The Retrogrouch

Every now and then, a little self-reflection is a good thing. When I look at myself in the mirror, sometimes I ask myself probing questions. Am I where I wanted to be in life? Am I happy in my job? When will I get that mole looked at? Why am I such a Retrogrouch?

I can talk here about that last one. I have a long Retrogrouch past. It's practically in my bike DNA. I also had a lot of retro-grouchy influences during my bicycling education.

I have always liked bikes. Always. And I got really interested in bikes at the tail end of a great time -- a classic period, if you will. Lightweight road bikes were king. Good bikes were steel, and they were lugged. The Japanese were cranking out really nicely made bikes and components that didn't break the bank. And probably as much as anything else, Breaking Away was released in theaters when I was maybe 13, and I wanted to be that kid Dave Stoller. It was formative.

Unlike a lot of kids, I didn't quit riding as soon as I turned 16 and got a drivers license. I did buy a car at 17 but quickly discovered that there is no bigger waste of money than buying gas, so I started riding my bike to my summer job. That was also the year I bought my first "real" bike. It was nothing like the bikes I would go on to own and ride, but it started me down the path that brought me here.

Maybe my memory is faulty, but replace the shark jaws
with a bicycle wheel, and this is kind of how I remember Al.

I remember going into a bike shop in Cleveland's east side, Al's Bike Shop, where I had heard I could find something nice. The place had been there forever. Whoever had suggested I try Al's didn't warn me that Al, as it turned out, was a major grouch. I asked about some of the bikes, and what was good, or better, and he grumbled "They're all the same -- only the stickers are different" (try to imagine Cap. Quint from the movie Jaws saying it). I don't know if he was always that grouchy, or if he got that way over time -- but it seemed like he really thought bikes (or the bike business, perhaps?) weren't what they used to be. Man, if he were still in business, what would he think of bikes today where many of them really are pretty much the same, made in the same factory in China, regardless of brand, all equipped with the same Shimano components -- different by little more than the name on the downtube?

Anyhow, I didn't buy my bike from Al's. I ended up at the same Schwinn dealer where I'd bought the old upright 3-speed delivery bike I'd been riding for the previous 5 years. I really wanted a Schwinn Paramount, though I would have "settled" for a Super Sport. Couldn't afford either, though, so I got the closest thing that I could, which was a Super LeTour. Still, it was a decent bike to get started with. Lugged frame. SunTour components. I rode it everywhere, and I learned a lot about bikes and riding with it.

I didn't give up on Al's though. There was something about the place, and something about Al that kept me wondering. Was he that grouchy with everyone? All the time? Had things once been different? I'd stop in there now and then to look around. There were bins of old parts and accessories with a layer of dust that said they had been there a long time. There were old Brooks saddles, and tins of Proofide. There were new-old-stock parts from French makers -- Huret, Simplex, and more -- with or without boxes, that looked to be ten years old or more. This was a pretty cool place.

And there was Al. Grouchy and irascible as ever. I remember once asking him about clinchers vs. sewups and I thought he was going to explode. But I kept going back.

One day, I was looking in one of the old glass cases, and a few things caught my eye. There, still in boxes, were a bunch of old Campagnolo parts -- at least ten years old at that point. Nuovo Record derailleurs. Hubs. Pedals. A crankset. There was a chromed steel Cinelli stem, with the old logo coat-of-arms badge on it -- all new-old-stock. I asked Al about the old parts and suddenly his tone changed. It was like a switch had been flipped.

"You like that old stuff?" he asked.
"It's good stuff, yeah," I replied. "The best."

"C'mere," he said, waving me to the back of the shop. I followed. He led me over to a big old steel cabinet. There was a padlock on it. He unlocked it and opened the double doors wide. There inside, from top to bottom, every shelf filled deep, were boxes and bins full of Campagnolo parts. Components of every type. Spares. Small replacement parts. Chainrings. Some tools. Tins of Campy's "special grease." Everything. Some nice old Cinelli stuff, too.

I crossed myself like I was in church.

Al took out parts to show me and we talked about them -- Campagnolo, Cinelli. We admired the little decorative details in a Nuovo Record rear derailleur that had no functional purpose whatsoever other than making the piece look special. We talked about classic bikes. Vintage Raleighs and Peugeots. Colnagos and DeRosas. The bike boom. Italian vs. Japanese components. Whatever it was, I had just earned Al's respect. After that, any time I'd walk into the shop, Al would greet me happily by name. Sometimes when I'd visit, he'd show me some cool old vintage component or tool or something he'd unearthed in the basement of the shop.

Some years later, I was restoring an old 1970 Raleigh Professional, and I made lots of visits to Al's to get replacement vintage Campy parts. When I brought the completed bike over to show him, looking for all the world like a brand-new bike, the guy got misty. Seriously.

Some time in the 90s, after all those years in business, Al decided to retire and close up the shop. There was going to be an auction for pretty much everything left in the store. Before that happened, though, Al gave me a stack of old bike advertising posters he'd kept for years, and he let me poke around and buy pretty much anything I could before the auction. I bought his shop repair stand, wheel truing stand, a bunch of old Campagnolo tools, some spare parts, and even the sign that hung above the door to the shop. Sentimentality, and all. I couldn't go to the auction, but I heard that somebody from out of state was there and bought the entire cabinet of Campy parts. If I had to guess, I'd say that the contents have been sold bit by bit over the years on eBay.

When I first encountered Al, bikes and the bike business were just starting to change, though nothing like the change that was coming. Still, I guess Al apparently didn't like the way it was going. He obviously liked what was old better than what was new -- and I'll bet not too many customers were coming in who shared that appreciation. I think the fact that I had that appreciation for those vintage goodies was the thing that made him warm up to me. The name hadn't yet been coined, but I suppose Al may have been a prototype Retrogrouch.

In my last post, I wrote about how I came to get really interested in bicycles at the tail end of a classic period when lugged steel frames were abundant, and beautiful and simple components ruled. But change was coming.

Shimano introduced its SIS indexed shifting in 1984, which set in motion a a trend that would lead to more and more integration and specialization in components, with less compatibility between brands. That introduction also marked the beginning of Shimano's dominance in bicycle components, while almost all the old guard European component makers except Campagnolo faded away (and even Campy was fighting for life for a while there too).

At that same time, mountain bikes were just starting to hit the mainstream, with production-made versions from Specialized and Univega first hitting the market around 1982 -- but by the end of the decade, they would almost completely push road bikes off the showroom floors. When road bikes would eventually make a comeback, they would much more resemble MTBs -- with welded frames, unicrown forks, and "compact" geometry.

But during all that time, as far as I was concerned, the old stuff was the good stuff. I never learned to appreciate a welded frame in the same way as a lugged one. A unicrown fork never kept my attention like a fork with nicely-cast crown. And nothing would capture my interest more than classic Campagnolo components.

