Roses are Red ...and Welded in Steel

While I enjoy receiving flowers on special occasions, it's always a little sad when they wilt. So for our anniversary a couple of weeks ago, I asked my husband for a steel rose from Spooky Bikes. With Valentine's Day coming up, I thought I'd mention it and post some pictures. These beautiful roses will last, and they make for a lovely way to mark an occasion while supporting a local artisan. I love mine; it is even nicer in person than in pictures.

Spooky Bikes are somewhat of a cult manufacturer, making road, cyclocross and mountain bikes in Bellows Falls, Vermont. I met them at the New England Builders Ball a few months ago and had a chance to see a few of their bikes. The steel roses are a side project, welded by Chris Traverse ("...alone with my cat and my coffee making roses that will make other people smile..."). The majority of proceeds will benefit the Sunset Ranch BMX Park in Western Massachusetts, which Chris established and continues to grow. 

The roses are made of a mild steel, one petal at a time. The petals, hand-tooled leaves and braided weld-wire stem are then TIG-welded. They are available in a raw finish, or dipped in bright red acrylic paint. My rose is the red-dipped version. Only the tips of the petals are dipped in paint, still leaving sections closer to the base raw. The bare steel and the rainbow rings around the welds contrast nicely with the liquid look of the red. It is a dramatic, visually textured combination. The appearance of the flower is natural and organic, not cartoony. 

There is variation in the shape of each petal, each stem, each flower. As it ages, there will be increasing natural colour variation. The steel looks delicate, but feels rather strong.

The roses are available as single flowers ($33), vines ($85), and dozen roses bouquets ($250), in both the raw and the red-dipped finish. Order soon in you want yours to be made in time for Valentines Day. Delight your darling and support our local bicycling craftsmen. A beautiful combination. 

Says welder Chris Traverse: "The look on my friends faces when they pull into the trails to see what's new to ride is the same look on people's faces when they open up one of my roses." Chris has had an interesting history. Read his full statement here. 

Categories: art, framebuilding, holidays, product reviews

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

At the Asylum: an Account of a None Too Sane Patient

Some of you might be wondering where I've been over the last couple of days, either concerned or outraged over my lack of regular posts. Well, if you must know I have been up for the past 48 hours, watching a certain Interview on Oprah again and again, then endlessly analysing it with my internet friends on cycling forums ("Did you see his left eyebrow twitch when he said 'absolutely not' for the 8th time?"). 

No, I jest. But speaking of analysing facial expressions, readers might recall that I am a psychologist by training and former profession. And you know us psychologists, we love to experiment (that's professional jargon for "mess with people"). Well, last week my PsyPhone - which had grown dusty from lack of use - suddenly rang again, and I was asked to participate in One Last Assignment. "Come on boys," I groaned, wiping bicycle grease off my hands to the sound of jazz in background, "You know that I'm out of that racket." But they wouldn't have it. They needed me. Reluctantly I agreed. 

The assignment was in the tradition of the Rosenhan experiment. A team of us would infiltrate asylums throughout the country to observe and document their practices - from methods of diagnosis to treatment of inmates. I was assigned to the relatively new Artisan's Asylum in Somerville, Massachusetts. 

Armed with notebook and camera, I approached the drab concrete exterior. The need for caution was immediately apparent, given this institution's stealth tactics. Tucked away on a side street lined with warehouses, the enormous building was hidden in plain sight in my very own neighbourhood. Thus it had managed to evade my attention despite being operational for an entire year.

I examined the street conditions to gauge inmate demographics. Bicycles of all types were locked up to every available post. It was clear that I too would require a bicycle, so a to appear a convincing inmate candidate. Luckily, I already had one with me. 

At the front desk, several staff members were in place to scrutinise visitors. According to plan, I walked in presenting with vague symptoms of artisanry. Among these I listed: painting, knitting, sewing, persistent compulsions toward bicycle design, and a one time incident of framebuilding. I did not elaborate, I did not exhibit flamboyantly artisanal behaviours, and my hands and clothing were relatively clean. Yet the staff member required no further evidence to admit me. On a notepad I saw them quickly scribble what looked like psychosis framebuildis, poss. acute. Then another staff member came to escort me.

