Tubeless Bike Tires

I'm thinking about switching to the latest tubeless tires on my road bike.

Yeah, I know traditional clinchers are really easy to work with, and come in all kinds of sizes, tread patterns, and price ranges. And I know that fixing a flat while out on a ride is easy, even with a cheap mini-pump. And they don't require any messy liquids to mount or seal them. And yes, I know there generally aren't compatibility issues between different brands of "normal" clincher tires and rims.

Yes, the new tubeless tires can be a pain to mount, and special "fitting fluid" is recommended. And they're hard to get seated on the rim without compressed air. And it's generally recommended that you use liquid sealant with them which makes a nasty mess if you do have to remove the tire. And yeah, there can be fit and compatibility issues between brands and types of rims, tires etc. And they're expensive. And there aren't many choices for sizes.

Tubeless tire and rim - plus special rim strip,
valve, and liquid sealant.

OK, I know the actual weight savings over regular clinchers is not even as much as a the weight of an inner tube. And I recognize that if I really want to drop weight, I could drop a lot more by switching to sew-ups. And yes, I realize that there are traditional clinchers and a lot of sew-ups that have lower rolling resistance than tubeless tires.

Now, at this point, you may be wondering why someone would switch to tubeless tires. Well, because they're NEW, of course, so they have to be better.

It's probably pretty obvious that I'm being sarcastic. But seriously. What are the benefits to tubeless tires? What is the selling point?

I've read that tubeless tires virtually eliminate "snake-bite" flats like those that can happen when running traditional clinchers at low pressure. It is probably for that reason that tubeless tires have become so popular with mountain bikers (I've seen surveys saying 50% of MTB riders use them). But they don't eliminate flats entirely. And unlike traditional clinchers, if you do get a flat out on the road, they are much tougher to fix. You'd be much better off calling someone for a ride home.

Some people claim that they're "faster." I have my doubts. Some tubeless tires might have lower rolling resistance than some traditional clinchers, but rolling resistance is greatly affected by the "suppleness" or flexibility of the tire's casing and tread -- and from what I understand, a lot of the new tubeless-specific tires are less "supple" than the best traditional tires. I know of some traditional clinchers that are awfully hard to beat when it comes to weight and rolling resistance. (For more about those, check out this article from the Bicycle Quarterly blog).

Anyhow, it really seems to me that tubeless tires and wheels are yet another thing where the reality doesn't match up to the hype. Another situation where just because something is New, it isn't necessarily Better. In fact, in reading about the new tires, I was really trying to find the benefits of switching "systems," but I couldn't find any advantage to the tubeless systems that wasn't either doubtful, or offset by serious disadvantages. Tubeless tires? Fine on my car -- but I'm in no rush to put them on my bikes.

Cycling in Alaska

With our current outside temperature hovering somewhere around 1º fahrenheit, I can't help but think back to better riding time and memorable rides. Perhaps ironically, the place that comes to mind right now is Alaska. Yes, Alaska.

This past summer, my family and I were fortunate enough to take a trip to Alaska -- one of those two-week trips that consisted of a cruise up the coast, followed by an overland trip into the state's interior. It wasn't the kind of trip where I'd expected to be able to do much (if any) bike riding, and I didn't have a bike that I would be able to bring with me on the trip. But at a couple of our stops during the trip, I found bike shops that had rental bikes and guided tours available, so I took advantage of those where I could. I was glad I did.

The first thing anyone would be struck by in Alaska is the rugged beauty of the place. Big surprise there. But the surprise for me was what a great place it is for cycling. Depending on what part of the state a person is in (it's more than twice the size of Texas, after all), there may only be a four-month long riding season. In Fairbanks, for instance, it often starts snowing by the end of September, and the snow pack doesn't start melting typically until May. Winter temperatures there frequently are well below zero. Anchorage, further south and near the Pacific, is a bit more temperate. On the southern panhandle, things can be damp, but downright mild.

This was part of a guided group ride with
maybe 7 or 8 people.

But despite the shorter riding season, Alaska has done a lot to promote bicycling. Anchorage, for instance, has a pretty extensive bike lane network, and has even cracked the top 50 in Bicycling Magazine's list of best cities for bicycling. But bike lanes and separated bike paths were all over the state. It is apparently state law there that any new road construction, or any major renovation of an existing road, must have provisions for bikes -- in some cases, it means an adjacent lane for bicyclists. In other cases, it is a separated path running near the main roadway. I was impressed. While I was in Fairbanks, I noticed a lot of the businesses had bike racks outside -- many of which were full of bikes which tells me that they have a fair number of people actually using their bikes for commuting, etc.

A bike path through Tongass National Forest, outside Juneau.