I bought my first Campagnolo components -- a pair of Record hubs -- from the most fantastic garage sale a bike geek could imagine in a pre eBay world.

There had been, during the bike boom of the 70s, a great little bike shop in my home town, called J&N Cycles, where they specialized in nice high-end European bikes and components, many of which are now considered classics. I don't know exactly when it happened, but not too long before I started to discover "real" bikes, J&N had gone out of business. The owners, Jim and Nancy, got divorced and that meant the end of the bike shop. But that wasn't quite the end of the story. Jim, it turned out, lost the shop but held on to the stock. He filled his house and garage with the entire contents of the store. Bikes, parts, clothing, frames, wheels -- you name it, he had it. The inside of his house was kind of like an episode of A&E's Hoarders.

One summer weekend, almost a decade after closing the shop, Jim opened up his house and garage and had a sale. There were brand new bikes, mostly British, some still in boxes, from the mid 70s -- most of them with Reynolds 531 tubing and Campagnolo parts. There was at least one Teledyne Titan (one of the first titanium bikes) -- brand new, fully Campagnolo Nuovo Record-equipped. There were boxes and bins of all kinds of components, large and small. It was like walking back in time. For a young guy who was really into classic bikes and parts, it was awesome -- and my only wish was that I had enough money to really take in a bigger haul. Unfortunately, I was just in my late teens, so money was tight.

Still, the prices were low and I remember that weekend I bought some tools (a set of Campagnolo cone wrenches) the beautiful still-in-the-box Campy Record hubs, and a pair of impossibly light (260 grams) Super Champion Medaille d'Or rims. With those parts I built my first set of wheels. I don't know if it was because of the extreme lightness of the rims or because of my amateur skill (or lack thereof) in building wheels, but the wheels were always going out of true. After a few years of riding them and constantly re-truing them, I eventually disassembled them and re-built a new set of wheels with the same hubs (my wheelbuilding skills having improved greatly) -- more than 25 years later those wheels are still going strong. I took those hubs apart once for service a few years ago and the bearing races still looked great -- the date on the cones was 1974. Crazy.

I got to know Jim a bit and got his phone number to keep in touch, but he was a pretty reclusive guy on the whole. Now and again when I was home from college I'd pay him a visit and he'd let me look around through the boxes that still filled his house and garage. A couple of times, some of my college riding buddies and I made a road trip -- a pilgrimage of sorts -- to Jim's house to scavenge even more. Between all of us, we must have purchased a couple complete bikes, and enough parts to build a couple more.

At some point I lost his number and lost track of Jim, and I hardly recognize the old neighborhood anymore. I heard from someone that he died some time back, which kind of bummed me out. In the end I don't know if he was still living alone in that house surrounded by all his boxes, bins, and old bikes, or if he'd moved on, but sometimes I wonder what happened to all that stuff. Did relatives have any idea of its worth? Did a lot of it get pitched, given away, or auctioned off?

Any time I overhaul a set of hubs, I can't help but think back on it all and wonder.

I'm a sucker for a lugged frame. I know that there is a lot of skill involved and a certain industrial/utilitarian aesthetic in a really nicely welded frame, but I never really learned to appreciate it.

A really nice hand-cut seat lug. Note the extension on the
back half of it for the seat stays.

No doubt, my preference for lugs has to do with the fact that when I first got interested in bikes, the best bikes were nearly always lugged. Until the mid 1980s, welded construction was generally a sign of a cheap bike -- usually heavy, made from mild steel, and probably sold in a department store. This was because the thin-walled, lightweight, high-strength steel tubing used in better bicycles would be destroyed by the heat of welding. Brazing with lugs uses a much lower temperature than welding, leaving the integrity of the tubing unharmed. But with the spread of TIG welding, along with new formulations of steel that could withstand the concentrated heat of welding, more and more quality bikes started showing up without lugs.

Another factor that led to the decline in lugs was the rise of mountain bikes. A lot of riders who came into bicycles through the MTB side of things didn't really care about lugs. Many mountain bikes were welded, and their riders didn't have the expectation of a quality bike being built any other way. By the end of the 80s, mountain bikes had virtually pushed road bikes off the showroom floors. Eventually, when road bikes made a comeback, they looked a lot more like MTBs. Aluminum frames were much more popular too -- and almost always welded. Practically a generation of younger riders came to bicycles without ever seeing a lugged frame.

To me, bicycles should not only be functional, but beautiful. Lugs make for a strong, reinforced joint while also adding a point of visual interest. A skilled and imaginative frame builder can sculpt the lugs to make a frame truly unique and special. Lugs also make a bicycle that is much more easily repaired. A crash-bent or dented tube can be replaced without impacting the long-term integrity of the frame.

Let's take a look at some of the classic production-made lugs that were commonly seen on bikes in the 60s and 70s. These first four examples were made with a stamped method. Stamped lugs tend to be a bit rougher and less consistent in quality, so building with stamped lugs takes much more time and skill to get a good final result than the investment cast lugs that would come later.

Cinelli stamped lugs. A classic, traditional choice in the 60s and 70s.

Prugnat 62 D. There were several variations of the Prugnat long-point lugs. This is a slightly fancier version, with a small scroll-cut detail on the rings at the top and bottom head lugs. The basic "S" lug lacked that extra detail (looking quite a bit like the Cinelli lugs above), while the "S4" had some triangular cut-out windows. These 62 D lugs were used on a lot of classic racers, including Colnagos in the 70s.

Prugnat 62 S. A shorter point lug, with extra scroll details on the sides. Pretty.

Nervex Professional -- these made the fancier look of hand-cut lugs possible on production bikes and quickly became a favorite. These were the lugs of choice for Schwinn Paramounts, Raleigh Internationals, Peugeot PX-10s, and countless other production racing and sport-touring bikes in the 1970s. In the hands of a skilled builder who takes the time to really clean up the details, these can make an exquisite frame.

The next two lug sets, from the 1980s, were made with the investment casting process, which yields much more consistent results, and making the job of the frame builder a lot easier. A good builder will still take time to file them and thin the edges, and some will even re-shape the contours slightly to a more personalized style or preference, but some less-skilled (or less meticulous) builders might braze these up right out of the box with only minimal filing.

Cinelli investment cast lugs from the 1980s. This version has shorter points, which became more popular in that decade.

Henry James investment cast lug set. Nice proportions all around, and the fork crown is gorgeous. A lot of American custom-frame builders used (and still use) these for a clean-looking frame.

More recently, lugged frame building has undergone a bit of a resurgence, and several American designers have come up with new investment cast lugs that are available to builders all over the world.

