The Boneshaker Big Wheel

Some of us try to turn our commutes into mini-workouts.  There are all sorts of ways to do that.  One is to simply ride at a vigorous pace.  Another is to ride in a higher gear than we'd normally ride on a given road or path.  (Or we might ride a fixed-gear bike.)  Still another way is to ride a heavier bike than we'd ride for fun.  Or we might find routes that are more challenging or simply longer than the ones we might've otherwise taken to work.

I have been choosing the latter option. Even though the cycle/pedestrian bridge from Randall's Island to the Bronx has opened, I've been taking the old walkway on the west side of the RFK Bridge spur because accessing it involves pedaling up a fairly steep ramp that zig-zags.  So, for a moment, I can pretend I'm pumping my way up the road on l'Alpe d'Huez as I'm on my way to work in the Bronx.

I admit, it's not a long incline.  But it at least provides a challenge, however brief, on an otherwise flat commute.  Maybe I'll find a route from the new bridge to my workplace that is a bit more challenging (or, again, simply longer) than the one I took the couple of times I've ridden over that bridge.

Now, if I really wanted a workout, I suppose I could ride this:




The Boneshaker Big Wheel, by artist Ron Schroer, is described as "the steampunk love child" of a boneshaker and a penny-farthing.  Riding it to work would certainly be interesting.  Parking, even more so, I think:  Would it attract a would-be thief?  Maybe.  Then again, someone who tried to take off with it probably wouldn't get very far--unless, of course, he had experience in riding boneshakers or penny-farthings!

Today, After Sunset

Time was when urban parks were places where old people sat on benches and, perhaps, fed squirrels or pigeons or watched grandchildren run, jump, climb and swing.  

At least, my earliest memories of a park--specifically, Sunset Park in Brooklyn--are like that.  Yes, my grandparents were the "old" people on the benches, though I now realize that my grandmother, then, was younger than I am now.  Sometimes I was one of the grandchildren in the scene I described; other times, I was sitting between my grandmother and grandfather, or in the lap of one of them.

Sunset Park covers a hill that rises from the surrounding neighborhood that shares its name.  Standing in that park, even on the murkiest of days, we had a better-than-postcard panaromic view of the steel and cobalt water, the gray tanks and white ship hulls that--as I could not know at the time--would soon start turning to rust, and the stone loft buildings and concrete piers where some of my relatives worked. Neither they, it seemed, nor I nor anyone else could see the gray bubbles dissolving or the cracks between them, whether they were bathed in sun or swept by shadows.

It occured to me today, as I rode along the Brooklyn waterfront, that if I had followed one of those shadows, one of those rays of the sun or the wing of one of the pigeons that often alighted from the park, I would have ended up at the water, in a spot not far from this:

The park, between the Manhattan and Brooklyn Bridges, brackets a neighborhood called DUMBO (Down Under the Manhattan Bridge Overpass).  Nobody called it that when my grandparents and I spent afternoons in Sunset Park; in fact, nobody (at least in my milieu) ever imagined spending time there except to work.  People didn't live, or even make art, in lofts back then--even if those lofts had the best views of the harbor and the Manhattan skyline.

In fact, the waterfront itself was a place to which someone went only if he worked there.  And, yes, almost anyone who worked there--including the relatives I mentioned--was male.  A woman by the waterfront was questionable or worse according to all of those unwritten, unspoken rules we learned; no responsible adult brought a child--his or her own, or anyone else's--to the river, to the harbor, to the bay.

Back then, you looked at the waters of New York Bay and the Hudson River only from a place like Sunset Park, high on a hill.   You certainly didn't ride a bike to, or along, the waterfront.  Actually, if you were an adult--especially an older one who sat on park benches and fed pigeons and squirrels--you probably didn't ride a bike.

Today I rode along the river and the bay, under the bridges and past piers that stand, and have long since been swept away.  I would not change anything about the ride or the park or the waterfront, any more than I would change the park where I spent those afternoons with my grandparents.  The funny thing is that, even at my rather advanced age, the hill doesn't seem as steep as it did then.  And the water--like the park--seems so much closer.

Hershey's, Naked

If I offered you something "naked" with a name you would normally associate with chocolate, would you:

• grin
• take out your camera, or
• report me?

Well, someone once offered me just what I've described.  I was younger and in better shape than I'm in now.  Perhaps that was the reason I was offered said item for free.