For one of my bike rides, I was in the city of Juneau, in the southern panhandle part of the state on the Gastineau Channel. Because of its proximity to the Pacific, the climate there is surprisingly mild. It does, however, rain a lot -- typically more than 200 days per year. In Juneau I was able to rent a bike and go with a small guided group out to the Mendenhall Glacier. It was a nice ride -- partly on the road, partly on some trails through the Tongass National Forest. Because of the bike trails, we were able to get to a part of the Mendenhall Glacier Lake that would be difficult to access by car -- so while most tourists were taking tour buses to the main visitor area and observation point, we on our bikes were able to get a quieter, less crowded view and access. That was without a doubt the way to go. Our ride ended at a waterside tavern in Juneau where we got to sample some Alaskan-brewed craft beers -- a nice finish.

This was a nice, quiet spot beside the Mendenhall Glacier Lake. The glacier is that sheet of craggy blue ice between the mountain and the lake. The icy cold lake is fed from that glacier and the rest of the Juneau ice fields. Big chunks of ice, "calved" from the glacier, can be seen all over the surface.

This was a scene along the trail through Tongass Nat'l Forest. Everything there was blanketed with this moss.

An icy waterfall making its way down the White Pass.

Another ride I was able to take was in a small town called Skagway where they had a pretty cool little bike shop called Sockeye Cycle Co. (Salmon fishing is a pretty big industry in that part of the state). The bike shop offered rentals and a couple of different guided tours. While in town, I had time for a guided ride down the White Pass summit. It turned out to be one of those mostly down-hill rides where they take you to the top of the mountain in a van and you ride back down the pass and back into town. On that day, the top of the mountain was enshrouded in clouds, where it was very cold and damp. Visibility was pretty limited for a while, but there was still some pretty incredible scenery.

Despite being the end of June, there was still a lot of snow and ice melting from the top of the mountain, so there were icy cold waterfalls pouring down within easy reach of the road.  With all the mist, the road had an eerie, mysterious look to it.

Even though I thought I was dressed pretty well for the weather, I wasn't quite prepared for the temperatures at the top of the mountain. For the first couple of miles I found my teeth chattering and my fingers getting numb. Luckily I was able to borrow a spare pair of warmer gloves from the tour leader. The further we made our way down the pass and out of the clouds, things warmed up to match my clothing choice.

Being that I was completely unfamiliar with the area and had only limited time for my ride, I felt like taking the guided tour was probably the best choice. On the other hand, while a mostly downhill ride is probably very enticing to some, it wasn't quite as much of a challenge as what I'm more inclined to take. Seriously, I kept finding myself wanting to turn around and ride up the pass before coming back down.

At one point I asked the ride leader if they had any group rides going up the mountain instead of just down. "Tourists never want to go UP the mountain," he said. "Well I do!" I replied. Anyhow, while the guided tour was really nice and I definitely enjoyed it, if I had it to do over again, I might have just rented a bike and asked for a map and some route suggestions. If any of my readers ever get to take a trip to Alaska, keep that in mind.

After coming down out of the clouds, I was able to get this shot across the mountains. The road we were on can be seen down below. Like I said - Rugged and beautiful.

I don't know if I'll ever get another opportunity to get back to Alaska, but I did make a big decision after my trip ended. I decided I need to get a bike that I can travel with, because it always happens when I'm traveling far from home -- I find myself wanting to explore wherever I am by bike, and renting bikes can sometimes be a hit-or-miss proposition. Rental bike fit and quality can be pretty iffy. The bikes I was able to rent in Alaska seemed to be maintained well, but the fit of one of them was just so-so -- I had to raise the seat post up to the limit, which got my saddle height in a good spot -- but then the relationship between the saddle and the bars was way off from what I'm used to. Also, a lot of places that rent bikes don't typically rent out road bikes (overwhelmingly my own preference), but more likely have rental fleets consisting of mountain bikes or so-called "hybrids."

After getting home, I looked into some travel-ready road bikes and after doing a lot of reading I made a decision and placed an order for one. I won't go into details in this post, but after it arrives, I'll definitely devote an article to the subject.

Classic Tubes: Columbus

This version of the classic Columbus tubing decal would
likely have been seen on bikes from the mid 1970s.

While I'll always have a soft spot for vintage bikes built with Reynolds tubing, it's hard to deny the appeal of a great Italian racing bike -- and for many years that almost always meant Columbus. The little white dove of Columbus tubing adorns more classic Italian racers than anything else.

The history of Columbus goes back to 1919 when Angelo Luigi Colombo (or A.L.) first set up a shop to produce steel tubing. In the 1920s Colombo's tubing was used for aircraft applications, and also, according to their own history page, frames for motorcycles. They first began making double-butted tubing for bicycles in 1930, the same year they created the "Columbus" brand name.

An early 80s decal.

Unlike Reynolds, whose famous 531 bicycle tubing was a manganese-molybenum alloy, Columbus primarily used chrome-moly steel. Their top tube sets up through the 1980s were a proprietary formulation of cold-drawn chrome-moly that they dubbed "Cyclex" but other than their particular process for working the steel, I was unable to find out exactly what makes "Cyclex" any different from any other chrome-moly (including that which was used in Columbus's own lower-priced chrome-moly tube sets).

A lot of mid - late '80s decals specify
if the tubing is SL, SP, etc., signifying
the wall thickness of the tubes.

