many months later Not much to report, cycling-wise, but much has happened in my life. I pretty much stopped riding anywhere but to work and back in early August, so I could help take care of young Eli. As we hit the last stages of Ana's pregnancy, I really couldn't go too far from home. So I rode Julius the Mercian fixed-gear to work and back each day and that was it.

Our daughter Claire was born in early December. It was a difficult labor, and Ana's recovery was long, slow and painful. Everyone is doing quite nicely now, but there was no time for anything other than babies and work. During the weekends and the long Christmas holidays I got a better understanding of what Ana does all day. With both a toddler AND a newborn, you get a break when both of them are asleep. What to do? Instead of Tom Ritchey's cycling choice - light, cheap or strong, choose two - you get the multiple babies choice - eat, sleep or shower, choose ONE. But be quick about it, because the babies are gonna wake up any minute now.

Then one day it's Spring Break, and you're home with the family ... and the weather's nice ... and your wonderful, loving, gracious spouse says, "Go ride."

So I did. Last Friday it was a short hop, my first pleasure ride in seven months. I wiped the dust off Belle the Rivendell and lubed the chain and pumped up the tires and headed out, taking the rail trail to Wisewood, then looping around to 225 and riding Florida Avenue end to end before working my way home past Sunnyside on Dargan Street. It was a whopping 12.9 miles at a blistering 13.8 mph, but it beats nothing anyday. I had mixed feelings - yeah, I'm slow and out of shape, but it still felt really good to be on a bike again.

Later that afternoon we took the kids to Cambridge Park, where I encountered Tom Austin and his family. He was busy helping his daughters with the swingset, but he took time to talk with me about bikes gathering dust while us aging guys with babies need to stay young. We agreed that they don't get any lighter as they get older, either. It was good to see him again, and reflect back on his concern over my mountain biking when I first started riding again after the heart attack.

Saturday the babies were spending the day with their grandmother and Ana was going out of town to go shopping. I wanted to ride, but not by myself - Ana had the cell in the car with her. A few emails later I learned there was a benefit ride leaving the hospital at 11:00. Violating my rule of always riding to the ride, I drove down to Food Lion and bought some canned goods for the food drive, then ferried them and my bike to Self Regional's parking lot.

I had time to chill out and socialize some with folks I used to ride with all the time - Donnis, Jim Cox, Tom, Jeff "Pepe" Ronan, Dieter, John Lake, Mark the Engineer ... even good old Ernest, astride his magnificent old Polchlopek. I raved about it as always - an Italianate racing bike in its original stars and stripes paint job built in France by a Polish emigre is not something you see everyday. especially in South Carolina. Jackie showed up astride the '69 Mercian Olympic that Mike Melton rebuilt back in '72 or so, before I got it and had CyclArt powdercoat it and fitted it with good, retro parts.

Finally, it was time to take off. It was a leisurely, sociable ride, so we rolled out of the lot and went down Spring Street. We had police officers wave us through a couple of intersections before we turned off onto the rail trail. I rode briefly with a couple of different groups before settling in with the bunch that included Jackie and Donnis.

There was a loud report ahead of me. A second later, Ernest was slowing and pulling off with a blowout. I slowed long enough to learn he and his companions had all they needed to make repairs and headed on to catch back up with the others.

I didn't realize it at the time, but in hindsight something told me to go on up. I told Jackie I was on her left and accelerated. I want to say a couple of other riders were behind me, but I'm not sure, now. Anyway, a moment later I was about 30 to 50 yards ahead of that bunch when I heard the unmistakable sounds of people and bikes colliding and hitting the ground.

I turned and headed back. The first thing I saw was the distinctive forks of the old Mercian Olympic, holding up a dramatically taco'ed front wheel. Jackie was down on the left side of the trail in a near fetal position, while a lady I would later learn was named Amy was down with what emerged to be a couple of broken ribs. My understanding was that a rider in front and to the right of Jackie had merged inward on the trail, striking her front wheel and putting her down, whereupon Amy slammed into her.

