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.

Reynolds 531: Classic Tubes

Look at great bikes from the classic era, and one thing you'll find on many of them is a little sticker announcing the manufacturer of the tubing used in the frame. And for a long time, more often than not, chances are that little sticker said "Guaranteed Built With Reynolds 531."

The history of Reynolds Tubing goes back almost to the beginning of the "safety bicycle." Alfred M. Reynolds invented the process for butted tubing in 1887 and went on to found the Patented Butted Tube Company -- later renamed Reynolds Tube Co. Ltd. Over the decades, the Reynolds name became virtually synonymous with quality bicycles.

The technical process of butting tubing is more than I want to get into in this article and can be found elsewhere pretty easily for those who are interested, but it essentially boils down to making tubing with a varied wall thickness -- where the tubing is thicker at the ends where more strength is needed, but thinner in the middle section to reduce weight. Many riders believe that butting also improves ride quality, resulting in a more "lively" ride, though that's a little harder to quantify.

Earlier versions of Reynolds tubing were called HM, for "High Manganese," but in 1935 the company introduced "531" which, after butting, was regarded as a major breakthrough in strong, lightweight bicycle tubing. Butted 531 was considered revolutionary and quickly became the tubing of choice for most builders. The 531 name is a reference to the metallurgical components of the tubing - five parts manganese, three parts carbon, one part molybdenum. In general terms, it can be referred to as "manganese-molybdenum" or "manganese-moly" but should not be referred to as "chrome-moly." Some of the legends associated with Reynolds 531 are that it was used in the chassis on Jaguar XKEs, as well as chalking up 27 Tour de France victories.

Interesting note: According to Reynolds, the "proper" way to refer to the tubing is to call it "Five-Three-One" -- not "Five Thirty One" or "Five Hundred Thirty One." (The Custom Bicycle, Kolin and de la Rosa, 1979) Now you know.

According to Classic Rendezvous,
Schwinn felt the wording on
the 531 label was misleading
 (only the main tubes are
 "butted," the stays and fork
blades are "tapered") so this
version of the 531 label
was used on Paramounts

Proponents of 531 claim that its real benefit is that it maintains more of its strength after heating, thereby building a stronger frame. Some people describe it as "forgiving," and so in the huge factories that were cranking out large numbers of bikes -- like Raleigh, Peugeot, and others -- the frames were still strong even if the attention to detail and care against overheating the tubing were lacking. In the hands of a skilled builder, there should be no question about frame integrity.

There were many variations in tube sets available in 531 -- such as DB, SL, Competition, Professional, ST, and more (and some of the names/designations changed over the years, so forgive me for not getting more specific!) -- all with different specifications or wall thicknesses to cater to particular applications -- whether general racing, time-trialling, touring, or even for tandems.

Reynolds was such a presence in France that
special French-language decals were made.

Without a doubt, Reynolds dominated the British frame building market. It would be difficult to find a British builder who used anything else (For those still building today, that is still true). In fact, for a long time, one could expand that Reynolds dominance out to most of the English-speaking world. Chicago-built Schwinn Paramounts, for example, used Reynolds exclusively. Reynolds also had a huge presence in France, despite the fact that there were several French producers of high quality bicycle tubing. Many French bicycle companies like Peugeot, Gitane, Motobecane, and others used Reynolds in their top models, and many of the great French constructeurs used it as well. While Italian builders generally preferred Columbus tubing, there were some -- Masi, Pogliaghi, Legnano, Frejus, and even some earlier Cinellis -- that used 531.

Another big development in Reynolds history was the introduction of 753 in 1975. This was a special heat-treated version of 531, which yielded much higher strength and allowed remarkably thinner-walled tubing -- only .3 mm in the center section! The claims by Reynolds were that it could save as much as 1 to 1-1/2 pounds over 531 (depending on the version). But to preserve the tubing's strength during frame building, it had to be constructed only with low-temperature silver brazing, and the necessary tolerances were so close that a builder had to be specially certified by Reynolds in order to use it. Not only that, but the tubing was so stiff that it could not be cold set after brazing -- which meant that the frame's alignment had to be perfect from the start. The certification process involved building a sample frame and sending it to Reynolds for destructive testing. Apparently, about one-half of those applicants seeking certification were denied (VeloNews 1983).