The inmates call him Dr. Carson, but we never see his face. He, as the other senior staff members, wear welding masks at all times. He appears to be legitimate, even if his interaction tactics unconventional.

Another specialist is called Dr. Skunk. He interacts with inmates exclusively from behind a curtain. He too is purportedly legitimate, and even runs his own clinic on the side.  

Inmates appear well-kempt and not in apparent distress. Possibly they are medicated. Those who have been in the facility long term, enjoy a good degree of freedom. Some rely on two-wheeled devices to assist with mobility around the floor space. 

However, new inmates are required to wear green polka dotted metal "gowns," so that they are easily identified by members of staff. This contraption severely limited my speed and range of movements, making note taking and photography challenging.

The interior of the Asylum is vast and labyrinthine. Endless hallways connect shared spaces designated for inmate activities such as woodworking and metal working. 

Private spaces are only partially walled off, allowing staff members to observe inmates.

Primary colours are commonly used.

Evidence of traditional (some might say outdated) treatment models, such as brazing activities, abounds.  

Nutrition available on the premises seems limited to beer and coffee, which the inmates are required to brew themselves.

They must also make the tools and dispensers necessary for its production and serving.

Each inmate receives a thermos in which to store hot liquid meals.

Yet I also noted sculptural renditions of used dishes piled up in several communal areas,

which could explain why the premises exhibit signs of insect, rodent, and possibly dragon infestations, in metal and paper form.

A variety of instructional signs guide inmate behaviour. Voluntary compliance rates are considerably higher than I've seen in other institutions.

While I have not noticed any overt force or violence used on the inmates, some visual displays seemed designed as intimidation tactics to keep them under control. 

After my tour of the premises, I noted the staff members administering a subtle series of tests to confirm my diagnosis. First, I was exposed to a disassembled vintage Bianchi bicycle in the traditional "celeste" colour scheme while a hidden video camera measured my pupil response. 

This procedure was then repeated with tubing, then lugs, then finally some unpainted brazed joints used as stimuli. At the end, Dr. Carson shook his head and jotted down some notes, which I saw to be a confirmation of the initial diagnosis. As far as I can tell, no other steps were taken to probe into my history or consider the appropriateness of my presence at the Asylum. 

Following a brief consultation among staff members, my fate was decided. My condition was serious. I was to stay at the Asylum and undergo intensive treatment. 

Devises to be used in this course of treatment were shown to me.

Noticing I appeared to have familiarity with them, only confirmed to the staff members the correctness of their diagnosis.

"Much of this is our own technology, made inhouse," Dr. Carson said soothingly. "I believe it will be effective in addressing your needs."

He then showed me other inmates undergoing similar treatment. How happy they were, how engaged, how productive.

Having witnessed everything I came to witness at the Artisan's Asylum, at this stage I attempted to explain myself and depart. But denial is such a common symptom of the condition I was diagnosed with, that this proved to be challenging. I tried to present evidence contradicting my diagnosis. But the staff members only nodded gently. "The pupil test does not lie," said Dr. Carson. From behind his curtain, Dr. Skunk tapped out in Morse code: "you. must. remain." 

At length I managed to get to a phone and contacted the project leader of my assignment. He listened to my report. A long silence on the other end then followed. "But Dr. [Redacted]..." he finally said, "You have not worked with us for some time. We have no record of such a project as you describe." 

What can I say, dear readers. Sometimes life takes us to strange places. Places that exist in pocket universes right under our noses. Places that have brazing and welding facilities (and beginners' workshops, for anyone local interested). I still think the diagnosis is inaccurate, and I am still not sure how I got here. But maybe I will stay a while after all. 

Categories: Boston, framebuilding, 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

Pets at Work

Every time I visit Circle A Cycles, I sift through my pictures of the shop afterward only to discover that they are mostly cat portraits. But who can blame me, when they have such a fabulous shop cat. BT's job is mainly reception, customer service and PR. When it comes to being petted, she is an equal-opportunity practitioner - diligently making her way from one visitor to another, ensuring that everyone gets their fair share of stroking her silky fur and scratching her velvety ears. When this task is done, she slinks around delicately amidst the machinery, inspecting the quality of her colleagues' work. 

