The Main Parallelogram

I am working on a step-through bicycle frame - a design which is simultaneously common and unusual. It is common if you look around the streets of Boston, which are teeming with vintage step-throughs. And it is unusual considering that no one I know has built this exact style of frame. Mixtes and modified step-throughs yes. But not plain step-throughs where the top and down tubes are parallel. In fact, this bicycle does not even have what can be called a main triangle. It is a main parallelogram. 

The head tube and the seat tube are also parallel lines - each at a 72° angle. This double set of parallels makes for an interesting visual pattern. 

For this frame I used straight gauge tubing, so that I could practice cutting and brazing unsupervised without worrying about butting and thin walls. The hardy tubing should also minimise flex and twist in the step-through design, as well as make it possible to store the finished machine outdoors and generally treat it as a beater bike. 

The joints will be fillet brazed (lugless) - partly because I would like to practice fillet brazing, and partly because there isn't currently a reliable source for a step-through lugset. Fillet brazing requires using brass as the filler material and heating up the joints considerably more than you would with lugged silver brazing. Since I am using straight gauge tubing, this should not be a problem. The only thing I am a little nervous about is the bottom bracket. With a lugged bottom bracket, the tubes are inserted into hollow sleeves, allowing you to look inside after brazing and check whether the filler material has pulled through properly. With a plain shell like the one pictured here, this cannot be done. I've considered using a lugged bottom bracket while fillet brazing the rest of the joints, but ultimately decided against that. I'll just have to be especially diligent in this area. 

My goal in making this frame was to get some practice with basic technique without having to worry about thin wall tubing, unusually wide tires or multitudes of braze-ons. However, it was also crucial to me that I ride the finished bike as much as possible as part of everyday life, and I knew that would not happen with a plain diamond frame. The resulting compromise was a single speed 26" wheel step-through with a raked-out fork. Basically very similar to the prototypical English "Sports Roadster," but with lower trail. 

Getting the slanted top tube was in a sense straightforward, but not without its quirks. To start with I specced out the slope to match the angle of the downtube. Funny thing though: When the angles were mathematically identical they looked off to the human eye (several spectators confirmed this), so in fact the tubes had to be not quite parallel in order for them look right. Paul Carson taught me how to use his notching lathe, and none of the notches were problematic except for the top head joint. That one had to be adjusted repeatedly to make the angle look right - but finally it got there. 

As the mocked up tubes are starting to look bike-like, those who see the beginnings of this frame tend to have an "Aha, I know what kind of bike this is!" type of reaction. It's been nice to get that feedback. While the first frame I made was done in the privacy of a teacher-student environment, now I am working in a shared shop space with loads of people around. Random people passing through will ask what I am working on, and repeatedly I find myself articulating not just the concept of the frame but the step-by-step process of building it. No doubt this recital helps me make more sense of the process myself. 

Categories: I'm building a frame, step-through

A Day in Primary Colours

Red curtains. They are there for practical purposes - welding screens to protect the eyes from the intense glare of the arc. Brazing happens on one side of the shop, welding on the other. In the middle is this vinyl semi-transparent barrier. But the red backdrop spreads an aura around the room, bathing it in a mysterious, yet energising light. I see the light flicker dimly behind it, and somehow the universe seems to make sense.

Against the vast expanse of red, five adults open long cardboard boxes with the hushed anticipation of polite children on Christmas morning. Inside the boxes are steel tubes wrapped in newspaper. The unraveling is almost formally festive.

The blue work shirt. My grandfather worked in a machine shop and wore one well into his old age. In the '90s, the boys I went to high school with wore the same shirts because it was fashionable. They played in garage bands and dressed like mechanics, never having been near a wrench, which used to annoy me. Now some of them wear blue work shirts unironically, having indeed become mechanics or machinists. So it goes.

Blue buckets full of gloves, cotton and leather. I burned myself three times building my first frame. Once by picking up a piece of scrap metal after it had just been hole-sawed off. Another time by grabbing the frame too soon after it had been torch-dried post washing. And the third time by accidentally brushing the hop tip of a filler rod against my cheek. Who knows, sometimes the gloves help. Other times they are a hazard and can get stuck in a machine. 

