Bicycles
About three weeks ago, the mighty Mezz ran a front-page story on the passing of the lowly newspaper carrier.
A small percentage of the mighty Mezz’s readers live in the city of Canandaigua, and most of these readers still receive their papers via a newspaper carrier.
But many of the readers, like us, live out in the sticks, and get our paper from a rural carrier, in our case Randi Willard, an adult who delivers the papers with a car.
The passing of the teenage and preteen newspaper carrier prompted our Managing Editor, and Sunday Humor Columnist, to pen a paean recounting his halcyon days as a newspaper boy.
It taught him responsibility, time management, and how fast a Schwinn Sting-Ray would go when a German Shepherd was loose.
I never delivered newspapers, and banana-seat bicycles are after my time.
The first bicycle I ever had was a red J.C. Higgins 20-incher from Sears — 20-inch wheels. It was the only new bike I ever had.
I used to call it the “Red Rocket,” because I rode it flat-out down the hill on the sidewalk of Madison Ave. (around the block).
I learned how to ride it with blocks taped to the pedals so I could reach. My father ran behind and held the seat. I never had training-wheels.
I rode it a few months and then crashed head-on into the right-front fender of a slow-moving maroon 1947 Beetle-Bomb Ford sedan. Left a sizable dent with my head.
The driver never saw me at all — they were looking to the left at houses.
This happened at the south end of the Triangle, so my mother noisily insisted I never saw the car. From then on the Triangle was mowed.
I saw the car, of course. I was trying to avoid wiping out in gravel, but nobody argues with all-knowing Mother-Dear. (In other words, it wasn’t worth it.)
My crushed bike was repaired, and I rode it until I outgrew it, at which point my father decided to recondition his ancient balloon-tire 26-inch Columbia.
This is what we fell into. My father was not about to spring for no new bike when an old bike could be reconditioned for a song.
But the Columbia, flashy as it was in its shiny new red paint (which was all that had been done), was like riding a battleship. All the bearings were still rusty, so it pedaled and steered hard.
My parents decided I needed a better bicycle, so we traded the Columbia for another reconditioned bike, this one blue. It rode easier, but soon began derailing its chain.
We decided to move on to another, the RollFast, a bloated cruiser-bike with a tank, a horn, a radio, a headlight (and taillight), and front-suspension. (The horn and radio didn’t work; nor did the lights.) The extent of its reconditioning was that somebody had repainted it with a brush using red-lead primer and aluminum — probably the previous owner.
The shop never reconditioned it. I had to paint it myself: black. It promptly blew both tires, and I had to buy new whitewalls at the bike-shop in Haddonfield with my own money. In fact, I had to order them.
Soon after we moved to Delaware I stripped it; not unlike my sister’s bike, which broke the front fork at the stem on the downhill at Mountwell Pool in Haddonfield. Her bike was brown — another reconditioned special.
The front axle of the RollFast broke, so my father had someone thread similar-sized rod (bar; whatever) at his oil refinery (Tidewater). It was slightly longer.
I also flipped the handlebars, so that it sat somewhat like a 10-speed racer. This is “Old Reliable.” I rode it many times to Pennsy’s Edgemoor Yard, including the giant hill on Shipley next to the quarry off Route 13.
Later I made an eight-inch deep rectangular varnished plywood box with a “Hufton” decal, that fit where a rear rack would. I took it to Houghton my junior year. It could carry textbooks in the box.
I loaned it to Clay Glickert for a senior jaunt, and he destroyed the front suspension. He was hammering the daylights out of it (jumping, pogoing) trying to break it.
I had to bury it (with great ceremony) in a woody ravine. It was royally busted.
The following summer I bought a light-weight English bicycle in a shop on King St. in Wilmington. I stripped it. It had the three-speed Sturmey-Archer rear axle activated by a cable hooked to a handlebar-lever. I also repainted the frame and flipped the handlebars. I sprayed it yellow with translucent red model-car lacquer on the yellow. (It looked like a fireball.)