Kirk Pacenti designed these "Artisan" lugs, which are designed to be used "as is," or to allow a great deal of expression on the part of the individual framebuilder. There is a lot of room to modify these, and many custom builders have used them as the basis for very special one-of-a-kind frames.

Pacenti Artisan lugs, modified for a 60th Anniversary Mercian. Note that the point has been shortened, and a diamond "window" has been cut out. Sixty commemorative frames were built with this design. Some builders go a lot further with the Artisan lugs, making them barely recognizable from their original form.

Modified Pacenti Artisan seat lug.

Richard Sachs designed these "Newvex" lugs to be an updated version of the classic French Nervex model (the originals being long out of production). The Newvex lug set keeps the classic visual details of the originals, but adapts them for the slightly larger proportions of today's steel bicycle tubing. Also note that the upper head-tube lug has a slightly taller profile, which allows for higher bars -- a useful touch with today's threadless stems.

Lug blanks.

Some builders are well known for completely hand-cutting and shaping their lugs, either starting with something commercially available and modifying it (like the Mercian Anniversary bike shown above), or in some cases, starting almost from scratch with lug "blanks," which don't look much different from the pipe connectors found in the plumbing section of the hardware store. With these, a builder has the full freedom and a blank canvas to make a frame that doesn't look like any other. One vintage builder that was famous for truly intricate hand-shaped lugs is the British brand Hetchins. Some of the Hetchins lug styles are incredibly ornate, as seen to the left.

One current company that still regularly hand-shapes lugs from blanks is Mercian. Their Vincitore model is still made in much the same way as it has been made since the model's inception. Because the lugs are completely shaped by hand, no two are exactly alike, though there is a pretty uniform "pattern" or "style" to the Vincitore lugs. The particular model was introduced around 1964 (according to Mercian) but a similar lug pattern was seen on some Mercians going back to the 1950s.

This is one of my newest bikes, a Mercian Vincitore. This is a pretty good shot of the head lugs

Another look at the head lugs, from the back.

Functionally, there isn't anything wrong with a welded frame, but certainly don't ask me to pay a premium for it. It can be exceptionally strong and in some cases can even save a few grams (though I believe the difference in weight is inconsequential). And I know that the tube mitering has to be perfectly spot-on with a welded frame because the joint is out in the open -- and if a builder isn't skilled with a torch there's no hiding it, so it certainly takes good frame building skills to do it well. Still, one cannot convince me that it isn't cheaper to weld than to braze with lugs -- as evidence, just notice how almost all production-line bikes (apart from carbon fiber) are now welded -- if it wasn't significantly cheaper to weld, then welded frames wouldn't be so common.

The preparation for lugwork goes way beyond good tube mitering and skills with a torch. There's much more labor involved. Lugged construction goes much deeper than pure functionality. It elevates the function to a more artistic level, and that really appeals to me. It always has.

Getting ready for Thanksgiving, so there's not a lot to say today -- just wanted to share another cool old vintage bike poster that hangs in my home. Wonder Cycles, by Paul Mohr, 1923. The print I have is huge -- about 5 feet tall. What an awesome image -- with the cyclist balanced on the electrical wires, and the electricity shooting out of his head like shocking hair.

Cycles Wonder, by Paul Mohr, 1923

The colors on this one are so bold, it is really eye-catching. It's one of my favorites. Enjoy!

I know I've mentioned this in other posts, but I am a teacher in a public school. There was a time in my life when I could barely imagine doing anything else. After twenty years, I still like teaching -- that is, I like the actual act of teaching and being in the classroom with the kids. That is by far the best part of the job, and I like to think that I'm good at what I do. Lately though, I keep finding myself thinking about other things -- other possibilities -- like building bicycles.

As much as I love working with the kids, being an educator today -- especially in public schools -- is getting to be really difficult because of things that have nothing to do with the job of actually teaching. Enemies of public education, politicians and corporate/business interests, have their hands in every part of education now -- with rallying cries of "school choice" and "breaking the public school monopoly" and demanding "accountability" while expecting teachers to "do more with less"-- more standardized testing, more mandates, more bureaucracy -- with less funding, lower pay, fewer benefits.

People across the country blame public school teachers for all the supposed problems of public education -- calling us "glorified babysitters" and repeating the age-old (and offensive, if you ask me) joke "those who can't do, teach." The real problems in education are actually much more complex, but it's much easier to blame the teachers than to deal with the real problems and find (and fund) real solutions.

Still -- it all makes for a pretty unpleasant work environment with much more stress than I'd like. My fear is that it won't start taking a turn for the better before I get to retirement age. Nowadays, when I'm sitting in meetings about the latest new standards (which seem to be updated and revised monthly) and newest mandates -- I find myself more and more thinking about doing other things. Building bicycles is the main thing that keeps coming to mind. That, and maybe running my own bike shop. Possibly both.

Could wielding a brazing torch be in my future?

Even before I started college I thought I'd like to build bikes. But I was pretty well focused on my plans to teach, so it always seemed to be little more than a whim. What can I say? Today, it seems more like a dream that I should consider making a reality.

I would really like to take some framebuilding courses. It would be a pretty big investment in time and money, but I'd like to learn how to build with lugs, and possibly even to weld (I prefer frames with lugs, but I'd like to be able to do both). I've been reading about different framebuilding classes in different parts of the country. Prices seem to vary a bit but most seem to be several weeks long and several thousand dollars -- not counting things like lodging and other expenses. Then there would be the investment in equipment in order to set up my own shop. Things like jigs and alignment tables, torches and cutters and other metalworking tools can't be cheap. Coming up with the money would be pretty tough. That's why it's all just a daydream so far.

I think about being able to build bike frames, and perform repairs and modifications, and I think that even if I continued to teach, it would be a great side-line. For years, I've taken summer jobs to supplement my income (it was necessary, believe me), so this would just allow me to be self-employed. From what I know about the custom frame business, it can take time for a builder to gain the kind of following and build up the business to the point where they can make a decent living out of it. Doing it just as a sideline would be a great way to slowly gain that experience and respect without feeling like I have to live in poverty for a labor of love.

I'd love to be able to custom-build bikes for people, or even just repair damaged frames. I think it would also be fun to take tired old bike-boom era 10-speeds and breathe some new life into them and sell them on the side. Maybe over time, if my name got out there and if enough orders started coming in that I could turn it into a full-time job, then I could re-evaluate the priorities.

Oh well -- it's all just a daydream, for now. Something to get me through those depressing meetings. But who knows. . .

I remember an incident that happened a number of years ago on a group ride. We were stopped at a light, standing at the right side of the road waiting for the signal to change to green. Just then, a lady wanting to turn right drove over onto the shoulder to slip past the stopped cars (not legal by the way, at least not in Ohio) and hit one of my riding friends, knocking him down. She stopped and got out of her car, approached my friend (who at this point was on the ground holding what turned out to be a broken collarbone) and proceeded to scream at him "You're supposed to SHARE the road!"