Jim by this point was winging his way back to the crash site. After a moment, he headed back to fetch a car, while John Lake escorted the wounded to the trail head. I rode with a bunch of folks up to the end of the trail, where we waited for everyone to arrive. The ride leader (who I never got around to meeting) announced that he would take everyone back on in, as the ride was pretty much over. I told Dieter I would be riding on, and he volunteered to join me. Jim and Caroline Dennis, who had been well back of the action, caught up to us, and there was some discussion of different routes. It was decided that John would do a short ride with the Dennises, and Dieter and I would do a variant of the old Wednesday evening ride.

We waited until Jim had returned, all bikes were loaded up, and both Amy and Jackie were seated and en route to the emergency room before we set off. We wound up doing a slow little ride along the lines of 18 miles or so at 13 mph average speed, about what I expected. The route was a version of the old Wednesday night ride, I struggled up Scotch Cross road, thanked Dieter for the ride and loaded up and went home.

Sunday afternoon I snuck out for a sub-one-hour ride, taking Belle the Rivendell out the length of the trail before working in a loop that got me home in time to get cleaned up and take the whole family out to the park again. All in all, a good day.

See you out there on the road, with any kinda luck at all.  ¶ 1:30 PM 1 comments links to this post

  of Rivendells and rain So Eli went down for his nap and it was time to go ride. I went down into the basement and looked around at the bikes. It was Belle's turn in the rotation, I decided, so I pumped up the tires and headed out.

I was rolling into downtown when I noticed just how dark the sky was getting. Hmm. Still, I pushed on, because I wanted to ride. I shifted up onto the large chainring and settled into a rhythm, rolling down the rail-trail conversion. For the zillionth time, I noticed how stable and steady the Rivendell runs and thanked Grant Petersen for designing it.

I have moments when I think, "I'll never get to ride brevets, and Paris-Brest-Paris isn't going to happen for me. I don't need this bike." Then I ride it and think, "I really, really like this bike. How crazy it would be to let go of it."

I was turning onto Florida Avenue when the rain started, first as a drizzle, then picking up in intensity as I cut through Wisewood subdivision. I wound up taking shelter on a church's front porch. After about five minutes, it slowed down to a slight drizzle again, and I headed on out.

Water sprayed off my tires and all over my ankles and throughout the drivetrain. I have fenders for this bike, and for a couple of years they stayed on it constantly. I took them off so I could get ready to ride out West, though. Those lovely fenders are sitting hanging on a rod in the basement as I write this, and isn't that a foolish place for them to be?

I shivered a bit initially - I got cold waiting on the church's porch in wet cycling togs, even in July, but once I got back up to speed I warmed up. I left the chain on the big ring and kept switching back and forth between the 19 and the 21T cogs, occasionally dropping onto the 17T for the gentle descents. The sun started playing peek-a-boo with the rain. By the time I reached Highway 248 the sun was shining steadily. I did the old loop out past the high school -

But why am I writing about the route? It's the same route I do over and over again, because time is tight these days. It's bare maintenance mileage, and if I was one of those humorless geeks who takes Bicycling magazine seriously, I'd probably call it garbage miles. But any ride is a good ride, and this was a good ride by that measure, rain and all.

It started clouding up again as I got closer to Greenwood, flagging a bit on the climb up Lebanon Church Road, then picking up the pace again on the Canadian Mist Highway. The rain started again about the time I crossed Main Street and headed down Florida Avenue towards the rail-trail. I gingerly picked my way through the gravel in the turn onto the trail, then accelerated as well as I could. At one point, I startled what looked like a Disney scene - eight birds exploded into flight, while two squirrels AND a bunny rabbit raced off into the woods.

The rain slacked off again. I rolled home with 30 miles for the day - and an opportunity to clean road grit from the Rivendell.

The fenders might have to go back on that bike.  ¶ 9:47 PM 0 comments links to this post

  of pretentious restrooms and ungovernable mules Still living the life of a man with a very young son and a very pregnant wife - which, as a cyclist, means Saturday morning rides after Eli goes down for his nap and not much else.