On classic vintage steel frames, the typical high-end Columbus-tubed bike would use their chrome-moly steel which could be drawn to different wall thicknesses and specifications. The most common "classic" designations one would find would be SL or SP -- sometimes a combination selected by a builder to suit a particular rider or riding style. Those designations signify the wall thickness. For example, an SL down tube would be drawn and butted to .9/.6/.9 mm, while an SP down tube would be 1.0/.7/1.0 mm -- making it better suited to larger frames and heavier riders. Later variations included SLX and SPX which included some spiral-like reinforcements at the butted ends -- like the "rifling" in a gun barrel -- and TSX, which had the rifling through the entire length of the tube.

The wider-section of the fork blades became a Columbus
distinguishing characteristic.

Without the tubing stickers, many sharp eyed and discerning riders could still tell the difference between a bike built with Reynolds and one built with Columbus tubes. Although not entirely foolproof, and certainly not without exceptions, one could sometimes tell the difference by looking at the fork blades. Columbus fork blades would have a larger-section oval -- slightly wider than those used by Reynolds. These slightly wider-section blades became very popular and came to be known as "Italian" or "Continental Oval" blades, as opposed to the "Imperial Oval" blades that Reynolds manufactured. Over time, due to the popularity, Reynolds tubing started to make tube sets available with the "Continental Oval" fork blades.

Another difference, though harder to see unless one could get really close, was in the fork steerer, which was single-butted (thicker at the lower end) and rifled. The scan on the right, from The Custom Bicycle (Michael Kolin and Denise de la Rosa, 1979), shows a cutaway view of the fork steerer.

In 1977, Antonio Columbo, son of founder Angelo, turned Columbus Tubing into a separate entity from the A.L. Colombo company. Soon after, the new company purchased Cinelli, gaining access not only to the bicycle manufacturing, but also to Cinelli's lug business -- a perfect complement for the tubing company. Along with Cinelli bars and stems, and the historically close relationship with component giant Campagnolo, Columbus would come to dominate the Italian cycling scene, and also greatly increase market share elsewhere as well.

With the purchase by Columbus came a logo change
for Cinelli. The purchase gave the tubing company the
perfect complement in that they could now offer
builders everything they needed to build frames.

Although primarily known for their chrome-moly tubing, Columbus did make some tube sets for less expensive bikes. One of these was called "Aelle" -- the name of which was derived from the name of the company founder A.L. Colombo. This was a straight-guage (non-butted) manganese alloy. There was also a less-expensive chrome-moly dubbed "Matrix" (later changed to "Cromor" due to trademark issues). Another designation one might see on a lower-priced Columbus-tubed bike would be a "Tre Tubi" set. Seeing this meant that only the three main tubes were whatever the decal said. The stays and possibly the forks could be either from a lower-cost Columbus set, or could even be supplied by another manufacturer as a cost-saving effort.

Around 1990 or so, Columbus introduced their Nivacrom steel tubing, using vanadium and niobium as alloying agents. With names and designations like Genius, MAX, and EL, one of the things that distinguishes Nivacrom from the older chrome-moly tubing is that it is better formulated for welding. More recently, just as Reynolds did with their 953 stainless steel, Columbus has released a seamless, butted stainless steel called XCr. All of these newer tube sets boast much higher tensile strength than the chrome-moly that was used through the 1980s, and can therefore be drawn with thinner walls to save weight compared to earlier tube sets.

Scanned from a 1986 Bicycle Guide
story about Columbus.

Bicycle tubing is only one part of the Columbus story. As already mentioned, there were aircraft applications, and motorcycle frames. According to the company's history, in the 1950s Columbus tubing was also used in great Italian cars, like Lancia, Maserati, and Ferrari -- with chassis designed by Gilberto Colombo, another son of company founder, Angelo. One lesser-known part of the story is the furniture business. In the 1930s, the A.L. Colombo company made steel tubed furniture that, according to a 1986 Bicycle Guide story about Columbus, "left the art deco rage behind and embraced the Bauhaus ethos of Marcel Breuer."

1986 Dave Moulton Fuso. Moulton built only
with Reynolds when he lived in England, but
when he moved to America, he found his U.S.
customers expected Columbus on a high-end
bicycle frame.

As already mentioned, Columbus tubing dominated the Italian industry. Colnago, De Rosa, Pinarallo, Guerciotti, Ciocc, the list goes on and on of Italian brands that used it exclusively. By the late 70s - early 80s, it had taken a huge share of other markets as well, especially in the U.S. By 1980 or so, many American builders were switching from Reynolds to Columbus. Schwinn Paramounts, built with Reynolds for decades, were switched to Columbus when Schwinn moved their production to Waterford, Wisconsin. Many American custom builders did the same.

