The Shattered Record

It began because I wanted a so-called "beater bike" - for leaving at bus stations for days at a time and such. This was a role hitherto filled by an old Viking mixte I'd found discarded last summer. But in my eyes the Viking was actually too good for the job and indeed I had other plans for it. Was there not something even more nondescript and decrepit I could get my hands on? I presented this challenge to my friend Bryan (aka "Elton John," of the hub/derailleur dumpster Kalkhoff fame) and he did not let me down. "I have just the bike for you," he said reassuringly, "...though I doubt you will want to feature it on your blog!" It sounded perfect.

A Celestial Disguise

The summer evenings are long in Ireland. After a spirited ride through the Sperrin mountains there were still plenty of daylight hours left, and I had settled in to spend them quietly and productively - tending to my velo stable, darning socks, and setting up to make a fresh batch of potcheen in the bathtub - when all the sudden the telephone rang.

“I got something here you might like to see,” said a voice full of hushed urgency. It could only be about one thing.

Putting my important evening plans on hold, I got on my bike and raced down the road to my friend Owen's house, as the sun bathed the fields in a deep golden glow.

Hybrid Gearing in the Wild: a 6-Speed Hub x Derailleur 'Collabo'

On my Brompton folding bicycle I have a drivetrain that most people who notice it find innovative and exotic: a 3-speed hub combined with a 2-speed derailleur. "Leave it to those engineers to come up with a solution like that!" a man on a train exclaimed the other day, awed by the eccentric pulley and cog medley. But while exotic it may be, mixed hub/derailleur gearing is hardly innovative - considering it dates back to the late 1930s, when the Birmingham-based Cyclo Gear Company began offering conversion kits for turning one's hub into just such a drivetrain, as a means of achieving a wider gear range.

Aye, Claudia! Fast Times with an Early Claud Butler Mixte

"An unusual design of particularly rigid type and pleasing in appearance," boasts the 1936 Claud Butler Catalogue about their new mixte framed bicycle. Judging by earlier catalogues, a Lady Lightweight model had been on offer for at least three years by this time. However, its initial and rather unremarkable step-through iteration must have proven less than fully satisfying to the manufacturer. Enter this new "open-frame machine of rigid design" offering "strength in the right places, but with lightness and easy running." Indeed, this Lady’s Machine had "all the advantages of the Gent’s diamond frame type" whilst being "specially designed to be suitable for both rational costumes and skirts, absolutely rigid and comfortable." Amazingly, all of this was achieved “inside 26 lb."

Turning Heads (and Headtubes!) On a 19th Century Rudge

In the realm of collecting old things, a distinction is generally made between the vintage and the antique - the latter typically defined as being over 100 years old. When it comes to bicycles, my interest in this category has been limited to detached historical curiosity at best. It’s not that I don’t appreciate early two-wheeled machines. But oftentimes they are just too far removed from the bicycle as we know it today, for them to register in my brain as bikes and excite me on the same tactile, visceral level.

Unboxing an Oscar Egg

For one accustomed to currently-made, constructeur-inspired machines, seeing one of the originals can be a surreal experience. All the imitated elements - from the intricate lugwork, to the fat 650B tires, to the artful chaincase and elegant rack, even to the colour of the paint - are there. And yet the bicycle looks and feels different from the modern remakes. In some ways it feels like a book illustration come to life, more than a real bike. 

Knowing When to Let Go: Are Old Bikes Always Worth Rescuing?

Sometimes I think I'm a bad influence. Like, when a friend phones last week, excited by her two-wheeled vintage find. "You'll appreciate this - I think it's a mixte!" She texts over a picture. 

"What do you think?"