A couple of Saturdays back, Ainsley and I met up and rode down to Ninety Six. I wasn't sure if anyone else would show, or if Ainsley would be there or not - but his sweetie was taking care of his daughter, freeing him up for a ride. Had I known he would have been there, I'd have ridden fixed, but I wound up riding Belle the Rivendell because it was her turn in the rotation.

I soon found myself grateful for gears. Ainsley's been getting in his week night rides, and even turning a 65-in fixed-gear with 35 mm tires, he made me work to hang with him. We did the usual route, because that's about all I do these days.

I foolishly suggested we try the new coffee house in Ninety Six. Mistake. When you show up at a coffee house at 11:00 a.m., and they don't have ANY coffee brewed yet - just flee, just flee. But no, we persisted, and wound up ordering coffee. Unfortunately, we discovered it was both weak and some sort of hazelnut flavored crap that overpowered what real coffee flavor was there. Most disappointing.

Before leaving I went to visit the loo. I wound up taking photos of it, because it was the most pretentious public toilet I'd seen in my life - and they screwed that up, too. Oh, yeah, fancy clear glass bowl sink, but it's right next to the same old funky gas station toilet that's been there since 1968 or whenever.

I meant it when I said pretentious - even more so than the men's room at the Fox Theatre in Atlanta, so rococo and Arabian nights in its look that I had to bite my tongue to keep from asking the attendant to point the way to Mecca, please.

Anyhoo, we rode on back in, getting me home by 1:00 with about 30 miles.

The following Saturday I rode downtown to meet Donnis and Connie and Vonona - only to discover they had already left. I was aboard Django the Peugeot, and grateful for gears and sewups and metric gauge Reynolds 531 that "planed" beneath me. You know, the whole "planing" effect, wherein the natural springiness of a lively steel bike works with the rider, as opposed to the brutal, unforgiving rigidity of modern bikes in which stiffness is equated with performance - and then people need carbon fibre and gel to absorb road shock. I gave chase about as well as an out-of-shape guy on a 40-year-old bike gives chase, i.e., I didn't catch up until the very end, when I saw them ahead of me turning into a parking lot. Still, I got in something like 25-28 miles - Django has no electronics still, and I wore no watch, for that matter. Not bad, and I'll take any miles I can get.

Last weekend I met Ainsley at his house, this time astride Julius the Mercian fixed-gear. We had high hopes as we set out for Ninety Six - but it was not to be. Before we got downtown, I was hearing a squeak I couldn't name, coming from somewhere behind me. It got louder as we went along, until finally we could stand it no longer. At the end of the rail trail, we stopped and discovered one of the cones in Ainsley's rear hub had migrated in, away from the locknut. Eek.

I leaned Julius against a post, noting the feral shopping cart guarding the trail's end. It was a Piggly Wiggly cart, from the store that was no longer there, a grocery conveyance with no parking lot to call its own, no place to call home. A sad and lonely existence, as Ainsley and I have noted before.

This time, though, we were out of luck. A pack of speedier guys (well, speedier than I am these days) rolled up.

"Look, homeless people," one said.

After noting our mechanical difficulty, one wag said, "well, you've got that book bag full of tools on your bike, Russ. Can I borrow a truing stand to fix my wheel while we're standing around here?"

"I'm sorry, it's behind the frame alignment table, and I don't think I'd ever get it back in place," I said.

After a moment, they sped off. Ainsley decided he needed to go back home to fix his bike, so I set off for Ninety Six alone. It was the usual thing, I suppose, down the long hill to Lowden Road, and then slogging up to Star Fort. After doing the usual route past the high school, up 246, then down the main drag, I headed for home.

On Lebanon Church Road, I looked to the left and realized that (1) there as a mule staring at me and (2) said mule was standing in someone's front yard, rather than in a fenced pasture. He was in a generous patch of shade, which he had doubtless gone to great lengths to get to. As I rolled up the hill pushing a 72-in gear slower than I wished to, I concluded he was onto something. As I sweated while doing same, I also suspected the mule was smarter than I am.