Today, steel obviously isn't nearly as popular as it had once been -- with aluminum and carbon fiber now dominating the industry. Columbus has a hand in that market too, though, offering carbon fiber frames and frame components. But steel has made a bit of a comeback recently, as evidenced by the growing list of participants in the North American Handmade Bicycle Show -- many or most of whom work in steel. But many of today's builders don't use one brand of tubing across the line, or even in a single frame, but rather will custom mix and match tubes from different makers to get a desired quality. And Japanese tubing, from manufacturers like Tange and Kaisei are today considered just as desirable as the classic brands of Reynolds and Columbus. So as often as not, there won't even be a tubing sticker on a top-quality custom frame. Time was, you could hardly find a high-quality bike without one of those little stickers. Funny how things change.

More Recommended Reading: Road to Valor

Many long-time fans of bicycle racing likely know the name of Gino Bartali, the Italian cycling legend of the 1930s and 40s. Many might be familiar with his two Tour de France victories, or his three wins in the Giro d'Italia. Some might even know of the great rivalry between Bartali and another great Italian, Fausto Coppi -- a rivalry that divided that nation's cycling fans for decades to come. But the book Road to Valor by Aili and Andres McConnon (2012 Crown Publishers) reveals that Bartali was not only a hero of cycling, but was also a hero of World War II -- particularly for his role with the Italian resistance to the Nazis and Fascists, and with the underground efforts to protect that country's Jews from the Holocaust.

Road to Valor: A True Story of World War II Italy, The Nazis, And the Cyclist Who Inspired a Nation, is a painstakingly researched and footnoted historical documentation of Bartali's previously unheralded role during the war, intertwined with the details of some of his most notable racing victories.

Although not a particularly political person, politics very much impacted Bartali's life and cycling career. The book describes how the fascist government under Mussolini took a great deal of control over the athletic governing bodies in Italy and used them for propaganda purposes. This put Bartali in a difficult position, being that his loyalties lay not with the Fascists, but with the group Catholic Action which was often at odds with the ruling party.

"Living in this world of Fascist sport, Gino began to find that the decision makers who surrounded him were increasingly driven by political motives. Athletic governing bodies, like the Italian Cycling Federation. . . were often staffed by high-ranking Fascist party members; the members of the press covering a sport answered to the regime, not to the readers or racers. A star athlete like Gino who didn't share all of the regime's ideological positions thus found himself in an unenviable position." At times, in those pre-war years, interference by politically motivated officials affected Bartali's appearances and performances in races -- and was at least a factor in denying Bartali his goal of winning both the Giro d'Italia and Tour de France in the same year.

Gino Bartali, young and dashing in 1936.

One of the things readers will take from the book is how politics, and then World War II, essentially robbed Bartali of what should have been the best years of his racing career. Having won the Tour de France in 1938, while still in his 20s, he was denied the opportunity to defend his title the following year because of increasing tensions with France and the impending war. Professional bike racing ground to a halt during the war years. By the time the war was over and races like the Giro and the Tour were able to resume, many of the great pre-war racers were either dead, or shadows of their former selves.

But those details of Bartali's career are widely known. The most impressive chapters of Road to Valor describe Bartali's actions during those "lost" years of the war. Initially inducted into the military, Bartali was able to continue riding his bicycle as a messenger for the army. After Italy's initial surrender to the Allies in 1943, much of the country was taken over by the Nazis who kept Mussolini in charge as a puppet dictator. Unlike some soldiers at the time, Bartali was apparently not pressed again into service for the puppet regime. Meanwhile, the Fascists and the Nazis stepped up their efforts to round up Italy's population of Jewish citizens, much as they had done in other conquered territories. It was during this time that Bartali was enlisted by his trusted friend and advisor, Cardinal Elia Dalla Costa, to help with the effort to shelter those now-hunted citizens from persecution.

In what came to be known as the Assisi Underground, Gino Bartali was part of a network of people working to hide Italian Jews -- either by smuggling them out of the country, or by providing them with new identity documents to conceal their Jewish identity. Pretending to be in training (for races that were long since cancelled), Bartali rode his bicycle all over Fascist-controlled territory, delivering documents and photos for new identification (typically hidden in the tubes of his bicycle), and providing intelligence on raids and safe houses for the resistance. Considering that anyone caught as part of the effort to protect the Jewish citizens could be executed immediately, or tortured, or sent to concentration camps, it was a tremendous personal risk.

Not only that, but Road to Valor also documents the story of the Goldenberg family, who were personally sheltered by Bartali in an apartment that he paid for with his pre-war race earnings. One of the sources for the book was Giacomo Goldenberg, who was a young boy during the war and who still lives today in Israel. It's a very compelling story. Though there are no exact figures on exactly how many Jewish citizens in Italy were saved by the efforts of Bartali and the Assisi Underground (there being few if any official records remaining), the numbers are estimated to be over 300. Combined with the efforts of other groups working in other parts of Italy, the numbers of those saved are thought to be 600 - 800 people who would otherwise have perished in the concentration camps.

Following the war, Italy's troubles were not over, as a new political struggle replaced the old. Who would lead the newly liberated country? Christian Democrats, aligned with the Catholic Church and the USA, were in a power struggle with the Communists. It was one of the first battlegrounds of what would become the Cold War. While the Christian Democrats eventually won control, tensions continued. And again, Road to Valor documents how Bartali played an important role.