Meditations on Early Ruin

Doing errands in the city today, I spotted a woman rolling what I took to be a pre-1960s loop frame roadster. From my vantage point across the street, the bike had a look about it, suggesting it had known better days: a wobble to the front wheel, a crimp to the rear fender, a lumpiness to the saddle, an orangey aura around the black silhouette suggesting a generous coating of rust, and a general ramshackleness that marked it as a tired, creaky, longsuffering thing. The rod brakes and generator bottle corroborated my impression of its age. By the time I reached the bike, the woman had locked it up to a pole and disappeared into a building. Carefully I approached to examine the decals - or what remained visible of them, as most of the frame's surface was caked in dirt and blighted with all manner of exotic fungal growths. When I finally could make it out, the writing surprised me: Gazelle Toer Populair. At first I thought the owner might have plastered new decals onto an old frame. But identifying features in its construction confirmed that I was looking at a retro, not a vintage bicycle, made, at the earliest, in 2009.

Black and White

42 centimeters, or nearly 17 inches! Any guesses what that figure refers to? Go on, think about it before I tell you. Anyone? 

Over the past few weeks I've had under my guardianship two step-through bicycles that could not be more different from one another: a vintage Claud Butler Lady Lightweight that belongs to a friend, and a modern Mosi Carolina that was sent to me for review by the manufacturer. The former was essentially designed as a time trial bike (according to 1930s notions of what that entails) with all-arounder capability; the latter as a Dutch-style urban commuter. Switching back and forth between these machines has been an interesting experience - especially considering that 42cm is the difference in their handlebar heights! In fact I don't think I've ever ridden a bicycle that's quite as upright as the Mosi or quite as low-leaning as the Claud Butler. And to think that both of them can be described as step-throughs or "lady's bikes" - evoking a similar image while in reality being so different.

And yet, despite these differences what I found most striking about the two bikes was an attribute they had in common, aside from the low step-over: Both felt absolutely amazing to ride. Amazing in an entirely different way form one another, but amazing nonetheless, with each machine's handling feeling "just right" in the context of what that bike was meant to be. This is something not many people think about unless they are involved with product design or product reviews. But it is a core criterion based on which a product can be judged as successful. 

Recently, I was talking to a Belgian acquaintance who owns a shop selling European utility bikes, and who is also a former amateur road and track racer. In his opinion, if a Dutch-style bike feels "too upright" (and size/weight/fit are eliminated as the culprit), it is because there is a flaw in that model's design. A well-designed bicycle of its kind should feel as if it's supposed to be that upright, evoking an "Ooh, this is very different but very nice" type of reaction from even the roadiest of roadies, as opposed to a request to slam the stem. Similarly, a well designed utility bike of this type should not feel slow-rolling in action; subjectively it should feel as if its speed is just right for how fast you want to go while riding in that position. And he applies the same principle to what they refer to in continental Europe as "sports bikes" - that is, road-racing or touring bikes with drop bars. In theory, even to a rider new to the sporty side of cycling, a well designed roadbike should feel intuitive and safe after a minimal initiation period. If it doesn't, something is off. 

For the most part, I think I agree with this way of putting things. Though my own cycling experience so far is limited to just over 5 years, I've crammed a lot of pedaling time and a great number of bikes into those years. I have ridden bikes that did not feel "just right" to start with and so I'd try to wrangle them into being just right with mixed (usually not entirely successful!) results. I have also been lucky enough to ride bikes that have felt exactly right from the get-go. And the thing is, once you've had that experience you know it's possible. You know that not all bikes of the same category, even if they look similar and are similarly priced, are in fact the same in how well they perform the function they were designed to perform. 

Whether it is a city bike or a racing bike, or something in another category entirely, when a bike feels right we tend to know it. Sometimes it really is black and white.

Gone Postal

When the postman stopped by with today's mail, I doubt he expected to find a two-wheeled ancestor of his delivery machine in my yard. Yet that is exactly what happened.

"Ever ridden one of these?" I asked.

He shook his head vigorously. "How old is this thing anyway?" 

Beach Cycling and Its Contents

For years I've dreamt of combining two activities I love: riding my bike and swimming in the sea. Considering that Boston was right on the water, cycling to the beach proved a surprisingly elusive goal during my time there, with successful two-wheeled beach trips few and far between. But now that I live practically on the shore I am determined to make the most of it. 