Seriously.

After more than three decades of cycling as an adult -- the vast majority of it on the road -- I have come to the conclusion that many (most?) drivers have no comprehension of what it means to "Share the Road." Oh, they're all familiar with the slogan and recognize the signs, but many of them seem to be under the impression the signs are an admonition to cyclists, meaning something like "You, BIKER, share the road!"

For many drivers in their cars, the perception is if you're on a bike, just by virtue of being on the road at all -- as opposed to riding on the shoulder or the sidewalk -- you are NOT sharing the road.

During my morning bicycling commute, I have an angry and infuriating driver that I encounter again and again. I leave for work very early -- about 6 a.m. -- and although I ride on one of the main routes out of the city, at that early hour there is almost no traffic. But this lady will come up, wait until she's right behind me, and blast her horn. Then she passes me, laying on the horn the whole way past. Startles the hell out of me every time. I usually yell out at her and give an angry gesture, but there's not much else I can do. I'd like to be able to get her license plate, but it's actually very difficult, even with my glasses, to see a license plate number that's moving away from me at 35 mph in the dark. I also have few, if any, illusions that the police would do anything whatsoever. But she does it every time she sees me. If I could ever catch her, at a stoplight for instance, I'd give her a piece of my mind -- but the lights never seem to work in my favor.

The thing is, there's no reason for the lady's reaction. There is no traffic. She has the whole road with multiple lanes to get past. Passing me doesn't slow her down for a second. Not even a fraction of one. Her obnoxious horn is her way of telling me she doesn't think I have any right to be there. It's intimidation. A threat. Share the road? Forget that. As far as she's concerned, I shouldn't be on the road at all.

I should also point out that when I commute by bike, I am highly visible, well-lit, and I observe the laws. I stop for lights and signs. I stay to the right when I can, but I also don't hesitate to "take the lane" when necessary.

One hears a lot from motorists who complain about "scofflaw cyclists" who disobey the traffic laws and then get indignant and scream profanity at any driver who doesn't respect them. I know those riders exist. I see them occasionally. But I believe they are more the product of popular narrative and prejudice than of objective and factual observation. What I mean is, they fit a preconceived stereotype that drivers have of cyclists which then perpetuates itself. Every time they see someone on a bike running through a light, those drivers notice it, and it reinforces their prejudice, even though they may have encountered many more cyclists riding with respect for the law. It's the way our brain works. Our brains like patterns and predictability, even when those patterns don't actually exist. Once our brains perceive (or construct) a pattern, they are more likely to notice anything that fits, while having the uncanny ability to completely ignore anything that doesn't.

Not only that, but these same drivers have the ability to somehow block out the far greater number of motorists who break the law on a daily basis. Unless one never leaves the house or spends their life in isolation, who honestly can say they don't see at least several cars every day blow through lights or roll through stop signs? Most people probably see more cars accelerating through intersections as the lights are changing from yellow to red (illegal!) in a single day than they encounter bicyclists on the road (law abiding or otherwise) in a full week. Even though the car that runs the light is a far greater threat to others than a cyclist who does the same, people can dismiss those lawbreakers in the cars easily because they themselves identify with the drivers, while they view cyclists as something "other."

Another thing about supposed "scofflaw cyclists" is that I suspect that a lot of what motorists perceive as "lawbreaking" is actually just cyclists who are versed in the law and actually exercising their rights within the law. Look at "taking the lane," for instance. I take the lane when approaching some intersections, when preparing for a left turn, when approaching roundabouts -- any time I am concerned that a passing motorist (or one attempting to pass) can put me in jeopardy. But I guarantee that at least some of the drivers who get behind me are cursing me, even if they don't blast their horns at me. If they get the chance to complain to someone about it later, they'll talk about some "crazy stupid biker" riding down the middle of the road, not letting the driver get past.

As I said, I know there are riders who break the law. Who run lights and signs. Who jump from the roadway to the sidewalk and back again to get an edge on the traffic. Lots of things. I've talked with some who argue that the laws were made for cars, not bikes, and that it's somehow "safer" to break them. I don't buy that. In all my years of riding and all the miles I spend commuting, I can't really think of too many situations where I'm safer bending or breaking the law than following it. My attitude is respect the law and exercise your rights under it. The way I see it, we lose the high ground when we start inventing our own laws the same way a lot of drivers do, and it ends up hurting us.

It's absolutely true that in the face of the prejudice against us cyclists, many motorists will likely continue to dismiss us all as "scofflaws" even if most of us ride in accordance with the laws. Nevertheless, the next time some jerk of a motorist pulls some boneheaded move and injures a cyclist, I never want that driver to be able to attempt to justify their actions because they saw me running a red light. I don't ever want to be someone's excuse.

As for the horn-honking hag on my morning commute. She'd just better hope the lights don't finally work in my favor.

I've been seeing a lot of posts around the internet about this within the last few days or so: Specialized is suing a little bike shop in Alberta, Canada because of trademark infringement. The shop, which opened last year, calls itself "Café Roubaix" and specializes (not "Specialized") in road bikes and road racing equipment. Lawyers representing Specialized have demanded that the little shop stop using the Roubaix name. Talk about your "David and Goliath" situations.

Here is the story, as originally reported in the Calgary Herald

Apparently, Specialized has trademarked the name "Roubaix" in Canada as intellectual property, specifically for its bike frames and components. Of course, the shop's owner, Dan Richter, named his shop after the classic bicycle race in France -- not after the Specialized "Roubaix" bike model (I mean, who would name a whole shop after one model of bike?).

The lawyers for Specialized say they are required to protect their trademark or risk losing it. That may be so, but the thing is, how on earth did they even get a trademark granted for the name of a region in France? A region famous for its 117-year-old bicycle race? A region that has seen its name used on numerous bicycle-related products and items over the decades? Challenge-brand tires (previously Clement) and other brands have offered "Paris-Roubaix" tires for decades. There are bicycle clothing items that bear the name. Fuji bicycles even has a bike called "Roubaix," which is potentially more confusing (well, confusing for someone with no sense) than seeing the name on the front of a shop. If anybody has grounds to be upset, it's the people of France.

Cafe Roubaix, a little shop located above an
ice-cream parlor in Cochrane, Alberta, Canada.
(photo from the shop's website).

The thing is, protecting intellectual property is one thing. But it's not as if Specialized created the name, or was even the first to apply it to bikes and/or components. In fact, when anybody involved in cycling hears the name "Roubaix," I doubt that the first thing anyone thinks of is the popped-out-of-a-mold plastic bike with the gimmicky "zertz" gummy shock absorbers. Not only that, but typically in these kinds of trademark-infringement cases, one standard of proof that the plaintiffs have to meet is whether a reasonable person would likely be confused by the names. I don't think Specialized would be able to meet that burden.