In 1948, ten years after his first Tour de France win, Bartali was finally given his chance to defend his win. Now in his 30s, being called "Il Vecchio," or "The Old Man," in the press, Bartali's chances of victory were hardly ensured. In the first weeks of the Tour, Bartali seemed to falter. "While I felt really good, everyone was going around saying that I was a finished man: an old man who still knew how to defend himself but that it took more than that to win the Tour," he recalled.

As the race went on in France, back at home in Italy, an assassination attempt on the Communist opposition leader sparked protests and demonstrations in cities all over the country. Some believed the country was in danger of being torn apart. At the height of tensions, the recently elected Italian Prime Minister Alcide De Gasperi, a fan and acquaintance of Bartali's, called the racer at his hotel in France to ask about his chances of victory in the Tour. As Gino assured the Prime Minister, "I'm ninety percent sure I'll win tomorrow," (referring to the next day's stage), De Gasperi reportedly responded, "Try to make it happen. You know that it would be very important for all of us."

Bartali's victory lap after the '48 Tour.

Gino Bartali made good on his promise, winning a brutally cold and muddy mountain stage and taking back most of his time deficit against the race leader. In the next stage, he repeated his performance, taking the race leader's yellow jersey and holding on to it all the way to Paris. In Italy, the news of Bartali's race comeback victory, along with news of the Communist leader's improved medical condition, defused the tensions that had threatened a revolt. Some called Gino Bartali "the 'savior of the Fatherland' who singlehandedly stopped the outbreak of a civil war." Others offered a somewhat more tempered assessment. "'To say that civil war was averted by a Tour de France victory is surely excessive,' but it was 'undeniable' . . . that Gino 'contributed to ease the tensions.'"

The book ends the debate on the subject with Bartali's own humble words. "For his part, Gino steadfastly downplayed his accomplishment, saying, 'I don't know if I saved the country, but I gave it back its smile.'"

Overall, the thing that makes this book so important is the fact that it is probably the most comprehensive, most thoroughly researched account of Gino Bartali's role during the war yet written. Much of the information about Bartali's actions in the resistance during the war was not widely known by the public until the publication of Road to Valor. Bartali himself barely mentioned his role and was reluctant to talk about it -- apparently due to the fact that he didn't want his fame to overshadow the work of others whom he believed to be just as crucial to the effort. But it is an incredibly compelling story -- not just for fans of cycling, but for anyone interested in a story of real heroism.

Bartali's two Tour de France victories, separated by ten years, are an achievement still unmatched today. But as Road to Valor makes clear, the real greatness of Gino Bartali may not have anything to do with bike racing, but rather for his heroic role in saving hundreds of people from one of the 20th Century's worst atrocities.

A Rare Find: Hetchins Lugs

The entire lug set, purchased last year from Paul Hetchin.
 The set includes the main lugs, fork crown, bottom
bracket, and the decorative tangs that would be
 brazed on to the seat stays. 

I recently got an interesting submission of what I can only imagine is a pretty rare and special find. Through a Facebook group called The Bicycle Cafe, I've gotten to know a fellow Retrogrouch, Paul Fuller, who does some of his own frame building. Paul sent me some photos of these lugs that he purchased from Paul Hetchin, which had previously belonged to his father, Alf Hetchin -- of the very well known Hetchins brand of bicycles.

A scan of the 1987 Hetchins catalog. From Historic Hetchins.

Many people are familiar with the famous Hetchins bicycles -- notable for their extravagently cut lugs and, in some models, "curly" stays. The most famous model, the one with the most ornate lugwork, is the Magum Opus.

There is lots of information about the Hetchins brand out there, but probably one of the best, most comprehensive sources, is Historic Hetchins. The brand goes back to the early 30s, having been founded by Hyman "Harry" Hetchin, and later run by his son Alf until the mid 1980s when the company was sold and combined with Bob Jackson Cycles.

The lugs shown above and below date to the mid-1980s, about the time that J.R.J. Cycles (better known as Bob Jackson) was taking over the Hetchins frame building operations. Alf Hetchin and his main frame-builder Jack Denny stayed on for a few years to supervise production. Alf Hetchin died in 1995, and his son Paul isn't really connected with the bicycle business that bears his family name. Today, the Hetchins company is run by David Miller (current company site), with Paul Riley as his frame builder. According to Historic Hetchins, they make about 12 bespoke frames per year.

Here is what Paul Fuller says of the lugs he acquired. "The set is unique, unused, and I think has some historical interest. I feel protective of them." Paul goes on to describe them as Magnum Opus Deluxe Phase III lugs -- likely prototypes, having a slightly different design than what was used in production. The lugs were "placed in a box, put into a storage room, and forgotten." Alf's son Paul sold these lugs to Fuller about a year ago, "still in the box they were in."

The exceptionally ornate seat lug.

Lower head-tube lug.

Upper head tube lug.

Very beautiful bottom bracket shell.

Lower head lug and twin-plate fork crown.

