I mentioned over on Discussions that I've been into vintage bicycles lately. I thought I'd tell the story of one project that I've actually completed.
Here is my childhood bicycle, long-lost but never-forgotten, moldering quietly in my grandparents' basement, where she slept for nearly forty years.
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I rode this when we lived in Vancouver, Canada, which would have been around 1970. The bike was likely bought in Canada, and may have been new, or maybe not, as we were pretty poor. Dad was a grad student on a post doc at the University. Mom was not in the picture. I was a 7 y/o boy, mostly a latchkey kid, entertaining myself with Star Trek re-runs, Legos, building plastic models, blowing those up in the vacant lot with my friends, and riding all over the city on my bike. I remember pedaling into downtown Vancouver to visit a shop that sold Hot Wheels. Perhaps on that trip, I also remember shoplifting a Hot Wheel, and then being so ashamed by my deed that I never stole anything ever again.
When we were kids, bikes were our magic carpets. How else could a little kid travel for miles, explore distant lands, experience speed, all far from his parent who in any case wasn't coming home until late that night? Of course, my friends' bikes were StingRays and they jumped and skidded them all over the dirt lots, while I watched glumly from my hopelessly uncool French ten-speed.
It didn't help that the bike was way too big for me. At first, I couldn't even stand over it, much less mount or dismount. I still remember how my dad taught me to ride. We went to the top of a hill in a local park. He placed me on the bike, gave me a push, and set me rolling down a winding asphalt path. My instructions were to coast down the path until it was about to end, then steer off onto the grass and JUMP OFF. Which I did, faithfully, bike and boy tumbling amidst a cloud of grass and dirt. Again and again.
How this taught me to ride, I have no idea, but somehow it did, and even though I still couldn't stand over my bike, I rode her everywhere for three years. Then we moved. The bike was shipped across the continent, and ended up in this basement, minus pedals and seat. Here she stayed, while a forest of old boxes, scrap wood, discarded pipe, and household junk grew up around it.
Forty years later, I pulled my old Peugeot into the light and wondered.
I wondered about shipping the bike home and restoring her for my son. But I had doubts. This bike wasn't a museum piece in NOS (new old stock) condition. I rode her hard and put her away wet.
Around that time, I also remember being in the habit of stuffing my G.I. Joe full of firecrackers and blowing his clothes off. He still guards our upstairs window, plastic rifle at the ready, but looks the worse for wear.
Heedless child, battered bike. The paint was badly chipped and flaked, leather seat missing, all the cables toasted. It was going to be a lot of work to restore to riding condition.
And what did the bike think about it? I couldn't tell. She was deeply asleep, wasn't speaking to me. Maybe she wanted to have another boy excitedly pumping her pedals and leaning through the rushing curves. Or maybe she was old and tired and just wanted to moulder away in her dark basement.
I packed the bike up and shipped it home, and have been working on it ever since.
My son and I just took a first ride through the neighborhood, around the park, and home. The bike worked perfectly. He figured out toe clips and bar end shifters right away. There was a tipover, with the inaugural mini-rash on the brake lever, but they were scratched up already and he was worried enough about "if he'd hurt his bike" that I'm thinking this little Peugeot's new rider will be a better caretaker than the last one was.
There was a moment. When my boy got up off the saddle, crouching in the drops, pumping the 50 tooth chainring and he and she were surging ahead. The bike woke, came alive, and was speaking again. Not to me. To my son. I was happy just to hear them.
In the park with a new bike!
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Getting to know each other.
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Just a little bling.
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The levers are right, now we need bar tape.
He's asked for a blue and black "harlequin wrap".
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I stripped the frame, had it cold-set to fit semi-modern spacing hubs, blasted and powder coated. Reproduction decals came from Australia. The original 1971 City of Vancouver registration sticker could not be saved, but I have photos to remember by.
I re-used the bottom bracket cups and bearings, the headset, and the skinny little seatpost. Nothing else was re-used. On closer inspection, the Simplex derailleurs were cracked beyond usability, the steel cottered crank was a boat anchor, and old steel rims make braking in the wet impossible. I sourced parts from the local bike co-op, eBay, my other bikes, and a friend gave me a perfect rear derailleur. I built the wheels, pieced together a drivetrain and gearing suited for his short legs and our local terrain, drilled and sanded incompatible components until they fit. Damn French and their idiosyncratic threading and diameters!
It was a fun project. I spent many hours in the garage, fitting and cleaning and assembling my old bike. She became prettier and more complete each week, but like Sleeping Beauty, ruby lips cold and still, she never woke, never spoke, until my boy was gripping her bars and racing her down the smooth gray asphalt, wind rushing and a child laughing.
centralcacyclist
ann_t
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