Now, one of the first things I teach young people is that if something is free, you should take it and figure out what to do with it later.  And, back when I was made an offer I couldn't refuse (well, I could've, but it would've taken more self-discipline than I had), I took it.  So if you are one of the young people to whom I've offered said advice, at least you know now that I'm not a hypocrite!

Anyway...nakedness and chocolate.  Believe it or not, those two qualities are associated with a bicycle component--which is what I was offered, and took! 

(Was this your idea of "bike porn"?)

That bike part was made by Hershey. If you are like me, when you hear that name, you probably think of the maker of Kisses and Reese's Peanut Butter Cups (and, in the US, of Kit-Kats).  Or, perhaps, an actress who, for a time, was known as Barbara Seagull might come to mind.  Unless you were cycling during the '90's (when else?), however, you might not associate the name with componentry.

The decade was actually wonderful in all sorts of ways.  In the world of bike--especially mountain bike--parts, though, it was absolutely whacky.  As I've mentioned in other posts, it seemed that as if every 20-year-old in California whose father had a lathe was making bike parts and anodizing them in never-before-seen colors with names that made the ones given to shades of Opi nail polish seem like RGB codes.  I mean, Kooka and Topline cranks broke at inopportune moments (Does anything ever break at an opportune moment?) but you had to love the fact that you could ask for either with a 3D Ultra-Violet finish.

Now, I don't know whether Hershey Naked hubs were as fragile as those cranks.  Although I accepted the one I got for free, I never built or used it:  I traded it, I think--whether for something bike-related or not, I forget.  For one thing, I didn't need another wheel (especially a front) at the time.  For another, I was riding a set of wheels with similarly-constructed hubs from another maker and had a problem with them.

All of Hershey's hubs, including the Naked, were constructed with flanges bonded or pressed to a shaft.  In contrast, hubs from Campagnolo, Mavic, Shimano and other more traditional manufacturers are made with forged one-piece shells.  The Hershey Naked hub's shaft was made from some sort of clear plastic material that wasn't called plastic.  I guess it was supposed to save weight.  It did, of course, allow you to see the inner workings of the hub, just as the clear face of a "skeleton" watch reveals the gears and wheels behind the "hands" and numerals.

At the time I was gifted with the Hershey Naked hub, I was riding wheels with Nuke Proof hubs that, like the Hershey, consisted of aluminum flanges attached to  shafts.   The shafts on my Nuke Proofs were carbon fiber; they--like the Hersheys--were also available with titanium or alloy shafts. (To my knowledge, NP never offered a clear shaft.)

As I related in another post, the flanges of my Nuke Proofs actually detached from their shafts and collapsed toward the center of the hub.  Other cyclists I knew had similar experiences with those hubs, and others that were similarly constructed.  Now, for all I know, a Hershey hub--even a Nude version--might have fared better.  But I didn't want to take a chance.

I haven't thought about that Hershey hub in a long time.  Now I wonder whether the person who got it from me ever built it.  Since it was the '90's, I can imagine him--or someone--building it with "rainbow" spokes, and Velocity rims and alloy spoke nipples in colors (anti-freeze green, anyone?) that clashed with the 3D Ultra Violet finish of the hub flanges! 

Curls, Splits And A Flying Gate

In the 1880s, J.K. Starley developed his "Rover" Safety Bicycle.  Nearly everything I've read about the history of cycling pins the Rover's importance to the fact that it had two equal-sized wheels and a chain-powered drivetrain.  This innovation was indeed an improvement, in many ways, over the "penny farthing" or "high-wheeler" bikes that had large front wheels (as much as 72 inches) with cranks and pedals attached to the axle, and a much smaller rear wheel.  The Rover was indeed safer to ride and its drivetrain allowed for variations in gearing, something that was not possible on the fixed drivetrain of the "penny farthing."

A later version of the "Rover" featured another innovation that isn't mentioned as frequently but might have been just as important.  Its frame had a configuration which we would now recognize as the "diamond".  Nearly all racing bikes, and most everyday bikes that weren't specifically designed for women (and even some that were) have incorporated this design feature.   Even bikes made with the most exotic materials owe their most important design feature to a bike that was made 130 years ago.