Between the long history of the Paris-Roubaix bicycle race which is legendary in the bicycling world, and the list of other products (including bicycles) that bear the same name, it's possible that if he could afford to fight it, the "little guy" could win against the giant corporation. But unfortunately, according to Richter, just the legal cost of fighting it is way out of his league.

Then again, as I was writing this article, I saw a positive update to the story -- published just today -- in the Calgary Herald. According to the follow-up story, since the news spread via the internet and social media, Richter has seen a huge outpouring of support from around the continent. "There were lawyers offering to take up his case pro bono, cycling fans raising money on his behalf, Twitter users organizing boycotts against Specialized, and hundreds of others who placed orders for his products. He quickly sold out of Café Roubaix t-shirts, and is hurrying to print more." Richter went on to say "This is encouraging and exciting, and I'm finding it very humbling as well. I'm really amazed by the level of support. It's overwhelming."

I'm glad to see a little shop like Café Roubaix getting that kind of support -- I'm sure that if he chooses to fight it he'll have a tough challenge ahead of him, but I hope this all works out for the best.

In my post For the Love of Lugs I wrote about how, for me, a lugged frame just holds so much more appeal than one that is welded (or molded, as in the case of a lot of carbon bikes). I feel the same way about fork crowns. When mountain bikes swept the bicycle industry in the 1980s, the welded unicrown fork, with its blades curved inward at the top and welded directly to the steerer tube, became pretty much standard issue. By the end of the decade, they had made their way onto a lot of road bikes as well. Most of today's carbon fiber forks are molded in a style that seems to mimic the unicrown look.

. . . Blah. . .

. . . Double Blah. . .

But a substantial, broad-shouldered, forged or cast fork crown is not only strong, but beautiful to look at, offering a point of visual interest, as well as being another area on a bike frame where a skilled builder can impart a unique and creative look. Not only that, but many traditional fork crowns offer much more tire and fender clearance than their modern counterparts -- especially when compared to most of the carbon forks available today.

Look at bikes from the classic era, from the mid-80s and earlier, and you'll see all kinds of interesting and beautiful fork crowns -- even on mass-produced models where the factories did little if anything to "pretty" them up. Cheap mass-market bikes in that time were usually built with inexpensive "stamped" steel fork crowns, and yet even many of those looked more interesting to my eye than the unicrown and carbon forks that are used on most bikes today.

Take a look at some of the fork crowns from the classic era -- most of them forged or made from castings. These first few are of the flat-top style which I find particularly attractive.

Flat-topped fork crown on my Mercian Superlight. I could be wrong, but I think this may be one of the crowns by Vagner. It doesn't exactly match any of the ones in the picture below, but the overall look and proportions are about right. It's a great look for a lugged steel frame.

A sampling of some of the forged crowns by Vagner. These were very popular on bikes throughout the 60s and 70s.

A sampling of crowns from Nervex. Also very popular in the classic era.

A Cinelli twin-plate crown - spotted on eBay for big bucks. These are gorgeous, but I've read that true twin-plate crowns like this are notoriously difficult to braze with. When finished, though, it is a cool look.

A flat-topped "faux" twin-plate style crown. This was sand cast, given the grainy look of the surface in the crevices. It would take a lot of filing and sanding work on the part of the builder to make this into a really nice finished fork, but the results would be worth it. This one is made for round-section track fork blades.

The next few crowns are sloping or semi-sloping designs. Cinelli really popularized this style and made a number of versions that were available to builders all around the world. Most of their designs have been copied by (or were at least major inspirations for) other manufacturers.

These Cinelli-made semi-sloping designs were used on lots of Italian racing bikes in the 70s and 80s. I'm pretty certain they were the crown of choice on many 70s era Colnagos, for example. The MC and MR seem to look pretty much the same but for the dimensions of the fork blades they were designed for.

Here's one of the above semi-sloping Cinelli crowns on an '81 Masi (California built). Earlier Masi's used Fischer flat-topped crowns, and some of the most highly-sought-after ones used true twin-plate crowns.

These fully-sloping designs were a Cinelli mainstay. The perceived benefit is shorter fork blades and a stiffer fork, so harder-edged racing bikes often used these. Note that each of these has tangs or sockets designed to be inserted into the fork blades, rather than the other way around. The result was to give a seamless-looking connection between the blades and crown. It also gives an aerodynamic look. The way I understand it, the one on the top (the original version) was forged and took more handwork and preparation for the builder, while the later models below it are investment cast which is a little easier to work with.

That looks like one of old Cinelli integral fully-sloping crowns on a 1970 Raleigh Professional. It was pretty common to see them done this way, with the chromed crown and painted fork blades.

These fully-sloping Cinelli crowns became all the rage as the classic era drew to a close. Unlike the integral crowns above, these have typical sockets for the fork blades to fit into, resulting in a more substantial crown with a slightly more traditional look. There are tons of variations on this style made by other manufacturers.

It's worth noting that even though the welded unicrown fork got its start on mountain bikes, it wasn't always so. Take a look at these two interesting examples:

Proof that mountain bike forks weren't always ugly. Early versions of the Specialized Stumpjumper came with this nice looking twin-plate style "bi-plane" crown. Note also the lugged frame -- I wouldn't get a mountain bike any other way.

This Tom Ritchey-designed fork crown was used on Brigestone MB-1 mountain bikes in the early 90s. According to the Bridgestone catalog that this illustration came from, getting this crown produced was such a hassle for Ritchey that he just bagged it and pioneered unicrowns instead. Shame.

The Classic Fork Crown is Not Dead.

That Ritchey/Bridgestone fork above provides a nice segue into the next section. Grant Petersen of Bridgestone and now Rivendell probably deserves as much credit as anybody for reviving interest in attractive fork crowns. There are a number of beautiful investment cast fork crowns available today -- many of which are inspired by designs from the past, yet in many ways are even more attractive. Not only that, but with the precision of investment casting, they are much easier for the builders to work with than vintage crowns from the classic era.

Bridgestone RB-1 fork crown -- illustration from the '93 Bridgestone catalog. Like the MB-1 crown above, this crown was designed by Tom Ritchey (there's definitely a family resemblance between the two!), but it was an exclusive for Bridgestone. A modern interpretation of a vintage look.

Here's a Rivendell Roadeo with a creative-looking flat-topped fork crown. Very pretty.

Kirk Pacenti produces several classic-inspired fork crowns, including this nice investment cast twin-plate style crown (above) and their "Artisan" crown (below).