Yellow packaging, labels, warning signs, equipment decals. It is noticeable, even in a sea of other colours. See me, read me, peel me.  

Yellow booklets, dusty yellow machines. I am too easily enticed to visit the other side of the curtain. 

More pictures. 

Categories: framebuilding, I'm building a frame, stories

Thoughts on Lugs, Then and Now

Those who love lugged steel bicycles arrive to that preference in one of several ways. Often they grew up with lugged steel. The look or concept of it either holds sentimental value or represents quality. Perhaps their dream bike - the one they'd see in the bike shop window every day on their way home from school- had distinct lugwork. Or else lugs are incorporated into a "they don't make'm like they used to" narrative. On the other hand, a person entirely new to bicycles might simply decide they like lugs - either for aesthetic reasons or perceived functional ones.

With me it was definitely the latter. I was born in 1979. The bikes of my youth looked like this. And as far as shop windows... Well, come to think of it, I don't even remember any bike shops around when I was growing up; bikes came from department stores.

I am trying to remember how I even learned what lugs were. I certainly did not know about them when I first got into cycling as an adult. Neither did I have an ingrained preference as far as frame material. Before I bought my first grownup bike, I rode a rented aluminum hybrid in Austria - which, frankly, I thought looked kind of nice. But it rode a little harshly, and when I mentioned this to the man at the rental place he advised that I buy steel - giving me a long, expert-sounding lecture about the benefits of steel over aluminum. This was among the things that sent me in that direction.

Fast forward a bit, and I remember standing at the Belmont Wheelworks bike shop, looking at a collection of hand-cut Peter Mooney lugs through the glass counterpane. Peter Mooney was the first custom framebuilder whose bicycles I saw in person, as well as the first builder whom I would meet face to face. I knew that the filigreed objects he made were those sleeve things I'd seen on some bicycles' joints. "Those are beautiful," I said. "Yeah, Peter makes his own lugs," replied the person at the counter. And I think that's how I learned what they were called. 

So I went home and looked it up online. Until that point, the artist in me thought the sleeve things looked beautiful, but I had assumed they were entirely decorative - much like embellishments on furniture and porch railings. Now reading about them, I understood that they served as frame joints and were inherent to the frame's construction. I also found many articles and posts expressing the opinion that this lugged construction was "better" (stronger, more receptive to repair, requiring more skillful execution) than other kinds. This was even before I stumbled upon Rivendell (although it set the stage for Rivendell's appeal); this was coming from individual framebuilders and from vintage bike collectors, of whom I soon came to know a few personally. The argument seemed logical enough: Modern bikes, like everything else that's made now, were fragile and disposable. The traditional method was meant to last. And what made me particularly receptive to this argument was visiting bike shops and trying the different city bikes that were available at the time. The bikes that felt uncomfortable or seemed poorly made, happened to be welded. 

This is all simplified of course. But it's not an inaccurate summary of how my preference for lugged steel came about. It wasn't a perspective I brought with me to the blog. But it developed pretty quickly within the first year of it. 

Interestingly enough, the first stages of its unraveling had to do with aesthetics. I liked looking at bikes and spent a lot of time doing it, studying frames from different eras and different builders. I also live in an area where handbuilt lugged steel bikes are plentiful, which gave me in-person access to a lot of the custom work. One thing I began to notice, was that lugs and their various relations (fork crowns, reinforcer plates, dropout sockets, and the like) gave bicycle frames a certain aesthetic uniformity. Most framebuilders do not make their own lugs but purchase pre-fabricated sets, and there aren't many of those to choose from. And while some builders modify existing lugs to the point that the originals are not recognisable, most do not. Because of its visual distinctness, lugwork has a strong influence over a bicycle frame's aesthetic. And the more frames I looked at, the more I started to feel that the same generic details were dominating many framebuilds' work. I began to question what it was that I was actually appreciating: the creativity, the craftsmanship, or the pleasing shape of a $1 reinforcer plate? With fillet brazed and TIG welded frames I may not have cared for the look of the joints, but had to admit that the work seemed less constricted by pre-fabricated parts. 