I've tried to invite my own cats into my workspace. There was that one time I attempted to have them in the same room while I painted. Minutes later, they'd already managed to dip their little paws into some paint, and were now proceeding to spread it around the entire room while swatting brushes off of shelves and batting at jars of turpentine playfully. Oh how I paid for their visit with hours of cleanup. Oh how they squirmed and squealed as I quarantined them in the bathtub and scrubbed their paws with soap.  

On another occasion, I tried to scan negatives around my whiskered friends. Their curiosity in this task made the scanning process unnecessary, since the strip of negatives was quickly rendered unusable. 

Working on bikes in the same room is excitingly risky. They are intensely interested and make a show out of being very good, so that I allow them to be there. And they are good, up to a point. Until a particularly attractive part catches their eye and they challenge each other to a soccer match. The speed and elegance with which they can cause damage are admittedly impressive.

I can work from home on my laptop, but just barely. The cats like to stealthily make their way onto the table and slowly wrap themselves around the keyboard, until both my wrists are resting on some part of cat and my typing is constricted. "At least help me type if you're going to do that," I try to reason with them. They ignore me, purring triumphantly. Later a friend explained that this really is their way of helping me write: The purring functions as a metronome of sorts that helps me keep rhythm and type faster. Shop cats they are not, but perhaps I underestimate their value as office cats. 

Categories: cats, framebuilding

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

Low Trail Madness

While I've wished for this to happen, I doubted that it actually would: Low trail, 650B bicycles entering into standard production. But the day has arrived, and it arrived with an email from Soma Fabrications. An e-buddy of mine over there informs me that they will soon release a "Grand Randonneur" model, co-designed with Boulder Bicycles/Rene Herse. "Is this public knowledge?" I asked, wiping the spray of coffee off my keyboard. Not really, was the reply, but I was welcome to make it such. "Just note that it’s still unofficial, and some of the details may change before production." Noted. Oh, and do I want to test-ride the prototype once it's ready? As if they had to ask.

The Soma announcement came on the heels of Rawland's release of the Stag: a model similar to the Nordavinden, only with slightly different specs. The pre-order pricetag is $625 including a free set of Pacenti PL23 rims. I imagine Soma will try to get its pricepoint in the same range. Adding the $500 Velo Orange Polyvalent to the mix, that gives us 3 manufacturers offering standard production low trail 650B framesets, made in Taiwan, for well under $1,000. 

For those who prefer a US-made bike, there are several pre-fab models available in the $1,500 range, including the Box Dog Pelican, the Boulder Randonneur, and most recently the Rambler from Ocean Air Cycles. If you've ever wanted to try a bike like this without the wait, uncertainty and pricetag of going full custom, there are options. 

But speaking of custom, more and more framebuilders are testing the waters with low trail 650B designs and some of the names may surprise you. As I write this, I am eying a fresh-off-the-boat prototype frameset from Mercian Cycles in England that was built to my spec. (For the record, they are skeptical of the low trail design, so if the bike doesn't ride well I take full responsibility.) Equally surprising is that Seven Cycles are willing to give it a go, in titanium of course. Jokingly I asked them about it a little while ago, and the reply was "Let's talk." 

So what's so special about low trail? In a sense, nothing, and that's sort of the point. Some of us simply believe it to be a "normal" geometry just like any other that happens to be useful in some contexts and beneficial for some riders. This does not mean that it's special or better, but only that we feel it ought to exist as a viable option. Personally, I've come to appreciate the feel of low trail on city bikes, as well as on fat tire bikes ridden on dirt; the combination of how responsive and at the same time intuitive these bikes feel intrigues me. But of course not everyone agrees. The husband tolerates low trail on his Brompton, because he finds the bike handy, but dislikes it on roadbikes. And framebuilder Mike Flanigan - tempted to try the Rawland after I raved about its handling - just smiled and shook his head after his ride: "Nope, still don't like low trail" - though he's made a few for customers, and continues to do so. 

Is low trail design a fad that will seem silly in hindsight, or an enduring trend that is here to stay? We'll just have to wait and see. 

Categories: ANT, framebuilding, Rawland, Soma

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