommendations, as I have never used any new or old suspension stem. I do find it interesting, however, that a new trend in riding has given an old idea a new lease on life.
This post will do something that, to my knowledge, few if any other pieces of writing have done: mention an early bicycle suspension system and a French ladies' utility bicycle from the 1960s or 1970s.
That wasn't my original intention, but in the admittedly-cursory research I did, the two topics became entangled.
How did I start on this path (pun intended)? Well, a few days ago I saw this
parked around the corner from my apartment.
At first glance, it looks like any number of French ladies' utility/city bikes of its time: The swept-down top lateral tubes lend it a grace most "beast" bikes don't have. That detail distinguihes somewhat from the mixte bikes that made their way to the US during the 1970s Bike Boom. Those bikes--like the Peugeot UO8 mixte--had straight twin lateral tubes. As a result, bikes like the U08 had slightly tighter geometry than bikes like the one in this post, which gave them a somewhat sprightlier ride.
You can still find plenty of bikes like the one in my photos parked on Paris streets and all over France: they were, and still are, for many French women what classic British three-speeds were for generations of women riding to work, the marketplace or the park in much of the Anglophone world.
But I knew, right away, something was odd about this bike. One give-away was the "Belle de Paris" decal on the downtube: I mean, if you saw that in a movie, you'd think it was a joke. No French bike maker would have given such a name to a bike it planned to sell in France--or to anyone who knows anything about French bikes!
(I think now of the car Renault sold as "Le Car" in the US. Even if you don't know or care about anything French, you just had to roll up your eyes on seeing that!)
Another odd thing about the bike is the brand name: Pierce-Arrow. As far as I know, there never was a French bike-maker by that name. And then there's this:
Some of the Motobecanes imported early in the US Bike Boom had fork crown caps stamped with the telltale "M" emblem. Also, some bikes made by Motobecane and sold under other names--like Astra--bore it.
And, of course, Motobecane made many bikes like this one: Of all French manufacturers, it's likely that only Peugeot made more. So, I surmised--correctly, my research would confirm--that I was looking at a Motobecane rebadged as "Pierce-Arrow".
So what of Pierce-Arrow?
Anyone who knows anything about the history of luxury automobiles knows the name. Heck, even I knew about them! Before World War II, they had a cache on par with the revered names of today like Rolls-Royce and Mercedes Benz. And, like most other auto manufacturers of the time--and a few that survive today (think of Peugeot and Ford)--Pierce-Arrow was a bicycle-maker before it manufactured cars (and, in Pierce's and Peugeot's case, motorcycles). And, in another interesting parallel with Peugeot, Pierce began as an industrial company that manufactured a variety of items (Yes, that peppermill was made by the same company that made the PX-10!) before venturing into wheeled goods.
George N. Pierce started his company in Buffalo, NY in 1872. In 1890, at the dawn of the first "Bike Boom," Pierce produced its first bicycles. They quickly developed a reputation for quality and elegance as well as elegance. As per the latter, the company offered one of the early "ladies'" models of safety bicycle, with a graceful tube that swept down from the head tube.
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| Seamless joint. From 1897 Pierce Bicycle catalogue. |
As for technical innovations, they contributed two that would influence later bicycle develpment. According to their 1897 catalogue, their frames had seamless joints achieved by "fittings inside one tube and shaped to fit snugly around the opposite tube." This can be seen as a predecessor of both lugged and fillet-brazed joints: the joining methods used to this day on most high-quality steel frames.
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| Pierce Cushion Frame, 1901 |
The other? One of the earliest frame suspension systems. In 1898, their Cushion Frame line featured a shock absorber on the post connecting the rear axle to the seat pillar. Hmm...I think I saw something like that on a few mountain bikes--in 1998, or thereabouts!
Anyway, Pierce continued to make bicycles until 1918, when the Emblem Manufacturing company in the nearby community of Angola acquired them. Emblem continued to produce bicycles until 1940--ironically, two years after Pierce-Arrow Motor Car Company ceased to exist.
Now, from what I've gleaned, the company's bicycles were never called Pierce-Arrow. That appelation was reserved for cars. Bicycles and motorcycles were always called "Pierce." The Pierce-Arrow name, however, would be conflated with Pierce bicycles--possibly because of the arrow in Pierce's emblem. In the years after the last Pierce bicycles were made, at least one distributor sold bicycles rebadged as "Pierce-Arrow." To my knowledge, no bicycle manufacturer ever made a "Pierce Arrow" line of bikes: That label was a creation of the distributor/importer, just as "Nishiki," "Azuki," "Centurion," "Shogun" and "Univega" were. (Although those bikes were made in Japan, you can't buy one with any of those names in the Land of the Rising Sun.) Apparently, the distributor was banking on the residual cache of the "Pierce Arrow" name.
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| Don't you just love the fender details? I think Velo Orange's "Facette" fenders were inspired by these, or something like them. |
So...whoever bought the bike I saw parked in my neighborhood may have thought he or she was getting some connection to a classic car. Instead, he or she got something like what a madame would have pedaled to school, work, the market or to her relatives in the next village or arrondissement.