Around the same time that my thoughts started to flow in this direction, I began to encounter an increasing number of modern, well-made bikes that were not lugged and, in some cases, not steel. Demoing the aluminum Urbana bike had a big effect on me. This excellent machine was nothing like the half-heartedly made bikes I'd grown weary of seeing in bike shops, despite using similar construction methods. The same could be said of the Paper Bike and Pilen I tried soon thereafter, not to mention custom welded bikes by ANT, Geekhouse and Seven. The association I'd formed between construction methods and quality had been erroneous. The flimsy bikes I disliked were such because they were made and assembled poorly, not because they were welded. I still preferred the look of lugs, particularly unique lugs. But my appreciation for the other methods of frame construction grew.

The growth continued as I developed closer relationships with a handful of local builders and began to better understand their methods. With this, my sense of aesthetics shifted. When looking at a bicycle frame's joint, I now see it as an embodiment of the work and creativity that making it involved, of the opportunities and limitations that were created by the chosen method of construction. This does not so much overshadow the look, as it gives meaning to the look. And meaning informs our subjective judgments of beauty.

Having now tried my own hand at building a bicycle frame, my thoughts on lugs have gone through yet another iteration. When asked what I think of them, what comes to mind is that I appreciate them making brazing easier. I don't appreciate how time consuming they are to work with and the limitations they place on frame geometry. That reasoning is entirely devoid of aesthetic sentiment, which worries me a bit. I don't want to stop "seeing." And I don't think that I will; more likely I am just a little tired now, and still overwhelmed from having gone through the process so intensely and quickly. 

I remember how, after welding two bits of steel together myself, I tried to pry them apart a couple of minutes later. The strength of the connection took me by surprise. It felt like fusion (which, of course, it was), whereas a similar joint, when brazed, felt more like it held together with very strong glue. This doesn't necessarily mean anything, I know. But I would like to learn more, and I would like to learn it firsthand. 

Indifferent is a negative word, so I would not say I am now indifferent to lugs. I like lugs, particularly unique ones. One of my crazy dreams is to design and cast a lugset of my own some day. Until then... I sort of like it all, lugs included. 

Categories: framebuilding, I'm building a frame, lugs

Finishing What You Started

"The hardest part of this for beginners is usually the cleanup," Mike said at the start. "It's a lot of filing. That's what breaks people."

"Oh," I said. "Well, that shouldn't be a problem. I've done filing." 

Going into this, I was worried about many things. The measuring, the cutting, the alignment, the brazing. But filing I could handle. I thought back to my days of intaglio printmaking (etching on metal plates). The person who taught me insisted that everything had to be done from scratch and manually - from cutting sheets of metal to preparing the plates. The latter involved beveling the edges at just the right angle, then endlessly filing, sanding and buffing them until the bevels were perfectly even and smooth, polished to a mirror finish. His insistence on this level of prep work had more than a few students in tears before we even touched ink or got anywhere near the press. But for some reason I stuck with it, eventually got the hang of it, and continued to use this method after I began to work independently. It just didn't feel right to do it any other way. Now whenever I see an etching, I can't help but look at the edges in search for file marks. All of this is to say, the prospect of filing for hours did not frighten me.

So how do I explain what happened a week ago? I don't want to exaggerate it into some dramatic melt down, but it was certainly a low point. A very long day, throughout the course of which I grew increasingly quieter and less bouncy than I had been up to that point. This was supposed to be the last day. So maybe it was the discrepancy between having believed I was almost done, and discovering more and more little things needing to be finished. All these little things added up, and taken together amounted to a lot of work. Bridges, bottle cage mounts, eyelets, braze-ons for cable routing. I had been awake since 5:30am. By 5:30pm, I was so tired that I had a hard time focusing. By the time we mocked the whole thing up to make sure the wheels, tires, rack and brakes all worked together, I was no longer fully present. At this stage we decided that the frame was finished - "good enough." But the feeling of satisfaction or at least catharsis that I had expected at the end did not come. 

