THE Tape Wasn't Number 1: A Pump Was. Or It Claimed To Be, Anyway!

Shopping online is like going to swap meets:  You find all sorts of things you never thought you'd see again.  That can be reassuring, especially if you remember something you used decades ago but have not encountered since and no one else seems to remember.  At least you can reassure yourself that your mind isn't doing the things you feared it would do when you got old--or that you're not having a flashback of something you first encountered in a haze of cannabis or the mists of Jack Daniels.

Last week, while surfing eBay, I found (and bought) a bike part that hasn't been made in decades, in its original packaging, for a reasonable price.  It's one of those things I might use if I actually go ahead with a project I'm contemplating.  If I find that I have too little time or disposable income--or simply feel too lazy--to carry out that project, I will probably hold on to that part I bought:  I might have use for it later. (Really!)  Also, it's something I used and liked in my youth, and the quality of it is very good.

When I decided to buy that part, I looked at the seller's website to see whether or not he had anything I wanted or needed.  Nothing else in his inventory (from a bike shop that closed down) fits either category, at least right now. But I did see something that brought back a memory or two:

In Philadelphia, there was a company called Skethea.  I don't know whether they aspired to be another Cannondale or Rhode Gear.  They seem to have made (or, at least marketed) only two products.  Both of them had names that proclaimed their superiority.  One of them is, the tape (or THE Tape) in the photo above.

Now, if you were around in the '70's, you might recall (if you can recall anything ;-)) that suede was very popular.  At least, stuff that looked like suede was en vogue.  Most things that purported to be suede weren't.  One example is a coat I had, which was made of cloth with a nappy finish.  Another is THE Tape.

I bought a set of it, in blue (of course!), to replace the plastic tape I shredded on my Nishiki International. I saw the same tape, in red, on another bike and thought it would look--and, I hoped, feel--good on my handlebars.

THE Tape was just a vinyl wrap, thicker than most, with a suede-like finish.  It could be had in a number of different colors, including two other shades of blue (Mine was a cobalt-ish hue.) as well as other shades of red and green, a few other colors and, of course, white and black.  As I recall, it didn't cost much more than plastic or even cloth tape.  And, because it was stretchy, it was easy to wrap.

If you've ever ridden a suede saddle, you know that, at first, it's more difficult to slide forward or back, as you might when you change hand positions on your handlebar, on it than on a seat with a smooth finish.  Likewise, it was a little more difficult to change hand positions (for example, to slide up or down the "hook" of the bar when climbing or descending) on THE Tape than it was on smooth or textured vinyl, or even cloth, tape.  

That little bit of extra force I needed to slide my hands along the bars revealed another flaw of THE Tape:  It had no adhesive backing, so the tape shifted and revealed gaps of bare metal.  The good news was that the lack of adhesive made it easier to un- and re-wrap.  The bad news:  The extra force needed to slide up and down on the bars made the tape stretch and, eventually, break.  

And normal use wore the nappy finish away.  So, after a few months you were left with "bald" discolored tape that soon disintegrated.  And, oh, yeah, it didn't look as nice as it did when you applied it.

I am aware of one other product made by Skethea, the company that manufactured THE Tape.  The Number 1 Pump (Yes, that was its name!) came out at around the same time as THE Tape:  about a year or two after Zefal introduced its HP Pump.  You still see lots of those Zefals in use today. But, unless you are around my age, you've probably never seen a Number 1 Pump.  I saw a few "back in the day", but I never owned one myself.

It was, I believe, an attempt to combine the best features of the Zefal HP  and Silca Impero pump.  So it had a thumb-lock valve that could be converted between Presta and Schraeder, and a mechanism that enabled the pump to bring high-pressure tires up to full pressure.  The Zefal had those qualities but was heavier than the Silca and required a clip.  The Number 1 Pump, therefore, put--or tried to put--the best Zefal HP features into a plastic body, like Silca's, that fit on the frame without a clip.

In an apparent attempt to distinguish it visually from the Zefal HP, Silca Impero and any other pump, the Number 1 had a clear plastic body.  Yes, you read that right.  So, you could see all those wonderful inner workings that the clever folks at Skethea dreamed up.  

I once had a watch like that.  For a while, thought it was pretty cool to see all those gears and pinions at work.  But after a while, the novelty wore off and I admitted to myself that watches with opaque faces and numerals in contrasting colors were much easier to read.  I stopped wearing the see-through watch, and I think I left it behind in a move.