The dominance of Reynolds tubing started to fade some time in the 1970s. While most British builders continued to use Reynolds, Columbus tubing from Italy made huge market gains by the end of the decade, especially on racing bikes, and especially in the U.S. There is no one definitive answer for how or why that happened, but there are a few possibilities -- some of which were provided to me by members of the Classic Rendezvous group. Funny thing, I was told by more than one CR list member that asking about Columbus vs. Reynolds was opening a can of worms. That certainly was not my intent. Of course, there will be people who take sides and try to argue one is better than the other -- but I'm not interested in those kinds of comparisons. I simply wanted to figure out what led to the shift, and it seems there's no simple answer.

A big part of it was probably due to perceptions and fashions. Italy really dominated trends in racing bikes, and most of the Italian bikes coming into the U.S. were built with Columbus. Buyers in the US, seeing all those gorgeous Colnagos, De Rosas, Pinarellos, Guerciottis and more -- all with that little white Columbus dove decal on the seat tube -- couldn't help but associate the brand with great racing bikes. Racing legends like Eddy Merckx were riding on Columbus-tubed bikes, and that certainly helped the image too. The Columbo family eventually purchased Cinelli (no more Reynolds-framed Cinellis! -- although Cinellis were being being built with Columbus by that time anyhow) which meant that they also had the whole Cinelli lug business and a close relationship with Campagnolo -- and those factors may have played a role, too.

But as evidence of the change, note that when Schwinn moved Paramount frame production from Chicago to Waterford, Wisconsin, they also switched from Reynolds to Columbus. That was probably a big blow to Reynolds. Another builder I'll mention is Dave Moulton, who built almost exclusively with Reynolds when he was living and working in England. But when he moved his frame building operation to the U.S. at the start of the 80s, he switched to Columbus -- not because he felt it was better, but because it was what his buyers expected/demanded in a high-end bicycle frame.

So moving on, what happened? Where does the story go from there? The heat-treated 753, as great as it was, never gained huge success, being so exclusive and difficult to work with. And 531 suffered from one "flaw" that kept it from continuing its success in the current bicycle marketplace: It really is not recommended for welding -- and that is how most frames are built today.

There are several developments from Reynolds to answer the weldability issue. There are newer "air-hardening" formulations that stand up to welding -- like 631 which Reynolds claims is the direct descendent of 531, and heat-treated 853, which is supposed to have the benefits of 753, with even more strength, and without the need for special frame-builders' certification. There are also the 525 chrome-moly and its heat-treated cousin 725 -- which are claimed by Reynolds to have a lot of the characteristics of 531 and 753, but again can be welded. The newest additions to the family are 953 and 931 stainless steel tube sets that have tensile strength well in excess of 753. It blows titanium away.

One final note in the Reynolds history is that it has gone through some major ownership changes in recent decades. By the 1970s, Reynolds (by this time, called TI Reynolds) owned Raleigh and most of the British cycle industry, including Sturmey-Archer and Brooks Saddles. In 1996, the company was taken over by Boulder, Colorado-based Coyote Sports. Coyote then filed for bankruptcy in 1999, most of the companies were sold off to investors, and in the following year a group of Reynolds managers purchased the tubing company from within, returning its base to England. The company is currently called Reynolds Technology Ltd. and has interests in a number of sectors outside of the bicycle industry, including motorsports and even oil drilling. In 2008, a special limited edition of classic 531 bicycle frame tubing was released. As I understand it, it is all gone now.

Despite all the developments and changes in bicycle tubing, there are a lot of people who still cherish the classic Reynolds 531. I still have a soft spot for it myself, and have several bikes that were built with it. For Retrogrouches like me, that little "Guaranteed Built With Reynolds 531" sticker just defines an era.

Christmas Bike Rides

It was Christmas day and the temperature must have been up around a spring-like 50 degrees or so. It was unseasonable for late December in NE Ohio. There was snow on the ground from the previous few days, but it was now melting and the roads were clear. A perfect day for a bike ride.

I was riding along a scenic backroad through an old part of Ohio's Western Reserve that looks surprisingly reminiscent of New England -- like something out of a Currier & Ives print. Icicles were melting off the roofs of the old century homes, with Christmas wreaths on their front doors and bows decorating the fenceposts.