Paul has the complete set of lugs shown, as well as a full set of classic Reynolds 531 tubes -- but is not certain if he should build with the lugs. I can understand that indecision. Does one take these very precious, unique lugs -- particularly given the rarity of such a find -- and considering the lugs are so clearly associated with a great and historic bicycle brand -- and use them to build a bicycle that, while very special, would NOT be a Hetchins? A less scrupulous person might use them to make a counterfeit Hetchins (there are lots of them out there!) but I know Paul has no intention of doing that. But it does pose an almost ethical dilemma!

On the other hand, the intent of making lugs is to build bicycles -- and building a special bike that respects the history and tradition of the Hetchins name -- while not actually being a Hetchins -- would still be pretty incredible. It's a tough decision. And I can see why Paul Fuller feels "protective" of the lugs he has acquired.

To wrap it up, Fuller says, "Paul Hetchin told me that his father was a humble man who did what he loved, and would be honored to know people still regard vintage Hetchins as top of the line frames." Whatever he decides to do with these, I think Paul has been entrusted with something really special here. Thanks, Paul, for sharing with The Retrogrouch Blog!

A Fork Crown Collection: Peter Weigle

People are going to think I have a fork crown fetish by the time I'm done with this thread. I really don't! But when you get a contribution like the one I got recently, you run with it. American frame building master, Peter Weigle, shared a collection of his fork crowns with me, and now I need to share them with readers of The Retrogrouch Blog.

Unless you only discovered bicycles yesterday, you know that the New England-based builder has one of the best reputations for craftsmanship and artistry in the bicycle business. Weigle's experience goes back to the early 70s when he was hired by Witcomb USA cycles, which was an American operation of the British Witcomb brand. People familiar with that history know that this was where other frame-building legends Richard Sachs and Chris Chance also got their start. Weigle was trained at Witcomb's British factory, then built frames for their Connecticut factory until they closed up shop in '77. After that, he set up his own shop, still there in Lyme, Connecticut.

Over the years, Peter Weigle has evolved from building primarily racing and sporting bikes, some mountain bikes in the early 80s, and touring bikes. His emphasis in the last few years has been on randonneuring bikes -- inspired by the great French constructeurs of the golden age. Peter told me that the randonneur style has given him a lot of inspiration -- trying to take what's classic and beautiful, but to use modern materials and do something original and unique.

Take a look at a sampling of some really gorgeous work:

These crowns took their inspiration from the Daniel Rebour drawing shown above. They started life as Pacenti Artisan crowns. The Aritisan crowns (seen HERE) are a favorite choice for a lot of builders because they have a lot of metal to work with, which means lots of possibilities for a frame builder to express a personal style.

Here is one of the Rebour-inspired crowns brazed up and painted. Another interesting detail to note is the ring of six tiny lightening holes drilled around the brake bolt hole, harkening back to the "drillium" trend of the 60s and 70s. No functional purpose that I can think of, and would be completely hidden when the brake is mounted, but a little creative "surprise." 

This crown started life as a Grand Bois casting -- split apart and dramatically re-shaped, to be turned into a twin-plate style. According to Peter, this was the result of a challenge: The answer to a simple question, "Can you do this?"

Here is the above Grand Bois twin-plate crown, built up and painted a gorgeous blue. Note the box pinstriping on the frame. That head lug is awfully beautiful, too. I'd call it elegant.

This is an interesting fully-sloping interpretation of a Jo Routens-inspired crown. Peter says this fork was part of a conversion project -- replacing the fork on an older Merlin mountain bike that was being turned into more of a randonneur-styled gravel bike. The idea here was to take up some extra clearance and provide proper fender lines. This started out as a Cinelli-style Davis crown. Peter slid the steerer through the crown, then fabricated the lower plate that would also incorporate a fender mount. 

Here is the fully-sloping Routens crown, all finished up. With paint, you can see how the shoulders of the Davis crown stand just slightly proud of the fork blades, giving a hint of a shadow line. Note the front rack with a flashlight mounted -- vintage randonneur style. Look closely, and you can see how the Berthoud stainless steel fender mounts cleanly underneath the crown as well. According to Peter, the finished bike looks more randonneur than ex-mountain bike.

This was inspired by a fork crown built by Jamie Swan, (see it HERE) which in turn was inspired by Jo Routens. Peter says it started out as an "ugly, heavy-looking Asian casting" -- Much material was cut away. The holes around the the top lighten the crown and add a decorative touch (which again, would be totally hidden when the fork is installed -- Surprise!). Those were drilled on a Linley jig boring machine.

Here is the above crown, brazed up and ready for paint. Because there is so little metal left of the crown casting for attaching the fork blades, Peter used brass which tends to be a bit stronger than silver to join it together. Without paint, you can see that the brazing is super clean.

Finished -- in a shocking pink! Peter used the fork shown above all season on his own bike and rode it hard, including the "rough and tumble D2R2 event." (Deerfield Dirt Road Randonee) Reynolds 531 fork blades -- a classic choice.