At home later that evening I did nothing and thought of nothing, feeling utterly dejected. It wasn't until the following day that I could even get myself to look at my pictures of the finished frame. And then I finally felt something: panic. "Good Lord, how could I leave it like this? This is not finished!" I could see smears of brass and silver. If I zoomed in closely enough, I could make out uneven surfaces. I had filed away at these areas, but apparently not enough. Mike had been right: like most first timers, I had flaked out on the cleanup. With horror, I imagined him powdercoating the frame as it was, uneven shorelines and all. Or, worse yet, putting the finishing touches on it himself, whilst chuckling "I knew the finishing would get her!" So I phoned him, trying to stay calm. He had not powdercoated the frame yet. And yes, fine, I could come over to continue working on cleanup. This put me in a fine mood. I showed up bright and early on a Friday morning full of energy.  

Somehow I maintained that energy for an entire day of using nothing but some files and emory cloth strips. All I did from 9:30am until 5:30pm, with a break for lunch, was file and sand, and it was tremendously satisfying. I guess having reached that low point my previous time at the shop, there was nowhere to go but up. 

Mike had to go out for much of the day, and I was mostly on my own working on this. Not being able to seek feedback (Does this part look even? Did I file too much in this spot?) added a new layer of excitement to the process. When he returned, I think he was pretty amused by how cheerful I was after being at this for hours.

One of the trickiest parts to clean up was the area around the Grand Bois fork crown. Those curly-cues make it difficult to get the file into that little space and chisel away at the extra filler material without gouging the crown or blades in the process. It took me longer to get it to this state from this state, than it did to do the initial post-brazing cleanup. The trick is to dig into the shoreline build-up with the tip of a file, then angle the file just so to lightly and gingerly clean up the rest.

But the most challenging part of all was the seat cluster. My beautiful seat cluster! We made the seat stay caps from scratch to look exactly the way I wanted; it was the coolest thing ever. But during brazing I got a bunch of silver all over the caps, and was now terrified that in cleaning them up I would  ruin their perfect concave surfaces. So ever so lightly, I dug into the tiny bulges with the tip of a file, using the most delicate micro-movements I was capable of to remove the filler material but not the steel underneath, then polished with an emory cloth until I got the stuff off. This took a while!  

And so it went. The pictures here show the frame close to the point where I stopped, but not quite there. I didn't have the energy for pictures by the time I was done.

If you are wondering about the uneven looking surface from the sanding marks, they disappear after the frame gets sandblasted. The headlugs started out looking like this after brazing, then this, and eventually ended up as you see them above. 

Don't get me wrong: The finishing on my frame still isn't "good" by real builders' standards. In fact I would not mind continuing to work on it, but unfortunately we are out of time. But at least now I can live with the state I left it in. And no matter how the bike turns out, I got the feeling of catharsis and closure I wanted out of the process. I learned how to build a bicycle frame (and fork!), from start to finish.

Categories: framebuilding, I'm building a frame

The Hardest Part of Framebuilding?

"So what's the hardest part of framebuilding?" I am asked. I can see by the facial expression what the anticipated answer is. "Ah, you must attain mastery of the torch." Or "you must learn impeccable precision." Or "you must develop an eye for detail." These would all make beautiful answers. But my actual answer is devastatingly boring.

The hardest part is the work. As in, the manual labor.

"If you TIG weld, you will get to sit. I have to stand all day." This was my reply when someone asked which method I recommend learning. She thought I was teasing, but it was an honest reply. Seriously: If you TIG weld, you will get to sit!

The other night I dreamt about dropouts. For my first bicycle frame (actually, it is really frame Zero, since it is done under heavy supervision) I unwittingly chose to use slotted dropouts. If you are a framebuilder, you are probably laughing right now. It is taking me as long to work on these dropouts as it did to work on the rest of the frameset. In my dream, I had chosen socketed dropouts and I was carefree - unburdened by having to fit, then thin and shape for hours the treacherous slotted ones. Once you experience the trauma of slotted dropouts, you cannot unexperience it. And while they are not recommended for beginners, I have to disagree. By all means, choose them for your first bicycle build. That will teach you to romaticise framebuilding.