As I was taking in the scenery and enjoying the surprise opportunity to get out on my bike, I noticed the glint of something on the side of the road: a package, neatly wrapped in foil, decorated with a big bow. I stopped and picked up the package, carefully peeled back the wrapping, and discovered something that still gives me a chuckle some 28 years later: A home-made fruitcake.

I immediately had an image in my mind of these people driving home after the big family party on Christmas Eve with all the relatives -- the one where Aunt Martha (or whoever it is) spends the whole week before Christmas making her "famous" fruitcake for everyone in the family because they all love it so much, but in reality they all dread it. And so I picture these people driving home with this fruitcake that nobody wants, looking at this foil-wrapped package thinking "not another one!" so they just chuck it out the window somewhere along the roadside.

How could anyone throw that away? Ok, never mind.

I have a bit of a Christmas tradition of going for bike rides. My Christmas bike ride tradition started that day I found the fruitcake -- during one of my winter breaks when I was home visiting from college in the 1980s. The weather doesn't always permit it, but I manage it more often than people might expect, especially considering that NE Ohio has a winter climate hardly conducive to biking.

We'll frequently get snow in December. But almost as often as not, we'll get a warming trend right around Christmas. In fact, this year, we had a good covering of snow for the past two weeks. Then all of a sudden, temperatures started climbing, and yesterday it hit 60 degrees. I went for a nice spring-like ride on Dec. 22nd -- not quite Christmas, but pretty close. This morning, temperatures started falling again, with rain and snow in the forecast, so I don't know if I'll get to go for my Christmas ride this year or not -- that 60 degrees yesterday might have been it for the year. We'll see.

I could be wrong, but it seems to me that winter used to be different. It may just be a fault in my childhood memories, but I could swear that it used to start snowing some time in November and didn't stop until March. I have no memories of Christmases in my childhood that weren't "white." Nowadays, it's about as likely to be 40 - 50 degrees on Christmas as it is to be snowy. (Don't worry -- this is not a post on global warming.) Memory is a funny and not always reliable thing.

Anyhow, I really enjoy my Christmas bike rides when I get to take them. It's as good of a tradition for the season as any, I suppose. By the way, I've found lots of things on the roads while riding over the years (including money!), but none that stick in my memory like that Christmas fruitcake.

Enjoy the holidays, everyone. Go for a bike ride if you can. And look out for fruitcake.

Bicycles: Public Enemy?

I've been seeing this article from the Boston Globe posted and re-posted a lot in the past week:

From the Boston Globe, Dec. 15

Reading the article merely provides some context and support for something I've been noticing (or at least suspecting) for a while now. It shouldn't really come as a surprise, but the article was, for me, just an affirmation that I wasn't suffering from paranoia. It's worth reading.

So how does something as simple and innocuous as a bicycle -- or the act of riding one -- constitute a political statement or become an object of the "Red-State/Blue-State" culture wars? I'm trying to keep this from getting overly political. Obviously, there is nothing inherently "Liberal" or "Conservative" in a bicycle or bicycling. If anything, bicycles should be seen as conservative, if one considers that the root of that word is "conserve." Not only that, but their nod to self-sufficiency and individualism should appeal to conservatives. But in what I see as a modern-day corruption of true conservative ideology, anything that challenges the dominance of big oil and gas -- or anything that puts conservation over mass consumption -- is a threat to the status quo, and must therefore be marginalized. It must become a target. 

Enter the bicycle.

Bicycles are the most efficient form of transportation there is. Zero emissions. Zero fuel. No batteries necessary, either. They're pretty inexpensive, too. Of course, there are bikes that cost as much as cars, but really, a perfectly useable, functional, and reliable bicycle can be purchased for under $1000. Much less if it's used. In an economy that is focused almost entirely on an auto industry (most other manufacturing having long been lost to foreign markets), there is just not enough money to be made on bicycles for them to replace cars (not that anyone's trying to do that, at least not completely) and to satisfy this modern version of conservatism. 

Illustration from the Boston Globe article.
Before he became famous outside of his home
city for his crack-smoking antics, Toronto Mayor
Rob Ford made a name for himself as one of
the most anti-bicycle politicians in North America.