But what are beaches like in Northern Ireland, you might ask with a suspicious shudder - picturing scenes of frigid waters and relentless winds, clusters of pallid holiday-makers in ponchos shivering on soggy sand as black clouds loom overhead. Well, in reality it isn't nearly that bad. For instance, when I first came here I was told it was too cold to swim without a wet suit. Foolishly, I believed this and didn't even try to go in the water at first. Then one hot day I walked in the waves and discovered the water was perfectly within the boundaries of what is considered swimmable in Northern New England! Not quite lukewarm, but not ice cold either - with a good half hour of swimming possible before cramping sets in and limbs begin turning blue. And to top it off, it is sunny nearly every day! Not for the entire day of course, but more like for an hour at a time in between bouts of fog and rain, but let's not be nitpicky here. Summer is here and the beach trips have commenced!

Though technically I live right on the water, the nearest official beach - staffed with lifeguards and lacking in dangerous riptides (well, relatively speaking) - is 3.5 miles away. It's a pleasant ride that can be accomplished on almost any bicycle. The easiest is to ride my Brompton, with its bottomless pit of a front basket into which I can throw anything a beachgoer could desire, laptop and portable wifi unit included. But really any bike that will accommodate a large Carradice-style saddlebag will do, and sometimes a faster bike can be more fun. 

On the bike I wear my regular street clothes, with shoes that are easy to slip on and off and underwear that can pass for a swimsuit. Some time ago I discovered that wool underwear - both short and long - feels amazing to wear in the water, keeping me warmer than an ordinary swimsuit would. The wet wool also keeps me cozy once I get out of the water, and begins to dry relatively quickly. When I'm ready to leave, I just put my clothes back on over it and pedal home. Even if the wool is still damp, this feels surprisingly okay - nothing like cycling in a soggy synthetic swimsuit or wet cotton underwear. And being able to do this eliminates need to deal with the logistics of changing or transporting a soggy swimsuit by bike (though the latter is not especially complicated - just wring it out and use a plastic bag).

The rest of things I bring along, I will wrap in a towel - starting with the fragile stuff first, so that it's surrounded by the most padding. 

This makes for a neat bundle that can then simply be stuffed in a bike bag or basket, with everything held in place and not bouncing around too much. 

And voila: Beach bag and beach bike. Heaven!

I've been to the beach plenty of times this summer already, and though it isn't quite warm enough to submerge myself fully yet (oh yes it is! finally swam after writing this post) I find just spending time there - reading, writing, photographing, living -  to be boundlessly enjoyable, and all the more so if I come and go by bike. There is something about cycling down a sunbaked road, in anticipation of smelling the salt, seeing the waves, and touching the sand with my bare feet, that makes for an out of this world experience. True, Ireland isn't exactly a tropical island. But something this good is best in measured doses, and worth getting rained on once and again… and again!

Once There Were Vikings

Over the weekend my pal Bryan visited from Donegal, and he brought along his current daily rider - a 1970s Viking. Chances are, you've never heard of the rather obscure Viking Cycles. But around here they are not uncommon, as they were once produced in Derry, Northern Ireland. This reminds me of a request I've had from bicycle enthusiasts with an interest in the Emerald Isle: to talk about Irish-made bikes. Were there any local manufacturers back in the day? 

The short answer is that Ireland does not have a rich history of bicycle production. There was a handful of framebuilders active in Northern Ireland who made machines to order, and I've been gathering information about them with interest. But as far as manufacturers, large scale or small, my understanding is that there weren't any native to the island. At some point Raleigh opened a factory in Dublin, but they were a huge company with facilities all over the world. Viking Cycles, with their production exclusive to Derry from the 1970s until their demise, might be the closest thing to a local manufacturer. 

Originally an English company, Viking was formed in 1908 (though this is debated) by Alfred Victor Davies in Wolverhampton. By the 1930s they were focused on "lightweights" and began sponsoring racing teams. 

