Big Wheel Bike

So this guy walks into the bike shop a few weeks ago riding this on a world tour.

An L.E.D. lamp hanging off the axle in a traditional housing.

He picked up the proper English headgear, with an Australian emblem if I remember correctly.

The view from the saddle (custom bar ends!); and a view of a handlebar repair.

Regular clincher tires cut from the bead and glued onto solid rubber cores.

His name is Jonathan Summerfield, or Joff, and he's as interesting as you'd expect. His website is of course Penny Farthing World Tour. His itinerary to date reads as such here. Joff was on this leg when he passed through Salida, and the next section to Kansas is recorded here. He's somewhere near Virginia/Maryland at this point, if not further. His pictures are excellent, the ride must be amazing. His Penny Farthing (the difference in wheel size is likened to the difference in a penny and farthing coin) is fixed: if the wheels turn, the cranks turn. An upright position, a certain learning curve, but there's no doubt he knows what he's doing, on a bike he built himself. He told me about crossing Himalayan passes, chatting with the airlines (for oceanic flights) about stowing his bike away, and all in all, clearly having a very good time.

Bikes with Critical Mass

Finally found a nice used metal filing cabinet in good shape. I picked it up before work at the local thrift store. As I'm getting ready to leave and ride home, there's a band setting up their equipment at the cafe next door. One of the musicians takes one look and tells me I'd have an easier time moving my files if I transferred them to an iPod.

Rode home with a slight lean. Next time I'll experiment with having the load centered, but higher up, and see what's easier to manage.

A properly balanced load of recycling.

Amber's 1930's Elgin bicycle. All original (except for tires, grips?, saddle, seatpost, pedals, baby seat). A slightly bent fork. And a beautiful rear coaster brake, with mechanically perfect internals, utilizing a roller-clutch style engagement system that is still about as effective as a bunch of wet leaves jammed in the fender. But finned hubs for efficient cooling. With grease ports. Skirt guards. Skip-tooth chain - note the alternating links. Now on long-term loan to a local store in town, as a classy window display. An amazing looking bike, with a riding position that makes one's knees ache.

Front Elgin hub, with fins and grease port.

Skirt guard, the opening in the chainguard is for access to the bolt that sets the chain tension, and the lower frame tab below the axle is a stop for the original centerstand, long since disappeared.

Why Is This Man Smiling?

What? I always smile like that. Wrapping up a full day of working at the shop and racing at the 2008 Annual Cruiser Criterium in downtown Salida. Which raises money for the music at the Fibark Festival later this summer. So with the Big Dummy bike rack in place, I hauled the sweet race machine with me to work. (1961 Columbia Firebolt, with some modifications). Didn't win, but gave the crowds some high-pitched squealing skidding tire action.



I've had this book for a while now. Note the line written at the top. Did this lead towards buying a '41 Chevy? Well, I've had a copy of Zen and the Art of Motorcycle Maintenance, and I did eventually obtain a free 1980 Suzuki GS450. But I never put in a battery, or cleaned the carburetors, and it stayed East when I moved West. Just a matter of how things work out. Here's a quote from the book:

"Service manuals are hymnals of conservative thought. They are based on metal touching metal, what will go and what, absolutely, will not. They are not even pragmatic: there is never a hint of the "try this, then try this, and if that fails, try this" that is the operative method of the real-world attempts to make machines survive. They are composed out of fear of failure and grudging acceptance of the inevitability of wear. Compensation for flaws, reaction to the destructive effect of actual use. Despair over the necessity, in an imperfect world, of having to recommend - ghastly concept - tolerances. Admissions of imperfection. The service manual posits the perfect machine, and tells how, when some dolt like myself has profaned that perfection through actual use, to restore it to perfection. Start with perfection, and then follow instructions. Precisely."

Breaking News...

Amber's article for Dirt Rag just got published. Awesome. Swing on down to your local Independent Bicycle Dealer of distinguished repute and pick up the latest issue.
We interrupt this newscast to bring you a Very Important Film...

Living in the Past

1941 Chevrolet AK series 1/2 ton pick-up truck

I'll give first credit to Jethro Tull for this posting's title, I've always liked the feel of it. And its interesting multiple interpretations - but I'll use this one: this is living, in the past, this is its life, and what is it - what are we studying and what are we dealing with?

If we're going to look at past, present, and future, I'm going to argue that they're all existing simultaneously. The age of things, from the ancient rock crushed into a gravel driveway to the morning's newspaper, are not broken into time frames on their own, we do that for them.

There is, there must be, a very seamless link between them all. We may be far removed but we can trace a line between these things. Like this (bear with me):


. . you'll note that bit of "for sale" sign in the cracked windshield. Or you're still mesmerized by the amount of chrome.

"Does it run?" Yep, let me start it up and let it idle . . you ever double-clutch a non-synchronized transmission?" "No? - well, here's how you do it."

"What kind of work does it need? . . hmm, okay."

So we bought it. Amber and I had talked about a truck for a while, but nothing came of it. Nothing seemed worth the effort. Earlier this week, we came across this, for about as much as a used, non-descript, albeit possibly newer truck. It runs, it shifts, it needs some interior work and some lights wired up. No, I don't think it needs a paint job. Yes, we really did buy it.

Chevrolet started production, of what became known as the "art-deco chevy" in late 1940, and this was the only year during WWII that the grill work was chromed. The cab and bed are actually from a 1941 military issue truck; olive drab paint is visible on the firewall and door handles. And if you fix one up really well, it can look like this. But not this one: I'm going to do some interior work, and fix the lights. I found out it came stock with a single housing in the back, on the left, for a running light and brake light. Still from the age of hand signals.

It came with three pairs of running boards, extra windshield . . and a full bed of spare parts.

6 cylinder, 216 cubic inch. 12 Volt upgrade (but 6V lights), 4 speed manual. Yes, it runs.

Enclosed driveshaft, leaf springs, gas tank (moved from under the bench seat!), worn tires.

I mentioned the interior needs a little work. . .

In this great state of Colorado, transfer of title is a cinch. Bring your paperwork, and the county will send you your plates. No safety inspection in this part of the country.

Somewhere, not too long before this was just starting down the assembly line, my grandfather, Bas Kamerbeek, was enlisted in the Dutch army. This is him, on the left. He was a motorcycle guy his whole life, whether or not he owned one. I remember him telling me once about riding in the middle of winter, and getting so cold that he felt like everything shut down mentally and physically except the push to get through to his destination. Well, what he really said was that he got so cold that after a while he couldn't even take a leak, even if he'd wanted to.

He recently passed away and my mom and dad went back to the Netherlands for the funeral. He didn't leave much as far as physical mementos, but a family member scanned some of these pictures. This next picture was with them, I don't know if he's in this one or not:
It makes it a funny sense of timing. I got sent these pictures the same week that a truck, almost as old, ends up in our driveway. From the same intense period of war, and aggression, and occupation. But 60 years later, where I am, there's some very different feelings as well. The intensity lessens, and something a little richer and deeper remains with me from my point in this time. I'm left with something very real but indescribable from these things: the expression on my grandfather's face, the pictures that were once in his possession, the captivating sheet metal and the simplicity of an old truck. And there it is.