The rest of the ride in was anticlimactic, except for a final moment when it looked like I might meet my end at the wheels of a whole pack of feral shopping carts on Mineral Avenue - but no, I eluded them successfully. I wound up with 30.3 miles for the day.  ¶ 9:51 PM 0 comments links to this post

  Folly Beach vacation cycling, part deux
When you have a 1-year-old and a pregnant wife, you ride when you get the chance, no matter how short a ride, or how hot the hour, or how touristy the route. You ride because you ride, because making perfect circles with your feet makes perfect sense to you even when no one else understands.

With that in mind, and recognizing that now, in the air-conditioned comfort of my living room on my first afternoon back, the rides blurred together some, here is how the rest of my Folly Beach cycling time went. I would go in the morning, after Eli had awakened and eaten his breakfast. We were delighted that he made huge strides in managing finger food this past week, especially when eating toast. This is huge - it means we can set him up in his high chair and he can simultaneously feed himself at his own pace AND amuse himself for a considerable length of time while doing so. Those of you who have or have had babies will understand completely. Anyway, then we would troop down to the beach for a short, 20-minute or so tramp along the water's edge sans sunscreen. Badger 30 spf + baby + sand = messy meltdown in the tub with much wailing and gnashing of baby teeth, don't you know. After that, he'd go down for his nap and I'd change into shorts and a jersey and head out.

The route didn't deviate too much, really - I'd head west down Ashley, sometimes staying arrow-true all the way down to the county park at the west end of the island, other times winding around on the assorted parallels that started around 12th St. I came to know and love E. Cooper, just as arrow-straight and stop-sign-free, but with much less motor traffic. Erie and Hudson and Huron, how I love your little dumpy beach shacks, stubbornly resisting the march of the enormous beachfront mansions and balcony-laden condos. Not a single dog barked or chased me. Motorists all gave me 3-foot clearance or more when they passed me, and I returned the compliment when I passed them on the long narrow strip between 13th and the 1500 block.

I was surprised when I nearly collided with a rat down on W. Ashley, and concluded they were exceptionally bold due to a distinct shortage of cats - I saw exactly one during my whole stay there.

On my way out to the west end on Friday, I overtook this couple on recumbent trikes. The first time, I said, "hey, there's nothing to draft off of behind y'all!" They were amused, and told me they liked their low-riding machines just fine. We chatted briefly, then I pointed the old Peugeot back to the east.

I swung into the yard at Folly Beach Pedal Pushers, a combination bike rental and bike taxi service. The owner was a friendly enough guy wearing long swim trunks, a ponytail and many tattoos, who seemed genuinely sorry he didn't have any vintage French parts or leather saddles in his stockpile.

"Just beach cruisers and bmx, man. No older quality stuff, but thanks for asking." Foolishly, I neglected to get a photo of him with his velo pile - you've never seen so much scrap iron masquerading as bikes in your life.

Back down to the east end of the island now, passing one truck one morning, drafting off another on Friday. The big ring, the 52T, the dinner plate, whatever term you want, that was what I spun along on down that long flat with the prevailing wind at my back. I actually used the 52 x 14 combo, the top gear, 100.3-in, a gear big enough to win races when I was a small boy, and the old bike would leap under me until I tired and began shifting down, down to the 16T, then down to 52 x 18, something in the mid-to-high 70s, but still feeling good all the long way down to the barricade and the path to see the Morris Island lighthouse.

One morning I stopped and leaned the bike against a pole while I rested and swilled down plastic-tasting water from the bidon. Whups, I realized, Folly Beach is broken glass central. You've never seen so many shattered bottles in your life. Then I went to move Django and lo and behold there were three of the nastiest, gnarliest cacti you've ever seen in your life attached to my front tire. The thorns were sharp, slender, and longer than most sewing needles. I very respectfully detached them from the tubular, having visions of a puncture and a shame-filled walk down the road.