I took it to Houghton my senior year and rode it everywhere. I was known as “Free-wheelin’ Hughes.” I’d chain it to the step-railing at chapel, and rode in the country when I tired of study.
But its days were numbered. During summer-school after my senior year, I rode some guy’s cheap Schwinn 10-speed, and it was light as a feather.
So shortly after we got married I bought a Frejus 10-speed “Tour de France” from George Rennie Bike Shop in Rochester for $135, a princely sum at that time.
It came with sew-up tires glued to the rims with rubber-cement (or is it concrete?), but they were so fragile (and cantankerous) I swapped for clincher rims and battleship tires that could better cope with Rochester’s awful streets (often littered with broken glass).
I rode that bicycle for years, and modified it a lot. (I still have it.) I replaced the front-fork after it got pranged hitting a car-door. I also converted it to 18-speed; three on the front and six on the back — out of which I used eight. We rode with the Rochester Bicycle Club some, and I noticed it was heavy compared to state-of-the-art. It weighed 26 pounds.
So I bought a DeRosa double-butted steel frame, and fitted it with all Campagnello parts — the quintessential Italian racing bicycle. This was when Jap parts (Shimano) were becoming supreme, and Campy was falling behind.
I had to have the shop (Towner’s Bicycles) assemble it, as I didn’t have time.
My other mistake was not using a Cannondale fat-tube aluminum frame. This was when Cannondale was only selling complete bicycles.
I rode a fat-tube, and it was so stiff it felt heavy (although it wasn’t). But the seat/bars/wheels/pedals on my DeRosa are fabulous. Plus the frame-dimensions are perfect.
But the DeRosa is too resilient. The bottom-bracket twists when you pump, allowing a front chainwheel to scrape the rear frame.
I can correct this, but doing so makes the front derailleur inoperable.
So what I would like to do is get a fat-tube and fit all my good stuff to it, plus Shimano parts (brakes, derailleurs, etc.).
Supposedly a fat-tube is too stiff over distance, but I rarely ride over 30 miles.
A small percentage of the mighty Mezz’s readers live in the city of Canandaigua, and most of these readers still receive their papers via a newspaper carrier.
But many of the readers, like us, live out in the sticks, and get our paper from a rural carrier, in our case Randi Willard, an adult who delivers the papers with a car.
The passing of the teenage and preteen newspaper carrier prompted our Managing Editor, and Sunday Humor Columnist, to pen a paean recounting his halcyon days as a newspaper boy.
It taught him responsibility, time management, and how fast a Schwinn Sting-Ray would go when a German Shepherd was loose.
I never delivered newspapers, and banana-seat bicycles are after my time.
The first bicycle I ever had was a red J.C. Higgins 20-incher from Sears — 20-inch wheels. It was the only new bike I ever had.
I used to call it the “Red Rocket,” because I rode it flat-out down the hill on the sidewalk of Madison Ave. (around the block).
I learned how to ride it with blocks taped to the pedals so I could reach. My father ran behind and held the seat. I never had training-wheels.
I rode it a few months and then crashed head-on into the right-front fender of a slow-moving maroon 1947 Beetle-Bomb Ford sedan. Left a sizable dent with my head.
The driver never saw me at all — they were looking to the left at houses.
This happened at the south end of the Triangle, so my mother noisily insisted I never saw the car. From then on the Triangle was mowed.
I saw the car, of course. I was trying to avoid wiping out in gravel, but nobody argues with all-knowing Mother-Dear. (In other words, it wasn’t worth it.)
My crushed bike was repaired, and I rode it until I outgrew it, at which point my father decided to recondition his ancient balloon-tire 26-inch Columbia.
This is what we fell into. My father was not about to spring for no new bike when an old bike could be reconditioned for a song.
But the Columbia, flashy as it was in its shiny new red paint (which was all that had been done), was like riding a battleship. All the bearings were still rusty, so it pedaled and steered hard.
My parents decided I needed a better bicycle, so we traded the Columbia for another reconditioned bike, this one blue. It rode easier, but soon began derailing its chain.