What they might not tell you about a brazing torch, is that it is heavy. My first impression of brazing was dominated by this. It is heavy, and yet I had to learn to hold it up and wield it as if it was the lightest thing in the world, for what seemed like an eternity at a time. I was so happy when I finally got used to its heft. But then a week went by when I did not use the torch, and today it was heavy again. It felt like my upper arm, and not the lug, was being lapped at by the flame. (If you TIG weld, you will get to use a tiny little torch, light as a feather. In my dream the welding torch resembled a colibri bird...)

Building this frame is endless work. My hands are a mess. At the end of the day I am drained, unable to do or think about anything else. I just want to go to sleep, and do it again tomorrow. Why? Because hard work feels good if you submit to it. And because building a bicycle frame is fun. And because I'm almost done. For now!

Categories: framebuilding, I'm building a frame

The 2 Hour Commute

For the past week I have been spending every day at Mike Flanigan's workshop in semi-rural Holliston, MA. The place is 25 miles from my house and I decided to experiment with getting there by bike. This took about 2 hours, which is a pretty long commute. I then tried using other modes of transportation. To my surprise, the trip ended up being the same in duration. Here is a comparison:

Somerville-Holliston, via Roadbike (a loaded Rawland):

I left the house at 6:30am. The route I planned was a direct one, which I figured would be low traffic this early in the morning. And it was, for the first, suburban leg of the trip. After that I expected the road to get even nicer, as it grew more rural. What I did not count on, was that it would also become narrower and busier. Riding through Wellesley, Natick and Sherborn via Rt 16 in the morning was terrifying; I would not recommend it. The winding road is one lane in each direction with no shoulder. Lots of trucks drive at high speeds. I tried to stay calm, kept my line, and hoped for the best - but I would not repeat this trip intentionally. There are alternative routes that are longer and hillier, but safer. Once I entered Holliston, things improved and the last mile of the trip was pretty nice. I arrived 2 hours after I left the house, including a coffee stop along the way. 

Somerville-Holliston, via Brompton + Train:

I left the house at 6:30am and cycled to the closest T-Station. From there I took the subway to South Station in Boston and the commuter rail to Framingham. The commuter train takes about 40 minutes. There is WiFi, and I used it to check my email. I disembarked in Framingham, and from there it was another 6 miles to my destination. I cycled on the main road again, simply because I had no time for a more circuitous route. This road actually wasn't too bad, save for one chaotic stripmall-esque intersection, which I walked across. There are a couple of climbs on the way, but they felt fine in my bike's lowest gear. I arrived at Mike's shop 2 hours after I left the house.

Somerville-Holliston, via Train + Car:

When a snowstorm descended upon us, Mike suggested I take the train without my bike, and he would pick me up at the station in his van. Weakened from all the sawing and filing I'd been doing, I wimped out and did just that. I left the house at 6:30am and walked to the T station, then took the subway and commuter rail to Framingham. The train was late and slower than usual, as tends to happen in bad weather. When I arrived, Mike picked me up in his warm and cozy van. There was some commuter traffic on the drive from the station to his workshop. We arrived over 2 hours after I left the house. Later, I spoke to an acquaintance who commutes from Holliston to Somerville by car. In theory, the drive should take about an hour. But in practice, the traffic in the morning and evening is so bad that it takes at least an hour and a half each way, sometimes longer. 

If I had to deal with this commute on a regular basis, I think my preferred mode of transport would be train + Brompton. This would allow me to remain self-reliant, to carry a huge amount of stuff in my front bag, and to get some work done on the train while still squeezing in 12 miles of riding in the course of the day. Every so often it would also be nice to do the roadbike trip, but it would mean setting off even earlier in order to do the longer, safer route. Driving for 1.5+ hours in a car each way would be my least preferred method, but might nonetheless be necessary in winter: I am not tough enough to cycle on those hilly, narrow rural roads in snow and ice, especially in the dark. 