Here is a modified Pacenti Paris-Brest crown; an investment cast crown that is inspired by vintage twin-plate designs. Peter has removed some of the metal around the brake hole, lightening up the look a bit, while extending the points that shoot downward from the shoulders. The hooks on the sides were also re-contoured a bit to better flow into the lengthened point.

Here is a look at the finished crown from above. In addition to the modifications already pointed out, you can see here that a decorative slot was added just above the point on the shoulders. There's also a beautiful hand-made rack that mounts to the cantilever brake bosses.

A side view of the crown above lets you see how much that side point has been thinned and extended to almost needle-like proportions.

This started out as a Grand Bois crown with Imperial Oval blades, milled out with a slot to give it some of that twin-plate style. Peter also re-worked some of the details on the sides, making the point into more of a needle, somewhat like the twin-plate fork above. Peter describes this as "a conservative treatment" that "compliments a nice pair of lugs, without stealing the show."

This was one of the earlier versions of the Pacenti Artisan crown. Some material was added to the sides, then the asymmetrical points were cut into it to complete a theme that is carried through the lugs and even through the paintwork on the frame. Note also the attachment points for the rack on the tops of the shoulders of the crown. A showstopper.

This crown started out as a later-generation Artisan crown, with the curved hooks on the sides opened up a little and the center point lengthened and thinned. Rendered in polished stainless steel, it's a clean, slightly conservative, but rich look. The brake mounts are for center pull brakes (hmm. . . vintage Mafacs, or modern Pauls?) and also provide a mounting point for the small front rack.

Here's one from the early days (above and below). This is a really interesting version of a fully sloping crown from a '79 Weigle frame. The look was inspired by the work of another frame-building legend, Albert Eisentraut. According to Peter, a few of the custom builders of the time, including Brian Baylis, saw Eisentraut's version and felt it was something they had to try. Peter says of the fork, "Very distinctive, and cutting edge for the time, this treatment took a lot of time and grunt work to complete, but it was cool. I built quite a few forks for my racing bikes using this 'Traut influenced design."

I saw an early J.P. Weigle frame on eBay a few years back that had this same fork crown treatment. It was close enough to my size, and the price wasn't too bad, that I'm still kicking myself to this day for not buying it.

Lastly, some "work in progress": January 1, 2014. A couple of re-worked Paris Brest twin plates, and a modified Grand Bois.

As much as I've shown here in this post, there is a lot more to see. After all, the man has been building beautiful bikes under his own name for over 35 years (and just over 40 years overall). The photos above, and many (many!) more, can be seen on Peter's Flickr pages. Let me give a big Thank You to Peter for taking the time to share these and describe them for me and for the readers of The Retrogrouch.

Retrogrouch Recommended Reading

What could an Olympic champion speed skater, a part-time construction contractor, and a diabetes-inducing 32-oz soft drink have to do with bicycling? Those elements are the beginnings of the 7-Eleven team story, as told in great and engaging detail in the book, Team 7-Eleven: How An Unsung Band of American Cyclists Took on the World - And Won, by Geoff Drake with Jim Ochowicz (2012, Velopress).

With winter weather making it difficult to get out for a bike ride, I've instead been enjoying my time with some some bike-related reading. The Team 7-Eleven book is one I recommend. For anyone under the impression that American bicycle racing started with Lance Armstrong (or for anyone under the age of 30) Team 7-Eleven gives a memorable picture of what bike racing looked like from an American perspective in those years long before Armstrong, before EPO, and before bike racing could even be seen on American television -- in other words, when many Americans barely knew such a sport existed. And for those of us who remember those days, the book is an enjoyable reminiscence of the beginnings of the American presence in European professional bike racing.

Here is an excerpt:

"In 1980, there were exactly four professional bike racers in America. This was not surprising, given that there were no professional events for them to compete in.

"Professional cyclists in Europe came up through a series of amateur teams, eventually earning a coveted spot on a prestigious international squad like Renault-Gitane or TI-Raleigh. But to become a pro in America, you didn't need a team. In fact, you didn't even need a bike. You only needed to fill out a one-page form. Nowhere on the form were you required to state your qualifications, race wins, or years of experience. . . For a fee of $35 and the cost of a stamp, you could become a pro cyclist.

"This document would state, in essence, that you were eligible to compete in the Tour de France. That is, if you could find a team willing to have you."

I was teen-aged kid, just getting into bikes when the 7-Eleven team was starting out in 1980, so for me there was a good bit of nostalgia reading about and remembering events such as the Coors Classic stage races, the '84 Olympics in Los Angeles, the first American team to race the Tour de France -- the same year that Greg LeMond became the first American to win that race. With so much input from team founder and director, Jim Ochowicz as well as many members of the 7-Eleven team, the book gives readers a behind-the-scenes look at events we were just barely able to follow in the scanty press that was afforded to the sport at the time those events were playing out.

The book starts before the beginning -- focusing at first on two of the people who made the 7-Eleven team a reality: Ochowicz, who was splitting his time in Milwaukee between speed skating, bicycle racing, and construction work; and Eric Heiden, winner of 5 gold medals for speed skating in the 1980 Lake Placid Olympics -- who wanted to put down his skates to focus on bicycle racing. Ochowicz and Heiden were both part of what the book calls the "Bike and Blade" culture of the midwest -- a culture that would form much of the basis of what would soon become the 7-Eleven team.