We decided to move on to another, the RollFast, a bloated cruiser-bike with a tank, a horn, a radio, a headlight (and taillight), and front-suspension. (The horn and radio didn’t work; nor did the lights.) The extent of its reconditioning was that somebody had repainted it with a brush using red-lead primer and aluminum — probably the previous owner.
The shop never reconditioned it. I had to paint it myself: black. It promptly blew both tires, and I had to buy new whitewalls at the bike-shop in Haddonfield with my own money. In fact, I had to order them.
Soon after we moved to Delaware I stripped it; not unlike my sister’s bike, which broke the front fork at the stem on the downhill at Mountwell Pool in Haddonfield. Her bike was brown — another reconditioned special.
The front axle of the RollFast broke, so my father had someone thread similar-sized rod (bar; whatever) at his oil refinery (Tidewater). It was slightly longer.
I also flipped the handlebars, so that it sat somewhat like a 10-speed racer. This is “Old Reliable.” I rode it many times to Pennsy’s Edgemoor Yard, including the giant hill on Shipley next to the quarry off Route 13.
Later I made an eight-inch deep rectangular varnished plywood box with a “Hufton” decal, that fit where a rear rack would. I took it to Houghton my junior year. It could carry textbooks in the box.
I loaned it to Clay Glickert for a senior jaunt, and he destroyed the front suspension. He was hammering the daylights out of it (jumping, pogoing) trying to break it.
I had to bury it (with great ceremony) in a woody ravine. It was royally busted.
The following summer I bought a light-weight English bicycle in a shop on King St. in Wilmington. I stripped it. It had the three-speed Sturmey-Archer rear axle activated by a cable hooked to a handlebar-lever. I also repainted the frame and flipped the handlebars. I sprayed it yellow with translucent red model-car lacquer on the yellow. (It looked like a fireball.)
I took it to Houghton my senior year and rode it everywhere. I was known as “Free-wheelin’ Hughes.” I’d chain it to the step-railing at chapel, and rode in the country when I tired of study.
But its days were numbered. During summer-school after my senior year, I rode some guy’s cheap Schwinn 10-speed, and it was light as a feather.
So shortly after we got married I bought a Frejus 10-speed “Tour de France” from George Rennie Bike Shop in Rochester for $135, a princely sum at that time.
It came with sew-up tires glued to the rims with rubber-cement (or is it concrete?), but they were so fragile (and cantankerous) I swapped for clincher rims and battleship tires that could better cope with Rochester’s awful streets (often littered with broken glass).
I rode that bicycle for years, and modified it a lot. (I still have it.) I replaced the front-fork after it got pranged hitting a car-door. I also converted it to 18-speed; three on the front and six on the back — out of which I used eight. We rode with the Rochester Bicycle Club some, and I noticed it was heavy compared to state-of-the-art. It weighed 26 pounds.
So I bought a DeRosa double-butted steel frame, and fitted it with all Campagnello parts — the quintessential Italian racing bicycle. This was when Jap parts (Shimano) were becoming supreme, and Campy was falling behind.
I had to have the shop (Towner’s Bicycles) assemble it, as I didn’t have time.
My other mistake was not using a Cannondale fat-tube aluminum frame. This was when Cannondale was only selling complete bicycles.
I rode a fat-tube, and it was so stiff it felt heavy (although it wasn’t). But the seat/bars/wheels/pedals on my DeRosa are fabulous. Plus the frame-dimensions are perfect.
But the DeRosa is too resilient. The bottom-bracket twists when you pump, allowing a front chainwheel to scrape the rear frame.
I can correct this, but doing so makes the front derailleur inoperable.
So what I would like to do is get a fat-tube and fit all my good stuff to it, plus Shimano parts (brakes, derailleurs, etc.).
Supposedly a fat-tube is too stiff over distance, but I rarely ride over 30 miles.
posted by BobbaLew at 2:14 PM
0 Comments:
Post a Comment
<< Home