Our last night there, my brother-in-law encountered the cacti the hard way - as in, he deviated from the path to get a better photo, then looked down to discover his sandals were covered with the beasts. By the time it was all over, two of my sisters-in-law also had thorns buried in their hands and were waiting for the tiniest needles to emerge on their own.

Another morning I rode down all the way to where the pavement turned to sand and walked up the path, pushing Django through the loose sand up over the dune to the viewing spot. The lighthouse was cool, and I took a couple of classic bike-geek photos that would have been the very thing for a cover shot of Bicycling! magazine, back during the years when they had the exclamation point in the title.

Earlier today, we packed everything up and drove back, Eli in his rocket seat, trunk packed full beyond belief, and the ancient Peugeot strapped down to the rack. For a change, it didn't rain. On the way out of town I saw bunches of club riders heading out towards the island, humorlessly sucking each others wheels and dropping their buddies behind just like the bike magazines say you should do.

Total mileage on the bike last week for me? I dunno, maybe 60 miles or so over four rides. Who cares, right? Seek to amass, not miles, but experiences, and all that.  ¶ 2:31 PM 0 comments links to this post

  Folly Beach, or The Cyclist On Vacation
We drove to Folly Beach to take part in the big extended family vacation. Seeing as this is a cycling-oriented blog, it's enough to note that it's been a lovely vacation so far, and it's nice to see everyone again.

On the road, it was my wife, our 1-year-old son and yours truly, with Django the incredible patinated piebald Peugeot PX-10E riding on the rack at the back of the Prius. Of course it rained with increasing heaviness as we approached the coast, finally just thumping down in great wet thuds on the windshield. I've learned the hard way that if I carry a bike somewhere on a car rack, it's gonna rain. This time around I had double-wrapped the saddle and saddlebag with plastic shopping bags tied 'round the seatpost. When we got to town, we called Ana's mother and learned that the keys provided by the realtors didn't work. Ahem. Ana's cousin managed to find a way in, and we were able to unload about the time the rain stopped.

The next morning I slipped out for a ride. I pointed the bike towards the western end of the island and found myself down in the drops and fighting the wind, going back and forth between the 45x20 and the 45x18, depending on the gusts. When I hit the tree-lined part of East Ashley, I was able to turn the bigger gear with greater ease.

At the intersection of Ashley and 12th, I slowed, waited for traffic to pass, and looped back for a second look. Yup, it was a bike in a trash heap at the side of the road, a yellow Specialized Rockhopper from 20 years back. No wheels, bottom headset race missing crucial bits, some rust, torn saddle - the usual. It had the infamous BioPace chainrings and a U-brake attached under the chainstays. I wavered - but no, it's not my size, I have enough bikes in the basement anyway, I'm on vacation, and this one time I could pass up the opportunity to trashpick a decent bike.

Of course, if it had been my size, say, or something old, French, and made of good tubing - but no, no. Ride on, and so I did, down the leafy tunnel of road past houses that became smaller and "shackier" as I approached town. I stopped for the traffic light, then bumped across the intersection and continued on. Finally, I reached the park at the end of the island. I turned around, and immediately could feel the wind at my back. Up onto the big ring, then settling into the 52x18, occasionally picking it up to the 16T during sustained gusts.

The tubulars sang, despite the bumpbumpbump of the lump in the back tire, and the old bike floated over the not-so-great pavement. Birds exploded away from the trashbins by the side of the road as I zipped along, occasionally overtaking couples and families on hybrids and cruisers and mountain bikes. I would occasionally see riders going the other way on road bikes or tandems, and unlike some areas, these riders actually waved - take note, Greenville wannabe racers.

I rode back past the house, bound for the other end of the island, the wind pushing me along, down in the drops and feeling nicely warm. Down past the last house to the cul-de-sac, and then working my way through the barricade and following the cracked old asphalt towards the beach, stopping where the pavement ended and turning back. I went back a ways and explored the side streets, digging the laid-back ambience and the older, funkier places before riding back to the house in time to watch my son play with his aunts and his grandmama.