The beautifully lugged race bikes from this era were, by all accounts, of excellent quality, if not especially unique. "You're behind the times if you're not riding Viking!" the adverts from this period proclaimed. 

This went on successfully until the 1960s, when Viking began to decline and eventually folded, its remnants sold to Lambert/Viscount (UK/USA), then Trusty (USA), then possibly to a man named Roy Clements. What happened during this period precisely is not known, but by 1977 Viking Cycles re-emerged as a new company, with production facilities in Northern Ireland. 

Over the course of the year I've been here, I have seen perhaps a dozen NI Vikings, some as part of collections and others "in the wild." The description of these machines as "competent but uninspired bicycles" seems pretty much spot on. A couple of high-end, handbuilt models existed during this period as well, but examples of those show up very rarely.

The Vikings I've seen have been low to mid-range 10-speeds from the late '70s and '80s. The diamond frames and mixtes look well ridden, and by their owners' accounts were decent, no-frills bikes.  

When exactly the Derry-based Viking folded is unclear, but production probably ended by the 1990s and officially the company was dissolved in 2012. Though the brand was hardly legendary, to local bicycle enthusiasts it is significant as a remnant of bicycle manufacturing in Northern Ireland.

The bicycle Bryan brought along is a Viking Superstar 5 - 

- a basic lugged road bike with a single chainring 5-speed drivetrain

operated by a single downtube shifter. 

This bike was rescued from the trash some years back, and Bryan nursed it back to health with some used replacement parts, including a Brooks Competition saddle, a rear wheel to replace the damaged original, and a set of 27 x 1 1/4" tires.

He replaced the original 46t chainring with a 40t to lower the gearing, and fitted some nice blue fenders. I thought these were Bluemel mudguards at first, but they are in fact a lower end alternative -  made by a Scottish company called Bantel. The rich vibrant blue adds some lively accents to the all- silver bike. 

In truth, to come up with much of interest about this machine other than its place of manufacture would be a struggle! But that's all right. It is a handsome bike, and a very ridable bike according to Bryan. He enjoys it as an everyday "user bike," as much as he enjoys knowing it was made just 20 miles from his house. Not many cyclists in Ireland can say that about their bicycle. 

For more information about Viking, visit the V-CC-affiliated Classic Viking Cycles site, as well as this history page from the Transport Museum. Bryan's photos of his bicycles and other things can be found here. The other Viking frames shown in this post come from this collection. 

Three Times a Lady: the Lives and Times of Modified Vintage Bikes

Last year I wrote about my ethereal friend Clive and his bicycle Lady Huck - a 1960s BSA roadster in a lovely dark shade of racing green. Sadly for me and her both, Clive moved back to New Zealand a few months back. Too costly to transport, Lady Huck was left behind in a shed. "What ever will become of her?" were Clive's tearful words as he boarded the steamship, Huckless.

But fate has a way of bringing bikes and people together. For around this same time, my boyfriend (Wait, what?! Yes. Moving on now...) spoke those magic words I'd been longing to hear for months. 

"Listen," he said, astride his rusty mountain bike, eying my Brompton thoughtfully. "Do you think I need mudguards and something over the chain? I keep getting my clothes dirty." 

"Well," I said, as casually as possible, fantasies of him in tweed already running rampant. "If you don't mind an old bike, I know where we can get one with all of those things straight away."

"How old are we talking about here?" he asked suspiciously, recalling the non-functional rod brakes and decomposing tires on my Triumph. 

"Oh don't worry, this one is years newer. You remember, Clive's green bike. It's practically cutting edge."

Several days later Lady Huck was under new ownership. 

Because of their rise in popularity over the past years, there is now an interesting new category of vintage bicycles on the market: Those that, in addition to their original life span - and, possibly after several decades of languishing in a shed - have lived a second life in modern times. 

Typically these bikes will have been cleaned and at least partly refurbished or modified. Deteriorated saddles, tires and grips may replaced with new ones. 