A 25 mile commute is not abnormal in North America; in fact it is probably fairly typical. It's hard to believe that 7 years ago I was doing it myself, spending hours a day in my car. Doing it by bike would have been unimaginable back then, an absurdity. Now? Well, to tell the truth, it did not feel normal commuting for that long on a bike. But neither did it feel normal any other way. It's just too long of a ride/drive to be doing twice a day, every day, out of necessity, in all weather conditions. That's my take on the 2 hour commute. I am grateful to not have one these days.

Categories: I'm building a frame, traffic, transportation options

On Notching, or the Joys of the Hole Saw

This might surprise some of you, and it was certainly a surprise to me, but my favourite thing about the framebuilding experience so far has been learning about all the machines in Mike Flanigan's shop. I have never been into this sort of thing before, preferring to use the simplest tools possible for DIY stuff. The "shop atmosphere," with its various lathes and saws spinning menacingly, has always confused and intimidated me. I am not sure what changed now. Maybe the part of my brain that's responsible for this kind of stuff is just now maturing, but suddenly I am like a kid in a candy store. The machines are super-useful, physically easy to operate, and are proving to be excellent teaching tools when it comes to mechanical concepts I find difficult to grasp. For example: notching!

Building a bicycle frame is mainly about joining together pieces of tubing, which involves a lot more work than merely brazing or welding the joints. For instance, before the tubes can be joined they need to fit together properly. 

Think about it: When we get a tube, its edge is cut straight across. But if we want that edge to join the rounded surface of another tube, we need to sort of scoop out the center of that opening, to scallop it. This is what's called notching - also known as mitering or coping. 

And because the tubes join at an angle that is almost never 90°, the notch must be done asymmetrically, to fit the precise angle. In theory, I understood the concept, but in practice I had a hard time imagining concretely how this was to be done. How were builders able to determine the shape of the scalloped edge with such precision and draw it on the edge of the tube? Too embarrassed to ask this question, I tried to read up on it. Unfortunately, the more I read, the more confused I got.

But the mystery was cleared up in a matter of seconds once it was time to notch my own tubes. Mike has what's called a horizontal milling machine, which can be fitted with all sorts of tooling - including hole saws of various diameters. 

A hole saw is literally a round saw that makes holes in things. They are available in a variety of diameters. You choose the saw that matches the diameter of the dominant tube - the one to which you will be joining the tube you want notched.

After attaching the correct saw and installing the to-be-notched tube in the clamp, you then set the angle of the joint, according to your bicycle frame's geometry. 

And that's it. As you turn the crank, the hole saw makes its way through the edge of the tube and notches it. Basically the saw forces the shape of the dominant tube through at the correct angle. Watching this happening I experienced a sudden flash of understanding and it was immensely satisfying. 

Of course, by far not everyone who builds bicycle frames has this type of machine handy, and the low-tech notching method involves using lugs to make guide marks, then a hacksaw to make the cut. But even if I never have access to such machines again, operating them has done me more good than I can express. 

I love the clean look of a notched frame; the way everything fits together perfectly and makes total visual sense before you get it all filthy with flux and leaky brazing marks. But also, watching the tubes fit and actually getting how and why they fit is wonderful. My head is bursting with the sudden understanding of concepts I've previously struggled with, and that is an exciting feeling to have. Whether it's framebuilding or any other subject-matter, it is never too late to learn new things.

Categories: framebuilding, I'm building a frame

Of Sand, Wood and Crossing State Lines: The Quest for a Curvy Fork

Because I like to keep things simple, the bicycle I am making is of course a low trail design. And low trail means a fork with a lot of rake. A very curvy fork, in other words. Not only did I want it to be curvy, but I wanted it to be that special kind of French-curvy where instead of a gradual "banana" bend, there is a dramatic flick toward the tips of the blades (like so).

When you buy supplies for making a fork, what you get is two straight blades that are (hopefully) a bit longer than you need them to be, and a crown which those blades plug into. It is then up to you to rake the blades. The style of bend I wanted requires using blades that are designed to withstand such dramatic manipulation. I went with the Kaisei Toei blades, which were already familiar from other projects I've been involved in. 