I have no clue how many miles I had for the day - no electronics on this bike, and there's a lot to be said for that some days. No directeur sportif, nobody paying me to ride the bike, not even some jerk feeling the need to be alpha dog and lead a testosterone-fueled, drop-yer-buddies, eat-the-wounded, Buycycling-magazine-influenced hammerfest. Just one guy in this 40s riding a beat-up old racing bike like the one he wanted when he was a kid, and having a wonderful time.  ¶ 9:23 PM 0 comments links to this post

  The return of the Peugeot
Earlier this week, I managed to hook up the brakes on the PX-10. Last night I went down into the basement and glued on the tires, wrapped the bars with some old Bennotto tape scavenged years ago, fitted toe straps with buckle pads, and attached a handlebar mounted bottle cage.

My plan was to ride the fixed-gear Mercian on today's ride with Ainsley. It didn't seem prudent to ride a bike that hadn't been tested yet. But after I put Eli down for his morning nap, the lure of metric-gauge Reynolds 531 was just too much to resist. I had time for a quick spin around the block, just long enough to tell me that I wanted to adjust the saddle height. I ran back down into the basement and grabbed a 12 mm box-end wrench, a 6 mm allen key, and a multi-tool and threw the lot into a jersey pocket. A second water bottle went into the middle pocket, and wallet and pencam went into the last pocket. I was going to risk it.

Heading back out, I ran into Ainsley. We both said hello to Dr. Fox, who was tending the edge of his garden by the road where we met, then bolted for downtown. Vonona drove up behind us on Grace Street and passed us at the intersection near the two churches. A moment later, I was working my way through the narrowing gap, then weaseling around the blocked-off area set aside for a vintage auto show.

We snapped a couple of shots while waiting for Vonona to unpack, and I adjusted my saddle angle and height for the second time that morning. After a brief discussion, we decided to set off for Ninety Six.

Going down the rail-trail conversion, I mentioned to Ainsley that the handlebars felt awfully narrow - which is period-correct, right? The drops might have been 42 cm, but the tops felt like 38s, which might have made Daniel Rebour happy, but the jury was still out for me. I also wondered if I had a bent pedal spindle, or if the bike was aligned correctly.

I wonder, now. Moments later, the bike felt - right. Like, really, really, just right.

"Ainsley, you know that theory that things take on aspects of their owner's personality?"

He nodded.

"If there's any truth to that, whoever owned this bike before liked to make it go fast."

And it was true. There's no telling where Joe B-Z got this bike from originally, but I know PX-10s from this era were popular with the Metropolitan Cycling Association back when. The ancient, battered Peugeot has the same vibe as Stripe, my equally battered old Mercian Colorado racing bike. It just wants to GO, even if I don't have what it takes to make it go fast.

Near the intersection of Scotch Cross and 25, Ainsley said, "Dog right." And sure enough, a middle-sized canine came rushing up, barking and running alongside for a moment before veering back off. I snapped something impolite at him, then realized what I'd said and laughed.

"Ainsley, I can tell I'm riding a Peugeot. I just cursed at a dog in French."

He thought that was pretty amusing. We slowed up and waited for Vonona, then headed down the long hill towards Ninety Six. When we passed Pembroke Road and started down the fast part of the slope, I dropped down into the hooks and shifted up onto the 52t ring. Again, the bike just wanted to GO, and was surprisingly stable and secure.

Ainsley took the long way into town, while I escorted Vonona in past the golf course. A few minutes later, we pulled up at the bakery. I snapped a couple of pix of the bike, doing what I could with the pencam. We hung out waiting for Ainsley, who wound up getting a package of their fresh sticky buns and a loaf of bread - and yes, it all fit into his Carradice saddlebag.