Even "mixte" and some "women's" bikes can be said to be variants, in one way or another, of the "diamond" frame.  In fact, one might even argue that "step through" frames are variants of the "diamond" because they are usually made like diamond frames without  a top bar (and, in some cases, with wider-diameter down- and seat-tubes to compensate).

Over the decades, there have been attempts to render the diamond frame lighter, stiffer, more efficient or, perhaps, just sexier.  Some seem to recur every generation or so. 

One of the more interesting variations was the Hetchins "curly stays" frame:

The late, great Sheldon Brown rode the Hetchins in the photo.  There was, believe it or not, a reason for those stays.  In the 1930s, races were often run over rough roads or even cobblestones.  Curved forks absorbed some of the shock in the front.  Straight rear stays, on the other hand, transmitted the road shocks, which caused the bike and even the rider to rattle and shake.  That, in turn, resulted in wasted motion. (Think about that the next time you hear "stiffer is better"!) 

So, the idea of curling the rear stays was so that they would replicate, on the rear, what curved forks did in front.  I guess there is something to that idea:  After all, mountain bikes with rear suspension can go faster because they're more stable on rough terrain. 

Whether or not curly stays offer an advantage to a loaded touring cyclist is debatable; there doesn't seem to be any advantage to them on the track.  Still, there were track bikes with curly stays and other unconventional designs because builders weren't allowed to "advertise" on their bikes.  Hence, decals, transfers and other markers bearing the builder's or manufacturer's name were not permitted.  So some builders--like Hetchins--called attention to their bikes with unusual designs.


Another variation on the diamond frame is the split seat tube that was a feature of bikes like the Rigi of the late 1970s and early 1980s:

As you can see, this design, by allowing the tire to run between the twin lateral seat tubes, shortens the bike's wheelbase, which makes for faster acceleration and greater rigidity.  I had the opportunity to try a Rigi and it did indeed feel stiffer in the rear and had more of a "jack rabbit" feel than other bikes I'd ridden.  The Rigi I tried was a road model; I can only imagine how a track model would have felt!

 

 

I found myself thinking about those bikes when I came across this: 

Baines Brothers of England made the "Flying Gate" frame from the early 1930's until the early 1950s.  Baines Brothers didn't actually call their frames "Flying Gate"; rather, it's a nickname the bike acquired because of its shape.

As with the Rigi, one justification for the design is that it shortened the wheelbase to 100cm (39.5 inches), which was all but unheard-of on a road bike at that time. 

Ironically, even though the frame was intended for road use, it seems to have track ends on it.  Maybe they had the same idea I had in mind when I built Tosca, my Mercian fixie:  a responsive fixed-gear bike that could be ridden on the road.  Perhaps whoever rode the bike set it up with a "flip flop" or double-sided hub, as was common on British "club bikes" of the time.

 

From what Hilary Stone says about these bikes, the model in the photos is probably a later one, as the earlier ones--like most bikes from the '30's--used relatively plain lugs. 

Trevor Jarvis acquired the rights to the design and produced a number of frames at his TJ Cycles shop in Burton-on-Trent during the late 1970s.  Though most were made for time trialing, his shop produced, interestingly, a touring model.  In a way, it makes sense, for one complaint many cyclists have about traditional touring bikes is that their long rear triangles and wheelbases cause them to handle like lumber wagons.  Of course, one problem with riding a short-wheelbase bike for loaded touring is that your heels get caught in the panniers and the vibration transferred through the stiffer rear triangle makes the bike less stable and tires the rider on rough surfaces.

According to Stone, riders generally appreciated the responsive ride offered by the "Flying Gate."  I would be curious to try one myself!

A Proteus Bicycle: They--Or You--Could Build It

The other day, in writing about the Tokheim "Gear Maker", I mentioned that a number of American manufacturers tried to cash in on their country's "Bike Boom" during the 1970s, even though those companies had no experience in making anything bike-related.  Most, like Tokheim, were either out of the bike business or defunct within a decade. 

 

Then there were companies like Cannondale and Bellwether that entered the market during the decade, which also included a "boom" in hiking, skiing, camping and other outdoor activities.  Bellwether made bike bags and clothing; they are still in the bike clothing business.  (I still use some winter items of theirs I bought years ago.)  And, of course, Cannondale is one of the best-known names in cycling.  They still offer small seat and frame pouches, but not the panniers or handlebar bags many of us used in tours past.  "C" also has a line of bike clothing in addition to their bikes.  Ironically, when Cannondale first appeared on the scene in 1970, they did not make bicycles or bicycle clothing (those items would not be part of the company's offerings for another dozen years); the hiking, camping and skiing  gear they made in those days hasn't been made since the mid-1980's.