Consider the huge amount of subsidies given to the oil and gas industries, and to the auto industry. Many of these subsidies are indirect, but still benefit those industries. Think of all the tax dollars that go into the infrastructure and maintenance needed for our addiction to motor transport. Think of all the money generated by fuel taxes and sales taxes on new cars. Don't forget all the government contracts for that construction and maintenance. And then there's all the "free parking" on the streets and in front of shopping centers -- which isn't really free -- we all pay for it in one way or another, at least indirectly if not directly. There's a lot of money at stake in our addiction.

Then there's the sense of entitlement of motorists. Cars have been in complete dominance of all infrastructure planning in the US for decades -- all road-building projects since WWII have focused on making things easier for cars and drivers. More lanes for more cars. More parking. Suburban sprawl. All of it has given motorists the sense that the roads belong to them. Any effort that acknowledges non-motorized traffic in road or other infrastructure projects -- whether it be for bicycles or pedestrians -- is seen as a threat to that dominance and must be attacked.

In recent years, more cities are looking at their traffic-choked streets; the bumper-to-bumper cars (many of which contain only one occupant); the huge amounts of tax money needed for construction and maintenance of car-centered infrastructure. Bicycles are starting to be seen as a viable alternative -- one whose use should be encouraged. But any talk of bicycle lanes is immediately seen by drivers as an attack. Taking "OUR" lanes away from us. Bike share programs, which are spreading to more urban areas, are another "encroachment." The response of some political groups is to ridicule these programs on one hand, while simultaneously trying to block them from happening on the other.

That brings up another point -- rural and suburban vs. urban. Using bicycles as transportation (not just for pleasure) or as "tools" not just "toys" is something more likely to be gaining momentum in urban areas. But many politicians and pundits try to marginalize the urban mindset as somehow un-American. Look how many politicos refer to red-state attitudes and values as "Real America." So politicians, almost totally on the "right" side of the spectrum, have decided to capitalize on these ideas and the frustrations of motorists -- making bicycling out to be the problem, not the solution. Or something "liberal," even bordering on "socialist." They want to make bicyclists into some kind of scapegoat for our traffic-choked streets. 

Thing is, I'm not exactly certain when and how "conservation" got separated from "conservatism." I have my guesses or suspicions, though. Keep in mind -- this really isn't about Republicans vs. Democrats. It's something different. Remember that no less a Republican than Teddy Roosevelt, who never saw an animal (endangered or otherwise) that he wouldn't take it upon himself to shoot, was instrumental in creating our national parks system. In my home state of Ohio, it was a bi-partisan effort that created the Cuyahoga Valley National Park, which is today a bicycling Mecca. Every single U.S. president since (and including) Richard Nixon has implored us for the need to reduce our dependence on foreign oil. Yet in today's political climate, any actual efforts to do that get ridiculed and opposed.

At the risk of stepping on some readers' toes, I think it goes back to to Reagan, who, in one of his first acts as president, removed the solar panels from the White House roof, then ridiculed the Carter-esque suggestion to lower our thermostats as un-American. He then fought to weaken the auto-industry CAFE (fuel economy) federal regulations. He was as concerned as any Democrat about oil dependence, but apparently didn't see the irony -- the disconnect between his words and his policies. Nevertheless, Reagan enjoyed riding his bicycle.

But there's been a movement in more recent years that takes those anti conservation ideas and goes to the extreme. There's a growing faction that seems to think we're somehow going to drill and frack our way to complete energy independence, and we don't need to do anything at all to reduce our use of fossil fuels. Then again, reducing consumption saves money for the consumers -- it doesn't generate money for the producers. It's ridiculous and short sighted, not to mention illogical.

Honestly -- I don't know where I'm going with this, or how to wrap up this post. And I'm trying hard not to make it a purely political rant. It seems a shame that there are people out there so willing to ignore what we know to be true -- that bicycles, and bicycle riding for our transportation needs, are the answers to so many problems -- and that these same people will do whatever they can to protect the car-dominated status quo. In the end, probably the best way to combat this is to keep on riding our bikes.

Another Bike Shop Memory

There are some old bike shops that really live on in my memories, long after they've closed up. Shops that could trace their way back to the classic era, when the best frames were steel and lugged. Shops where the old stuff never really disappeared, it just got buried and maybe forgotten -- like treasure just waiting to be re-discovered like some relics in an archaeological dig site.

Not actually Marvin's shop -- but there is a resemblance.