I asked the proprietress about whole wheat stuff and was told they're working on it. I'll keep my fingers crossed - local whole wheat bread could be very good. After a while we mounted up and headed back towards town. I fiddled with the shifters, finding the crossover point in the gearing and grateful I'd ridden fixed as much as I have. It occurred to me that of all the PX-10s I've had, this was the only one I'd ridden with stock gearing. I had a few sloppy shifts - 30-year old Atom freewheels don't always mesh well with modern chains - but in general, everything worked very nicely.

As always, with any new bike I have to come up with a name. "Django" seems to fit, and this bike is a keeper. Repeat, a keeper. Just really nice handling, and lots zippier than people give PX-10s credit for - especially the ones with original geometry unchanged from c. 1953. It was a pleasant ride, and I wound up with something around 25 miles for the day - sorry for the lack of precision, but I haven't fitted any electronics to the bike.  ¶ 9:11 PM 0 comments links to this post

  tubulars I still haven't glued the Panaracer tubulars onto the Peugeot's rims, but I did have time to go through my stash of old tubies. Surprise, surprise, surprise - I appear to have some good spares!

Well - sort of. What I've got is an ancient Gommitalia with somewhat abraded sidewalls but a good rimstrip that holds air. I've also got a pair of Continental Triathlons left over from the last time I rode sewups, which means they've been kicking around unused for seven or eight years. They both were rebuilt by TireAlert, which means the rim strips are a little dodgy. That may not be TireAlert's fault - apparently, Continental's tubies are noted for being hard to fit with new rim strips. At the same time, I still remember July 4, 2000, when I spent almost an hour in the sun picking damaged rimstrip bits off my rim so I could fit a spare and ride home from the middle of nowhere, Abbeville County.

There's a third Conti Triathlon, but it appears to be shot, and has no rimstrip. Adios. And finally, there's a nice Wolber that Dieter gave me that needs yet another rimstrip, but appears otherwise sound and whole. At any rate, I'll have something I can strap up under my saddle when I ride out, just to be sure I can crawl back home in the event of a flat.

All of this is a real flashback. I first started riding tubulars in, what, 1978? 1979? I remember the bike - my much-missed Puch Royal X, the first bike I ever had with a Reynolds 531 frameset. It was pretty much an Austrian version of a PX-10, even down to having less than perfect finish work and white paint that chipped if you looked at it crossly. I'd been riding the bike's stock wheels, which were frankly pretty junky. Normandy Sport hubs laced to basic Weinmann 27-in clincher rims. I'd been trying to use the newly introduced Michelin Elan tires, and no one was telling folks that those required a hook-beaded rim. I was having lots of blow outs - heh - and finally decided, enough. I'll go to tubulars.

I had my first sewup wheels built by George Crook at Bikeways of Atlanta, the same guy who sold me the Puch. They were Mavic Montlhery eyeletted rims built up onto Weyless sealed bearing hubs, a pretty trick combo for the time. The hubs were considered suitable for riders weighing 155 or less, which worked fine for me at 125, my adolescent weight. The tires were Hutchinson Super Sprints. The standard tires on assorted French and English bikes, the Super Sprints were much maligned. Mine worked beautifully, especially the front one, which had a latex tube. It was the only Hutchinson I ever encountered with one of those.

Later on, I tried early Panaracer nylon tires. Too fragile. I didn't get much use out of my first one, which succumbed to a sidewall cut. The funky black Wolber I used on the back for a while worked pretty well, at the expense of being really ugly. I think those were on the tires that were on the Puch when I sold it in '87 to buy a Fender Vibroluxe Reverb amplifier.

When I got back into the cycling world, and tubulars, I bought some cheap Clements, basic vulcanized rubber things. They were okay, and I can't remember where those went. I know I used them on various PX-10s and Gitanes I had, and I think I was using some on my old Trek fixed-gear c. 1999. Then I got out of the tubular world sometime in late 2000, and went to clinchers only.

Sure, I didn't have to sew up tires after repairing punctures. But I missed the springiness of tubies. I just hope I feel that way the next time I have a flat somewhere with one ...  ¶ 8:59 PM 1 comments links to this post