 

During the 1970s in the US, there was also something of a mini-boom in hand- and custom-frame building.  During the days of the six-day races, there were many such builders, especially in the New York, Detroit and Chicago areas, as well as in California.  Some hung on during the "dark ages" of cycling after World War II and catered to the small but enthusiastic community of cyclists still found in the 'States.  But most of those builders had either died, left the business or retired by the 1960s.  So, the American builders of the 1970s were mostly a new breed.

 

One of the most respected was Albert Eisentraut, who worked in the San Francisco Bay area.  One way in which he and the other new American builders differed from those of the previous generation is that they were home-grown and, in many cases, self-taught, in contrast to earlier builders who came from the other side of the Atlantic or had spent considerable time there.  Also, the new builders didn't even have the remanants of a racing or general cycling culture the earlier builders could draw upon.

 

That lack of precedent was both a hindrance and a help.  Of course, it was a hindrance because it steepened the learning curve for the newcomers; also, there were some (whom we don't hear about today) who didn't stay in the "game" because they overheated frame tubes or made other mistakes that resulted in their frames failing or simply not riding satisfactorily.  On the other hand, the lack of antecedents also gave the newcomers the freedom to approach their work in ways traditional builders never would have dreamed of.

 

 

A Proteus touring bike, circa 1977

 One of those new builders was really a collective known as Proteus Cycles.  Founded by Barry Konig, Larry Dean and Steve Schuman in 1971, they weren't French-style constructeurs who built the whole bike from the ground up with custom-made components.  They even, in some ways, parted company with British builders like Ron Cooper, from whom they learned many of their skills.  Builders like Cooper, Bob Jackson and Mercian usually sell frames, whether custom or stock, and customers or their local shop build them up with components the customer chooses (although those builders sometimes sell complete bikes).  But the frames you get from such builders are entirely their own work; while the customer might have a say in designing it, he or she leaves the actual building to the builder.

The customer could order such a frame, or a complete bike, from Proteus.  Or, he or she could let them build it, and finish it him or herself. Or he or she could build the frame and Proteus would finish it.

Dan Rovelli's 1979 Proteus.  From Classic Rendezvous

That last option was particularly intriguing.  You see, at its peak, Proteus held frame-building classes and even published a book about frame building, penned by a fictitious "Dr. Paul Proteus."  Konig, Dean and Schulman were, of course, the probable authors, and they recommended that anyone who wanted to build a frame should read it first--even before taking their classes or ordering one of the frame-building kits (which included tubing, lugs and other fitments) Proteus sold.  It was even possible to buy individual frame fitments, such as fork tangs, from the builders.

Ben Dillingham's Proteus, with modern touches

I like to think that Proteus was more like a studio or a gallery combined with an art-supply shop than a traditional bike-building enterprise:  the artists/artisans not only worked on their creations; they also conducted classes and the organization sold the materials needed as well as related publications.  To my knowledge, no European or Japanese (or, for that matter, any other American) builder offered such a wide range of products and services.

I have tried to find out when, exactly, Proteus stopped being, well, Proteus.  Apparently, that happened some time in the late 1980s or thereabouts.  At that time, technology started to displace craftsmanship in the bicycle world, and I think that people simply didn't have as much time (or money) to spend on classes or to build their own bikes. I know that when I have a limited amount of time, I'd rather ride my bikes than work on them!

Today there is a bike shop called Proteus that is a descendent of the legendary bike-building collective.  Apparently, the Proteus partners continued to operate a bicycle retail business after they stopped building frames and, in time, sold the business to others.  According to the shop's website, it holds social events and holds classes as well as rides.  I guess, in some way, they are keeping up the spirit of "Dr. Paul Proteus."

(P.S.:  Jill Di Mauro bought the shop in 2002.  In 2007, Di Mauro married her Canadian partner in Canada.  Though Maryland would legalize same-sex marriage four years later, federal laws--including immigration statutes--didn't recognize their union.  So, when Di Mauro's wife's visa expired, she had to return to Canada.  In 2012, Di Mauro sold the shop and moved to upstate New York to be closer to her wife while she applied to return to the US.)