Richard Sachs also produces several traditional fork crowns, including the "Newvex" model, which is styled after the vintage Nervex crown. This crown complements Sachs's Newvex lug set.

Even a number of welded bikes are now available with traditional-styled fork crowns. The Pass Hunter frame from Velo Orange comes with this gorgeous twin-plate styled crown to add a touch of vintage class to its welded frame. The reinforcing rings on the head-tube improve the look, too. Soma Fabrications and Surly also produce welded frames with traditional crowned forks.

One of the things I love about traditional fork crowns is that they go way beyond pure functionality. Certainly, a welded unicrown fork works fine. It's reasonably strong and fairly light for what it is, too. But as I've pointed out again and again, my belief, my mantra, is that bicycles should be both functional and beautiful. Having the aesthetic element of a traditional fork crown -- even if fitted to an inexpensive welded frame -- is a sign that somebody took that extra effort to appeal to the visual senses -- that someone has an appreciation that a bicycle is more than a basic "tool." I'm really glad to see that interest in traditional crowns has revived and that there are so many great-looking choices available today.

There have been some interesting developments in the story of Cafe Roubaix and their troubles with bicycle corporate giant Specialized. As I stated a few days ago, the little bike shop in Alberta has been threatened with legal action from Specialized over the shop's use of the name "Roubaix" which Specialized apparently owns as intellectual property. The story has gone viral on the internet and social media, and shop owner Dan Richter has seen an outpouring of support from people across the continent while Specialized has seen a mighty backlash in bad publicity. The story has even been picked up on national broadcast news -- I heard Richter being interviewed on NPR on Tuesday.

Since the story originally broke in the Calgary Herald on Dec. 7, several things have happened.

On Dec. 9, according to Bikeretailer.com, Advanced Sports International (ASI) which owns the brand Fuji, claimed that it owns the worldwide rights to the name Roubaix, and that Specialized overstepped its bounds in trying to enforce a trademark on the name. According to ASI, they have been licensing the Roubaix name to Specialized since 2003. Apparently, Specialized did not have the right, under that agreement, to register the Roubaix name as a trademark in Canada. “We are in the process of notifying Specialized that they did not have the authority, as part of our license agreement, to stop Daniel Richter … from using the Roubaix name.”

Further, ASI stated, “While ASI does have the authority to object to Mr. Richter’s use of the name and while we at ASI understand the importance of protecting our bicycle model names, we believe that Mr. Richter did not intend for consumers to confuse his brick-and-mortar establishment or his wheel line with our Roubaix road bike. And we believe consumers are capable of distinguishing his bike shop and wheel line from our established bikes.”

Well, there's a position that seems to make some sense.

Then, on Dec. 10, the Calgary Herald reported that Richter received a call, not from Specialized's lawyers, but from Specialized president Mike Sinyard himself. "I had a great conversation with Mike Sinyard today, and I am happy to let everyone know that things will be working out fine,"Richter wrote. "We thank you for your continued support. You have all been so very awesome to us!"After all the negative publicity, Specialized released a statement saying, "We are working hard with Mr. Richter to find a resolution we are both happy with to make this situation right. While we and Mr. Richter can’t yet share specifics, we both look forward to sharing an update soon.”

So it looks like the little shop will likely get to keep its name after all. Good news!

Nevertheless, it still troubles me that a big corporation like Specialized, or even ASI, or Trek for that matter, can copyright something like the name of a city or other geographic place, and expect to be able to enforce it. In other situations, they have trademarked common words, like "Epic" and again used their legal might to enforce their "rights." Where does it stop?

Specialized has a bit of a history with this sort of thing, it seems. Back in 2006, they sued a small Portland bicycle company, Mountain Cycle, for their use of the name "Stumptown" on their cyclocross bike. Too similar to Stumpjumper, they said. Never mind that there are a number of locations around the country known as Stumptown, including Portland (going back to the mid-1800s), where the name is used for a wide array of businesses. Mountain Cycle ended up going out of business. At least the name "Stumpjumper" is something relatively original that Specialized can claim to have created. But what was the likelihood that anyone would have confused the two names?

Then there was the case in 2011 where Specialized sued a small wheel-building business (also in Portland) called Epic Wheel Works. Being too small to fight, they changed their name -- but seriously -- how does anyone even get to trademark the word "Epic"? Look out Odysseus and all you other "Epic Heroes." And no more "epic" adventures for anyone who wants to push their limits, either. Ridiculous.

What's next? Can they trademark a person's name? Not that anyone's likely to trademark or copyright my name -- but what about something like "Retrogrouch"? I wouldn't deign to try to trademark it myself, considering that the term has been around for over 20 years and wasn't coined by me. But apparently, that is no legal impediment. Part of me thinks I should do it before someone else does (and then tries to sue me) but there's no way I could afford the legal expense to try to defend it. And apparently, THAT is the real standard -- it's not only who can file the trademark, but who has the legal budget to then defend it against court challenges. That seems to be the strategy Specialized is following.

I'm lucky that Brooks Saddles doesn't take this approach. I'd be in trouble using my own name, or using a little thumbnail picture of a Brooks saddle as my little Google/Blogspot icon.

Trademarking something original -- something you've actually created -- and something that isn't part of the common lexicon or common experience -- that makes sense. There's only one "Coke" or "Coca-Cola" and anyone trying to cash in using that name or something confusingly similar is obviously in violation of trademark law (unless Coca-Cola wants to start going after drug dealers for trademark infringement). That's what the legal profession calls a "strong" trademark. But the name of a city famous for its bicycle race? Or a common word like "Epic"? Heck, even the word "specialized" for that matter.

I'm glad this looks like it will work out for Cafe Roubaix -- and I'm not feeling too bad for Specialized for the public relations mess this created for them.

Since the 1930s, the Schwinn Paramount represented the top of the heap in American lightweight racing bicycles. In the 60s and 70s, they were considered one of the few American bikes that could compete head-to-head with the great racing bikes being imported from Europe at the time. For many people, the bikes from those decades, with their Reynolds 531 tubing and (usually chromed) Nervex lugs pretty much define the image of a "classic" bike.

While the Paramount line was for many years built in the big Chicago Schwinn factory -- in a special corner of the factory known as "the cage" -- in the 1980s, the Paramount production was moved to Waterford, Wisconsin under the leadership of Marc Muller. After Schwinn went bankrupt in '92, Muller and Richard Schwinn bought the Paramount factory and continued operating under the Waterford name in 1993.

The re-organized Schwinn company went bankrupt again in 2001, and the name is now owned by Pacific Cycles. In general, it is only a shadow of its former self, mostly selling cheap mass-market bikes -- many of which are now sold through department stores. Too bad. And for the most part, the Pacific Cycles version of Schwinn has little or nothing to do with Paramount.