Marvin's shop was like that. The shop wasn't called "Marvin's" but that's how I always knew it. He actually ran a couple different shops in different locations and with different names over the years (although they were all roughly within walking distance of Marvin's home), but they were essentially all the same little shop. It just moved around and changed names a few times, that's all. It was once called "PeeWee's Bikes" and it was once known (almost ironically) as "Hi-Tech Bikes," and there was another name in-between those two that I simply can't remember, but it was easier to just call it "Marvin's shop." He was the one constant -- albeit a quirky, eccentric constant.

At Marvin's, the term "Business Hours" didn't mean much.

One thing I remember about Marvin's shop was that it was hard to find it open. Marvin kept odd hours. He had regular "business hours" posted on the door -- on one of those little signs with a clock face on it -- but the little sign didn't actually mean anything. The posted hours weren't even "approximations." He'd go into the shop for a couple of hours. Putter around a bit with some old bikes. Walk home and have lunch. Maybe a few hours later he'd go back in and open up for another hour or two. Maybe not. Finding the shop open was definitely a hit-or-miss proposition.

If you were lucky enough to find Marvin's shop open, you really did feel like you were on an archaeological expedition. Almost everything in the shop was from an earlier time -- left-over, old stock -- mostly from the 70s and the bike-boom. Even though a lot of stuff was actually new, it was often shopworn; original packaging lost; tossed into boxes without much organization. New parts and used ones were sometimes jumbled together in the same old cardboard boxes. Bikes and boxes of parts were everywhere. You really had to dig to find things. Bikes were sometimes so closely entwined that it was hard to extricate one from another. Needless to say, things in Marvin's shop were rarely pristine, but many of them were treasures nonetheless.

There were a lot of classic old bikes in Marvin's shop. Lots of them with Reynolds tubing, or sometimes Columbus. Some with Campagnolo parts, others with cool old French bits. I remember a gorgeous early-80s Colnago hanging from the ceiling. It had been built with Campagnolo's 50th anniversary group. There were some cool old French bikes, some Italian, some small-shop British frames, too. In the boxes of parts, you could find some pretty nice old things -- if you didn't mind digging. But that was part of the appeal; the sense that maybe you could unearth something really rare and beautiful.

Another thing I remember about the shop was that it was very hard to actually buy anything. Nothing had a price. If Marvin had a price in mind, he wouldn't simply tell you. I don't know if he just hated to part with anything, or if he was concerned that some of the stuff had somehow increased so much in value (despite the shopworn condition) that he didn't wan't to let it go too cheaply. I'm inclined to think it was the former. He'd grown too attached to things and couldn't let them go -- probably not a good habit if you're supposedly making a living in sales. But if you wanted something, you'd ask Marvin, "How much for . . ." and the response would be, "Hmm, ahh, how much do you think it's worth?" It could get maddening.

You could tell the guy really knew his stuff, though, and he really loved bikes and components. Often when I was there in the shop, Marvin would quiz me -- test me on one thing or another, as if trying to figure out if I would provide his cherished items with a properly good home. I remember once I was looking for an old 2-bolt Campagnolo seat post for a '71 Raleigh International -- either Nuovo Record or Gran Sport (I didn't care which -- they were pretty hard to tell apart). Marvin questioned me about who built the frame and where it was built. I answered that the International was not actually built by Raleigh, but by Carlton (which had been purchased by Raleigh around 1960) in Worksop, England. Correct answer -- I had "passed" the test. Marvin sold me a seatpost.

It must have been about 10 years ago, at least, Marvin's health was not too good, and at one point I had heard that both he and his wife were battling illnesses. The little shop was open less and less often. Eventually he sold the shop to someone else who changed the name and completely re-did the place like new inside. I don't think Marvin sold them the old stock of bikes and parts, though -- at least not much of it. I'm not sure what happened to the contents of the place. For as much as I had seen in the shop, I've heard that the basement was overwhelming and intimidating, even for the most hardy explorers. Still, I wish I could have gotten down there to see it. Somebody must have gotten the old stuff, though, as I've occasionally seen bikes come up for sale on eBay that I'm almost certain must have come from Marvin's. Makes me wonder.

I really miss old shops like Marvin's. I don't know if shops like that have a place in today's carbon-fiber-electronic-shifting-hydraulic-disk-brake world, but they'll always be a place for Retrogrouches like me.