But at least that watch held up to downpours I encountered while cycling and hiking, as well as some other forces of nature and my own recklessness and stupidity. So have my Zefal pumps.   I don't think the Number 1 Pump would have survived such things.  For that matter, I don't think the Number 1 Pump survived much of anything:  Within a couple of years of its introduction, it seems to have disappeared.  

I wish I could find a photo of that pump--or any information about Skethea.  They seem to have been one of those many small bike-accessories companies that sprang up in the US during the Bike Boom.  Cannondale is one of the few that have survived though, like most other manufacturers, they are making their bags (as well as their bikes) abroad.  A few other companies made it to the '80s and beyond; apparently, Skethea was not one of them.  A 1980 Bike Warehouse (now Bike Nashbar) catalogue lists The Tape; I can find no later reference to it.

If I ever find an image of a Number 1 Pump--or information about what happened to Skethea--I will post it.

A Bike Santa Won't Leave Under The Tree

I try not to spend too much of my life living vicariously through others.  Sometimes, though, I can't help living, if only momentarily, through the triumphs and accomplishments of others:  There are some things I simply can't do on my own.  Then there are other things that, for all sorts of reasons, I probably will never do.  

For example, I doubt that I will ever decorate a house for the holidays in the ways I sometimes see.  Buying a poinsetta plant and, perhaps, hanging a wreath or the Christmas cards I receive is about as far as I go in bedecking my apartment for the holidays.  Even if I ever buy a big house, I doubt that I will ever turn it into the sort of display I have seen in my neighborhood during the past few years:

I took those photos last year.  The house's residents have created the same spectacle in each of the past six years I have lived nearby.  I passed by that house on my way to work this morning but didn't notice any decorations.  Perhaps they're in the works.  At least, I hope so.  I really love that display, more than I ever thought I could love such things.

For now, I will content myself with this:

which I found on brown bobbin.  Thank you, Melissa!

Be The Ride You Want To Take

Published on Earth Day, 1971

We have met the enemy and he is us.

So spake Pogo in the comic strip that bore his name.  That quip is a twist on what Oliver Hazard Perry said after a naval battle:  "We have met the enemy, and they are ours."

There is at least one situation in which the enemy is both ours and us.  In particular, I am thinking about traffic jams--or, more specifically, being stuck in one.  I would guess that just about anyone in that situation thinks of him or herself as being stalled by--that is to say, the victim of--a traffic jam.  Does anyone see that, at the same time, he or she is a cause--however unwittingly--of that traffic stoppage?

From bluepearlgirl's world

You are not stuck in traffic.  You are traffic.  I can almost imagine someone using those words as a prelude to a saying that was not, contrary to popular belief, uttered by Gandhi:  "Be the change you wish to see." 

Whatever you think of any of those slogans, you have to admit that "You are traffic" sign offers some good advice:  Get a bike!

Chancing Upon A Champion

Funny, how I can ride through an area I know well--or, at least I thought I knew well--and chance upon something I'd never seen before.

New York City's grid pattern seems utterly incongruous in places like Bayside, where North Shore coastline zigs and zags.  (In fact, it seems incongruous that it is, even if only officially, part of New York City.) The nearest subway stop is about seven kilometers away; only a couple of bus lines  along Bell and Northern Boulevards  (the neighborhood's two main throughfares) and a Long Island Rail Road stop just off Northern connect this neighborhood with the rest of the city.

"Neighborhood" seems like a misnomer, as Bayside feels more like what would be described as a "leafy suburb".   If you go there, you're not going for the night life; you are going there to raise your family or, as I did today, for a bike ride along the North Shore.

With its straight-arrow streets and its well-defined, well-ordered yards and other spaces, it's hard to believe that I've actually missed something on previous rides. But today, I turned down a street I'd never ridden before--Corbett Lane--and this caught my eye.

So now I know how the street got its name: James Corbett, the World Heavyweight Boxing Champion from 1892 until 1897.   He won the title by knocking out the "unbeatable" John L. Sullivan and, many historians of the sport argue, changed prizefighting from mere brawling to an art form because of his scientific training and fighting techniques.  He defeated Sullivan by wearing him down with feints and jabs before delivering the knockout blow.  Muhammad Ali, among others, would win titles in the same way.

But he also changed boxing by simply making it more palatable to many who abhorred it.  (Because it was so widely denounced, boxing was illegal in most states, which made it difficult to schedule bouts.)  "Gentleman Jim" was a beloved figure both in and out of the ring because of his manners, clothing and movie-star looks.  In fact, once his boxing career ended, he made more money from acting, on stage and films, than he ever did in the ring.  