With that desire to form a bike racing team, Ochowicz had his first rider -- one who already had the fame to give the dream some credibility, and one whose coat-tails he could build a team around. Next he needed a sponsor. Enter Southland Corporation -- parent company of the 7-Eleven convenience store chain, famous for its 32 oz (later 64 oz!) "Big Gulp" sodas and frozen Slurpees.

In 1980, Southland had just expressed a desire to get involved as a sponsor for the '84 Olympics. The book describes a funny anecdote where Peter Ueberroth, manager of the LA Olympics, suggested to Southland Chairman John Thompson that they put up the money for the Olympic Velodrome. "To a large degree, the history of U.S. cycling hinged on the response to this question. But John Thompson, who didn't know a track bike from a tea kettle, didn't hesitate a second. He said yes." When Thompson reported back to his brother Jere, the company president, what he had just committed to, his brother's only question was, "What's a velodrome?"

Sensing that the time was right, Ochowicz approached the Thompson brothers with the idea of sponsoring a Pro-Am bicycle team. They agreed, and for the next ten years, they would give the 7-Eleven team an unprecedented amount of support -- tremendously bolstering American cycling at the same time. Not only was there the men's road racing team, but there was also a track racing team and a women's team.

One thing I come away with after reading the story is just how unlikely it all was. The Thompson brothers, like most of the customers in their convenience store chain, knew nothing about bicycle racing -- yet they supported Ochowicz and the 7-Eleven team every step of the way -- even as they made the leap into Europe.

Team 7-Eleven is full of information and anecdotes about the team's early years and early stars -- people like Davis Phinney, Ron Kiefel, Jeff Pierce, and Jeff Bradley. The book describes those first few years when the team focused on the American criterium circuit and was a dominating force. Then there is the preparation for the '84 Olympics, where the U.S. won nine medals in six events. Six 7-Eleven team members (including women's team member Rebecca Twigg) were among the medalists.

My favorite parts of the book are the chapters about the move to European racing, where the team really shook up the European sensibilities. Rather than adapt to the new culture, they brought their own with them. They played loud music. They had a female soigneur. They ate Mexican food and McDonalds -- in Italy and France! There was no mistaking that the Americans had arrived. Readers will come away with the impression that the 7-Elevens were in some ways unprepared for the shift and the hardships of European racing, which was so very different from American-style racing. Suddenly, instead of being the "big fish" and dominant force -- they were just a small team, a bit naive, with a lot of room to grow. But somehow through dumb luck and perseverance they managed to gain respect.

In those first seasons of European racing, the team had some amazing successes, and probably as many miserable setbacks. In their first Giro d'Italia, in 1985, they had stage victories by Ron Kiefel and Andy Hampsten (on loan that season from the U.S. based Levi's/Raleigh team), while Eric Heiden won the InterGiro sprint competition. But they also were involved in many crashes (and took the blame for most of them).

For many readers, the story of the first U.S. team in the Tour de France will resonate. I remember trying (with great difficulty!) to follow the race in 1986, so the behind-the-scenes look and first-hand accounts are enjoyable to read. The 7-Eleven's first Tour de France was a great example of highest highs and lowest lows. Probably setting some kind of record, the team started their tour by going from first to worst in a single day. A rare 2-stage day saw 7-Eleven's Alex Steida, from Canada, sweeping all the race's jerseys in the morning, then losing them all and finding himself in danger of being completely eliminated during a miserable team time trial in the afternoon. Davis Phinney got an impressive stage win, then crashed out a few days later. By the end of the race, half the team had either crashed out or gotten violently ill and had to withdraw. But the team had made history -- along with Greg LeMond who, as part of the French powerhouse team La Vie Claire, became the first (and officially the only) American to win the Tour.

Another highlight of the book is the story of Andy Hampsten's heroic win in the 1988 Giro d'Italia. Hampsten essentially sealed his victory in a freakish snowstorm over the Gavia pass, and became the first and only American to win the Giro. The book's account left me with the impression that it was amazing nobody died in the stage -- but also is a testament to how far the team had come.

The book's final chapters describe how Southland eventually had to end their sponsorship after 10 years and how Team 7-Eleven became Team Motorola in 1990. But those ten years did so much for American cycling.

Even before Lance Armstrong's very public downfall, doping cast a shadow over professional bike racing -- making it hard for me to fully enjoy the sport nowadays. While I watched with excitement the impressive victories of Bradley Wiggins in 2012, and Chris Froome in 2013 -- I still have to wonder when the other shoe will drop. While some want to claim the sport is "clean" now, I just don't know. But I also feel bad for someone like Froome, who appeared so dominant in his win -- but had to answer questions and skepticism every step of the way. Given that shadow over the sport, it was refreshing to read Team 7-Eleven and revel in stories of racing in what can only be described as a simpler, more innocent era.