To get the fork blades bent as desired, we needed a special setup that was not locally available. So we payed a visit to Cirlce A Cycles in Providence RI, about 30 miles from Mike Flanigan's shop. They have a fork bender that was made specifically for the French-style bend and could produce the 73mm of rake I wanted. The furry receptionist granted us permission to use it. 

Since 73mm is a pretty dramatic amount of rake, Chris Bull suggested filling the fork blades with sand before bending. This would reduce the possibility of damage during the process. 

The blades were taped at both ends to contain the sand.

The fork bending press consists of a wooden block curved according to the French bend design (they have several of these presses, used for different styles of bends). There is a notch along the curve where the fork blade sits, held in place by a vise.

A giant lever is then pushed up, forcing the blade to adhere to the curvature of the wooden block. 

The further up you push, the more dramatic the bend.

At first we did not have an idea of exactly when to stop, so Chris eyeballed it and stopped when he thought the rake was around 50mm. Confirming that this was correct and that the bend was forming properly, he then continued the process until we finally had the 73mm rake we wanted. 

This is the dropout placement mockup. To determine the rake correctly, you need to know how and where the blade will be connected to the dropout. 

One thing that can go wrong during this process, is that the steel can get distorted. When this happens, you can see and feel a rippling on the inside of the bend. Thankfully this did not happen.

For the second blade we now knew exactly when to stop and had a marker in place. I did part of this bend myself and it was pretty cool to feel the blade give under the force of the lever. It is interesting that Circle A's setup makes you push the lever up rather than pull it down; I have never operated this kind of press before. 

Thanks to Circle A, I now have two symmetrical, beautifully raked fork blades that are waiting to become a fork. All I have to do is braze it.

Categories: bike friends, DIY, framebuilding, I'm building a frame

Real Gone

Friends began to suspect it some time ago, but I didn't want to talk about it. I didn't want to admit it, even to myself. But now it's gotten to the point that it's affecting my sleep, my social life, even my work on the blog. And so the time has come to tell the truth: I am building a bicycle frame. 

My mentor is Mike Flanigan - fabled builder, instructor, and patron saint of the local steel-addicted youth. So at least I am in good hands. But why do this at all? I don't think it will lead anywhere. I don't think I will be good at it. It's something I simply can't help. 

In part, I blame my environment: Boston is so replete with framebuilders, that the behaviour has become normalised here. Perhaps naively, I thought that I could watch friends light up those frame joints over and over and not get tempted. But after 3 years of it, I caved. "I'll try it once," I said.

Then there is the annoying combination of my curiosity about things like bike handling and frame geometry, coupled with my poor ability to grasp abstract concepts. In the end, I do not see a good way to "get" this stuff other than the hands-on method. If I want to understand tubing diameter and thickness, I should work with some tubing. If I want to understand frame geometry, I should put one together and see how everything fits. 

Finally, having worked on a few collaborative projects with framebuilders now, I kept feeling uncomfortable with not understanding their process as thoroughly as I would have liked. When working with a fabricator on a future project, I want to be 100% aware of what I am looking at and agreeing to, not 90% as I was during the latest one. If I am interested in bicycle design, I need to go through the fabrication process myself at least once.

So those are my reasons. Maybe they are logical, maybe not, I have lost perspective at this point. But in any event, here I am: eyes blurry after weeks of reading and re-reading what I only somewhat grasp, and elbows deep in tubing which I am almost certain to ruin. And I haven't even gotten into the hard stuff yet. The brazing, that point of no return, begins next week. Mike seems to think I will actually be able to ride the bike I make, but I am not getting my hopes up. 

I've been taking a lot of notes, and will continue to do so in the following weeks. I plan to post at least some of these notes online here (the name "Not a framebuilder" is a joke, inspired by my encounters with Bruce Gordon and Richard Sachs). There is not much content there at the moment, but the notes are coming. I will also write up a few cohesive posts about the whole thing on this blog, once it's over. In the end it might be a story of failure, and I am willing to accept that. Won't know unless I try!

Categories: framebuilding, I'm building a frame