Stainless steel lugs recall the look of the
chromed Nervex lugs of the great bikes from the
60s and 70s. Note the port under the downtube
for electronic shifting wires (sigh).

However, this year Pacific/Schwinn has joined up with Waterford to produce a 75th Anniversary Paramount that borrows a lot from the past, but also gives a nod to the present. There is a limited edition run of only 25 of these bikes -- all built to order.

For us traditionalists, you can see from the pictures that the frame is lugged steel and has a traditional level top tube. While the lugs have some of the elegance of the classic Nervex lugs of the 60s and 70s, they are a completely new and unique design with a somewhat simpler or cleaner look than the vintage lugs. Also, instead of being chromed, in this new version, they are rendered in polished stainless steel.

Buyers ordering one of these frames have a few options for the build. One option is tubing. It can be built with air-hardening steel tubing throughout ($3800 -- frame only), or air-hardening main triangle with stainless rear triangle ($4750 shown below), or with stainless tubing throughout ($5350) -- which would probably mimic the look of the old all-chrome Paramounts of the past. Unfortunately, they are all a bit too rich for my blood. Waterford-built steel forks range from $375 - $575, or there are carbon fork options as well.

According to the Paramount Anniversary website, this is
frame #1 of 25, and it is built to accommodate the latest in
electronic shifting (blah). Note the brazed-on attachment
points for the battery pack near the bottom bracket, and the
ports for electronic wires on the downtube and chainstay.

In another nod to the Paramount history, the styling and graphics created for the anniversary bike recall the great bikes of the 60s. The bikes can be ordered in any color from the Waterford palette, but they also have three vintage "themes" available for the bikes -- Candy Red, Pearl White (shown), or Coppertone. The new headbadge, while it looks very much like the vintage version, is made from stainless steel.

In making this new Paramount a "modern" bike, besides the stainless steel and air-hardening tubing, the design uses updated tubing dimensions (slightly larger than the classic era) and calls for a 1-1/8 in. steerer. As already mentioned, there are carbon fiber fork options although the thought of a carbon fork on a beautiful, traditional-looking steel frame just appalls me. I'm afraid there will be more than a few equipped that way, though (see below).

Electronic shifting and a carbon fork. Blasphemy.

Not only that, but the new Paramount also has provisions for electronic shifting systems -- at least as an option. This consists of bosses for the battery pack, and internal-routing ports for the wires. OK, that part just kind of made me shudder. All of these electronic wiring provisions are finished off with little diamond-shaped reinforcements.

Overall, this looks to me like a nice bike, but for me, exactly how nice would depend a lot on how it was built and equipped. No carbon forks and electronic ports for me, thank you. Totally out of my league, price-wise anyhow -- but for a lucky 25 people, this could be a pretty special bike that artfully blends the past and the present: a modern version of a classic bicycling icon.

It's no secret to anyone reading this blog on a regular basis that I have issues with the latest disc and hydraulic brake systems. This is the Retrogrouch Blog, after all. I'm not ready to accept all the claims and hype about superiority, most of which come from the manufacturer's marketing people and the cheerleaders from the big cycling magazines.

Yes, I believe that in some circumstances disc brakes may offer somewhat better performance than rim brakes (in extremely wet or muddy conditions, for instance) -- but I do not believe that those benefits necessarily come without drawbacks. And there ARE drawbacks. New is not always better. Performance gains are sometimes offset by negatives. I wouldn't be a Retrogrouch if I didn't stand by that.

SRAM hydraulic brakes: recalled

In yet another blow to the credibility of the hypesters (I don't think that word actually exists -- my Mac keeps wanting to change it to "hipsters") for disc and hydraulic brakes, just take a look at some of the current recall notices for these systems:

TRP Disc Brake Recall

Shimano Disc Brake Recall

Magura Hydraulic Brake Recall

SRAM Hydraulic Brake Recall

In the cases with the hydraulic systems, the recalls are due to the fact that the brakes can fail in extreme cold conditions. According to SRAM, "In these conditions the master cylinder seals failed to hold pressure resulting in abrupt loss of brake power, and an inability to stop the bike."

TRP disc brakes: recalled

I'm sure that traditional cable-operated rim brakes get recalled from time to time, but it's hard to find it. There's not much to go wrong with them. They're proven technology, and their simplicity makes them pretty foolproof. When was the last time you heard about somebody's traditional cable operated rim brakes failing because it was too cold out?

If you're reading a blog called The Retrogrouch, you probably aren't affected by any of the above-listed recalls. But if you have some riding buddies who have these systems, tell them to contact their dealers and see what they need to do. And if they're really good friends, maybe let them borrow a Retro-grouchy bike so they can keep riding until it all gets sorted out.

I hope this post doesn't come across as gloating -- that's really not my intent at all. Loss of braking is a serious issue. But it does help underline my point that bicycles are really at their best when they are simple machines, and there are real benefits in proven technology. Adding complexity to a bicycle doesn't really improve it, and only takes away from the machine's real virtues.

After I posted about Lovely Fork Crowns, I heard from a number of readers who felt as though I'd left out some of their favorites. I was just as pleased as heck that there are so many others out there who feel as strongly as I do about the beauty of traditional fork crowns, and who would want to see their favorites pictured. So today I'm putting up pictures of some readers' favorite fork crowns.

This is a nice comparison shot of some fully sloping integrated crowns, sometimes called "Cinelli-style." The ones on the left are Cinelli (or if not, they're really good copies) while the two on the right were made by Davis of England. Note how coarse the Davis crowns are, and then try to imagine how much work the builder would have to do to get a nicely finished fork. The Davis crowns were used on bikes like the Carlton-built Raleigh Professionals in the early 70s (I have one pictured in Lovely Crowns part I). One thing I'd be worried about as a builder is how thick the internal sockets are on the Davis crowns, and whether those would lead to a stress riser over time. It looks like the Cinelli ones have a bit of stress-relief cut into them, almost certainly for that very reason. (submitted by Mark Bulgier)

Several readers mentioned that they wanted to see some of the crowns from Zeus of Spain, so here is an assortment. That pista (track) crown is a real classic -- broad-shouldered and substantial. One thing notable about the two road crowns is that they have tangs designed to be brazed inside the fork blades, rather than the other way around, similar to the integrated Cinelli-style crowns shown above. When finished into a complete fork, they should have a seamless transition from the crown to the fork blades. (submitted by John Thompson).