Caked dirt and rust removed with diligence.

New cables and brake pads might be installed.

Perhaps the handlebars are swapped, the levers' position altered, or the gearing modified.

Or rod brakes replaced with calipers (though on this bike this was apparently done in the factory). 

Sometimes the updates are dramatic. But even when they are subtle, the Second Life vintage bike will have a look to it that sets it apart from the untampered-with originals. And it's fun to try and spot all the little changes the contemporary owner had made. For those seeking the comfort and charm of a vintage bicycle with modern updates, some excellent deals can be had when these bikes are put up for sale by the second owner. On the other hand, there are those who derive pleasure from doing all the cleanup and mods themselves. My boyfriend is more in the latter category, but as Lady Huck needed a home he was happy to oblige.


The bicycle being functional and ready-to-ride also gives him a chance to decide whether he even likes vintage roadsters. Last time he rode one was as a child, before he got into motocross and road cycling, and that was decades ago. The geometry and handling are dramatically different from what he's used to ("the front wheel is miles away!"). But he loves the feel of the old Sturmey Archer hub and the upright position. And, riding the BSA down the busted-up farm lanes, he can't get over how cushy the bike feels over rough surfaces - better than a mountain bike with fatter tires.


The BSA is too big for me to try, so I cannot contribute any feedback, but I'm glad he's having some fun with it. His position needs tweaking I think, and the bike is screaming out for a large saddlebag… but I'll not interfere and see what he gets up to on his own accord.


Perhaps Lady Huck will stay just as she is, or perhaps she will be altered further. Either way, she has been given a 3rd chance at life.

The Handbadge

Until recently I had not really considered the meaning of the Rudge headbadge. It was only a couple of days ago when, having spotted a lovely sports roadster with a full-colour version of the emblem, that it hit me. Is this the Red Hand of Ulster?

By now I have grown used to seeing renderings of the up-turned hand on flags and logos - the mystical symbol of Northern Ireland, appropriated, interestingly and confusingly enough, by both Loyalist and Republican groups, as well as by various non-sectarian organisations, clubs and the like. And now here it was on this bicycle.

I scanned my memory for what I recalled of Rudge history, but none of it had to do with Ulster. So I looked into it once again. Founded in Coventry, England by engineer Daniel Rudge, the company later merged with Birmingham-based Whitworth Cycle Co. to become Rudge-Whitworth Cycles (and later motorcycle manufacturer). Nothing geographically close to Northern Ireland here. Neither did the old catalogues seem to offer any explanation. The one thing I did find acknowledging the link was the Rudge Ulster motorbike. That, however, was named after the 1928 Ulster Grand Prix race, won on a Rudge machine - an event which the headbadge precedes.

The Rudge sports roadster distracted me from the hand question with its many nifty features, such as this original Sturmey Archer Dyno Luxe battery pack, mounted on the seat tube.

Wired to the battery pack are the headlight and tail light, also Sturmey Archer branded. During this time period, it seems that manufacturers used dyno hubs, bottle generators and these dry battery packs simultaneously. I've often wondered what determined which method they chose.

Like a missing key to a vintage wheel lock, the definitive answer to the question of the Hand's origin may never be found. The most likely explanation seems to be that the Rudge family (edited to add: actually, the Whitworth family, as it seems the logo came from their side of the Rudge-Whitworth merger) hailed originally from Northern Ireland and used the Red Hand symbol to commemorate this. However I also love Jim Langley's thinking that the symbol meant "hand made." If only we could "talk to the hand" and ask! 

Whatever the origin of the Rudge emblem - rendered in several versions on their headbadges and chainrings - it is a striking symbol, in particular when the bikes are spotted in Northern Ireland. And if anyone is in the market for a vintage Rudge roadster, this one can be had at Gerald Deehan's Vintage and Antique Swap in Limavady. 

Brevet-Ready

A friend said latterly to me,
"Why don't we ride the PBP?"
It's in two thousand fifteen,
we've time to train if we are keen!"