In a way, I'm not surprised that he lived in this house:  It is attractive but not ostentatious, though I had to chuckle when I saw this in front:

Tosca, my Mercian fixie, somehow looks more appropriate.  At least she doesn't flinch from a history lesson! 

It was a short but sweet ride, if you'll indulge me a cliche, even if it looked as if I was riding straight into winter on my way home:

Today's Ride: A Cosmic Connection To Paris Sport?

"All steel to minimize breakage due to varinging (sic) temperature changes in North America."

First of all, as a writer and English teacher, I want to know what is meant by "varinging temperature changes".

I've inferred that whoever wrote "varinging" probably meant "varying".  Now, I know that what we mean by "whine" in America is "whinge" in England.  Hmm...Maybe "varinging" is another Britishism (Does such a word exist?) of which I was unaware.

All right.  If we accept that "varinging" is "varying", then it begs this question:  What in the world does "varying temperature changes" mean?  Are there "unvarying temperature changes" or varying steady temperatures?  

(By the same token, I have always wondered what "close proximity" meant. Is there "far proximity"?)

Anyway...Since I'm bringing up such issues in this blog, you've probably inferred that the italicized passage at the beginning of this post refers to a bicycle--or a bike part.  Actually, the latter is true:  the wordsmith who created that piece of meaningless or misleading (depending on your point of view) copy was referring to a Huret Svelto rear derailleur: a thoroughly unexceptional piece even when it first came out in 1963.

And where did the pointless paen to it that opened this post appear?  It graced the one and only known brochure of one of the many bike brands that came and went during the 1970s Bike Boom in North America.  I am talking about Paris Sport.

For "varinging temperature changes".

I hadn't thought much about PS in a while.  Today I saw one of their bikes locked to a lamppost when I was out riding and shopping. (I have an excuse for the latter:  I needed a couple of pairs of flat-ish shoes I can dress up or dress down. Really!)  Back in the day, I saw and repaired quite a few of them.  

I'm guessing that if you weren't living in the Northeastern US during the Bike Boom, you may not have seen a Paris Sport.  But in these parts, a number of shops sold them along other popular brands like Peugeot and Raleigh.

The Paris Sport I saw today is like about 90 percent of bikes bearing that brand one would see back when they were popular.  It was a basic French ten-speed, much like those from other Gallic makers of the time.  It had a carbon-steel lugged frame, steel cottered cranks and Weinmann center pull brakes. (Sometimes they came with Mafacs.)  And the derailleur was not atypical, although other French bikes like it were as likely to come with Simplex Prestige derailleurs.

That last fact provides us with a clue to what the writer of the brochure's copy was trying to say without saying.  Those Simplex derailleurs worked well enough when new.  And they would continue to do so as long as the plastic from which they were made didn't wear out or break.  (If you see an early 70s Peugeot UO8 with its original derailleur, it probably wasn't ridden much.)  As to whether the weather had anything to do with its longevity, I don't know.

But there was probably a reason why the writer of that copy didn't take a direct swipe at Simplex derailleurs:  Some Paris Sport models came with them.  At least, they came with the next-highest model of Simplex:  the Criterium.  It's the derailleur that came on the Peugeot PX-10.  It usually had a silver-colored main parallelogram, in contrast to the red one found on the Prestige, which came on the U08.  

Paris Sport was a "house" brand of Victor Cycles (later known as Park Cycle and Sports) in Ridgefield Park, New Jersey, just a few minutes away from the George Washington Bridge.  Owner Vic Fraysee and his son Mike, who were racers, had a hand in the development of just about every world-class road racing cyclist the US has produced since the 1960s.  They had a training facility attached to their shop, which served as a kind of community center for local cyclists.  

So, their lineup of Paris Sport bikes didn't include only the kinds of bikes Peugeot, Gitane and other French makers were offering in the United States.  It also included professional-level bikes made in France (usually from Reynolds 531 tubing) and equipped with top-of-the-line French or Campagnolo components.  The Fraysees' shop also housed a custom frame building operation which employed, at different times, Francisco Cuevas (of Spain and Argentina), Pepi Limongi (France) and Dave Moulton (England).

Apparently, bicycles were sold under the Paris Sport name until the mid-1980s or thereabouts, and the Fraysses' shop continued for some time after that.  A shop called "The Cosmic Wheel" has been operating in Park Cycle's old location for the past two decades, but aside from location, there is no connection between the two shops.   These days, Mike Fraysse owns the Burn Brae Mansion, which has served as a location for a few movies and TV episodes.

By the way:  The Paris Sport I saw today didn't have the original Huret Svelto rear derailleur.  It was converted to a single speed.