Here is one of the Zeus road crowns from above on a 70s frame with lots of patina. The frame is British, built by Major Nichols. Note how the crown doesn't have shoulders that cover or enclose the tops of the fork blades. (submitted by Joe Bunik)

Fischer flat-topped crown from Switzerland. Sand cast, as is pretty evident from the surface texture. These were used on a lot of Masi Gran Criteriums in the mid-to-later 70s, after they switched away from the twin-plate crowns. I mentioned these in the previous fork crown article, but it's nice to see one pictured. (submitted by Mark Bulgier)

Here is a Fischer crown, as seen on an early-70s Masi Gran Criterium. Note that this one has been slotted, giving it some of the look of the twin-plate crowns. Cleaned up, chromed, and polished. (from Ray Dobbins)

Several people wrote saying I should have included one of these flat-topped crowns from Gios Torino. These little coins on the top, found on bikes in the 70s, are a cool feature. Later versions, without the little coins, don't quite have the same appeal for some people. (photo by Randal Putnam)

Kevin Sayles submitted this one, a Bocama (from France) fork crown that he modified with longer tangs. Cool thing about this fork (although it isn't a visible detail) is that Kevin built the fork with Reynolds 753 blades -- super light. It's a very simple, classy, and clean looking crown.

Ishiwata SCM from Japan. According to reader John Thompson, this one would have started out looking pretty similar to the classic Cinelli semi-sloping MR crown (pictured in Lovely Crowns pt. I) but has had a lot of metal milled away between the shoulders and the fork steerer. It's a nice look. (submitted by John Thompson)

A reader on Facebook, Paul F., suggested that I shouldn't have left out the Henry James crown, and I agree. These are investment cast here in the USA and very pretty. They're mostly hollow, so they're pretty light, too. I had actually mentioned the Henry James crown in my post on lugs back in November, but it's worth posting again.

Several Pista/Track Crowns

Davis track crown. Sand cast, but some post-casting machine work makes it look a bit smoother. These were very popular on a lot of US and British track bikes back in the day, but like many of the crowns shown here, no longer available. A lot of builders would take time to cut, drill, file, and modify these for a more individual style. There's a lot of metal there to work with, so the possibilities are vast. Mostly hollow, so it's not as heavy as it looks. (submitted by Mark Bulgier)

Fischer track crown. Sand cast. Very coarse finish as delivered, so they required a lot of clean-up work from the builder -- but again, the effort would be worth it. I have a picture of a cleaned up and lightly modified version of this in part one of Lovely Fork Crowns, but it's cool to see what it looks like in its raw state. Used on lots of Italian track bikes, like Masi or Pogliaghi. (submitted by Mark Bulgier)

This twin-plate crown fork is from a 1936 Duerkopp 6-day track racer. This must be the oldest example on the page. (submitted by Art Link)

A Couple of Unique Twin-Plate Styles

This is a really interesting-looking twin-plate crown on a mid-70s Charrel from Lyon, France. Note how the lower plate is curved, and how it seems to wrap around the fork blades. (submitted by Art Link)

This twin-plate style crown was made by Jamie Swan, a very talented frame builder in Long Island, NY. According to Jamie, this one was inspired by the work of classic French constructeur, Jo Routens. It started out as a casting, but was modified substantially. (submitted by Jamie Swan)

I have to say that it was great hearing from people and getting some of their submissions for this topic. As I mentioned above, it's nice to know there are so many other people out there who have an appreciation for classic fork crowns. Thanks to all who helped out!

While I was collecting submissions of favorite fork crowns, I got this really incredible one from Jamie Swan, a very talented builder located in Long Island, NY.

Jamie Swan has been in the bicycle industry in one way or another since the 1970s -- racing, building wheels, building frames, running a bike shop. He does some beautiful frame building work, as evidenced by this and some other examples one can find on his website. (Jamieswan.net) Not only is there a gallery with pictures of some other frames on the site, but there is also a pretty extensive history on Jamie and his experience.

When I first saw the fork crown pictured on the left, my first thought was that it was maybe a commercially available fork crown -- perhaps a vintage Davis track crown -- that had been heavily (and artfully) modified. But no. What sets it apart from most of the other crowns I've posted is that instead of being a commercially-made cast or forged fork crown, it was completely fabricated from scratch. Jamie was kind enough to send some "work-in-progress" photos to show how it was built. The pictures are great to see, as it helps give some idea as to the kind of hand-work that goes into something like this.

Take a look at the pictures below and try to imagine the the time involved in creating a truly one-of-a-kind fork crown .

Here, Jamie is boring out a pair of sockets into a steel plate to accept the round fork blades. He's using a jig to keep everything aligned properly.

Here are the two milled plates that will form the basis of the fork crown. Notice that one of the plates is milled all the way through (to become the lower plate in the finished crown) while the other is milled only about half-way through (to become the upper plate). On the left would appear to be the jig Jamie used to keep the pieces aligned for the boring operation.

At this stage, the two plates have been brazed onto the end of a steerer tube. It looks like a recess has also been milled into the side of the plates for a brake mounting bolt. The fleur de lis tangs have been hand-cut out of steel tubing, but haven't yet been brazed into place. Looking through pictures of other frames by Jamie, it would seem that the fleur de lis is a favorite motif of his -- he's used variations of it on a few other frames. It looks fantastic on this piece.

Now the fleur de lis tangs have been brazed onto the lower plate and filed so that they smoothly and gradually disappear under the crown.

In this photo, you can see that Jamie has re-shaped the formerly rectangular plates to match the curve of the fork blades. The joint between the tangs and the crown has completely disappeared, and all the curves and contours just look "right."

The round-section fork blades have been brazed into place. You can see in this picture just how clean the brazing work is. It also looks like a bit of reinforcement has been brazed into the recess for the brake mounting bolt. All done and ready for paint. Truly exquisite work!

A final look at the finished fork. One thing Jamie mentioned when he sent me the pictures was how proud he was of this -- and rightfully so. This bike won an award for "Best Lugs" at the 2008 Cirque du Cyclisme -- a gathering for vintage bike enthusiasts and "keepers of the flame."

Thank you so much to Jamie Swan for sending these photos. It's a pleasure to be able to feature your work here on The Retrogrouch Blog!

There are some old bike shops the 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 relic 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. 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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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!

The Retrogrouch Past: Influences

Retrogrouch Past: Part II: A Bike Geek's Dream

For the Love of Lugs

More Vintage Cycle Art

Torchbearer Daydreaming

Share the Road?

A Bicycling David and Goliath

Lovely Fork Crowns

David and Goliath - Cafe Roubaix Lives!

75th Anniversary Paramount

Disc and Hydraulic Brake Recalls

Lovely Fork Crowns II - Reader Submissions

Jamie Swan's Custom Built Fork Crown

Another Bike Shop Memory

Bicycles: Public Enemy?

Christmas Bike Rides

Reynolds 531: Classic Tubes

Retrogrouch Recommended Reading

A Fork Crown Collection: Peter Weigle

A Rare Find: Hetchins Lugs