"How shall we train?" to him I say.
"Easy - we cycle every day!"
"That does sound very nice indeed.
Let us make ready and god speed!"

And so I hummed a happy song
and wondered what to bring along.
Some like a bag in front, some rear.
But which to choose, oh dear oh dear?

And then I thought, why choose at all?
I shall take both, and they'll fit all!
Some spare tubes and tires and tools,
some knitting needles and fine wools,

some notebooks, inks and fountain pens,
some fat and juicy sautéed hens,
some wine, some cheese, some clothes, some books,
a fishing rod and reel and hooks,

some Wellies and some dancing shoes,
some records, mainly jazz and blues,
some pillows, quilts and woolen socks
computers, cameras and clocks,

a loofa, soap, perfumes and lotions,
some gauze, syringes, pills and potions...
To Paris we shall ride prepared.
The unprepared have poorly fared!

But oh what bicycle to ride
and carry such a load in stride?
What tubing and of which fine metal
will suit me as I knit and pedal?

They say it's not about the bike,
you ought to ride the one you like.
The one that's comfortable and sturdy,
sports fenders, lights, and can get dirty.

Just then I saw her by the door
and my dilemma was no more.
Her rod brakes might not stop till Brest,
and turning does take some finesse,

her wheel rims are full of pits,
she's heavy as a trunk of grits,
she's sixty years old and rusty,
but! She stays upright when it's gusty,

and although gears she has but one,
she's oh so hardy and she's fun!
The Triumph shall roll smooth and steady.
"My friend," I shout, "I'm brevet-ready!"

The Call of the Robin's Egg Blue

When I first saw the turquoise hued frame, I assumed it was an aftermarket repaint - not an unusual state of affairs around these parts. But drawing nearer, it became obvious by the amount of wear and tear that its colour was original. An early '60s Raleigh Lady Sports, in robin's egg blue. An iconic colour in the bicycle industry, to be sure. Just not iconic to the English 3-speeds of that era - a breed better known for its sombrer palette of oxide greens, matte blacks and root-beery coppers.

At some point all bicycle lovers experience that feeling of "Man, I am way too into this." For me this happens about once a week. And yet, it never gets old. "I've never seen one in this colour," I whisper, my heartbeat quickening. 

In response a 1962 Export catalogue is swiftly produced, its pages flung open to a rainbow-like spread of finishes. A dazzling range of powders and pearls, the likes of which most have never seen on an old 3-speed.

Let alone the "flamboyant" and the "smoked" finishes.

So, if all of these colours were offered, why did so few Sports models survive in anything but the usual shades we're familiar with? No one can say for sure. But most likely the dealers were risk-averse, and stuck with the original green/black/copper palette they already knew would sell well. If a more unusual colour ended up in circulation, it was likely because a customer special-ordered it.

Such was the case with the frame I was now admiring. The original owner special-ordered the finish, and requested for the handlebars to be flipped when building up the bike. For the decades it was in use, she rode the bicycle with its original parts (notice the elegant grip repair method) and thoroughly enjoyed it.

It is amazing the way colour can change a bicycle's personality. Looking through my photos of the frame, a friend immediately commented that in robin's egg blue the Lady Sports looked "lighter and faster" than its traditionally-hued sisters (having lifted it, I assure you "lighter" is not the case). Another said "I thought this was a Betty Foy at first!" 

No doubt the robin's egg blue played some role in the wild popularity of Rivendell's mixte through its 2009-2012 production. And the 2011 Surly Cross Check (I am told people are still phoning bike shops on a hunt for that year's model, just because of the colour). Possibly it is the most common colour I've noticed for frame repaints for road and city bikes alike. There is just something about it, and the associations it evokes (blue skies? seaside holidays? Easter candy? vintage Vespas?), that strikes a cord. Seeing it so unexpectedly combined with a '60s Raleigh Lady's Sports was a nice treat, for which I thank, once again, Nick of the Three Speed Hub.