An encounter with a customer today at REI where I work prompted me to ponder some things. An older man came up and asked if I knew anything about bicycles, to which I replied that I knew some. Heavyset and gruff, he was one of those very straightforward older white men who probably led a successful life by ordering people around. He told me he had an older "race" bike, which was "very nice", but he was contemplating selling it so he could get a more comfortable bike. After asking him some questions I figure out he isn't really wanting something built for maximum comfort and that a typical flat bar road bike or performance-oriented hybrid bicycle would do fine for him.
At this point I ask what I always ask when in this situation: "Do you like your bicycle?" Usually I get an affirmative "Yes", to which I then start explaining that you can typically do a lot to a bicycle to help it fit your needs, and that even if a lot has to be done, it usually doesn't cost more than a brand new bicycle. This approach of course doesn't always work; trying to turn a mountain bike into a road bike and vice versa simply won't yield results as good as starting from scratch. But, if something like raising or swapping out handlebars, or getting different tires, can zero in on what someone wants out of their bike, I am always happy to open that option up to them.
The older man didn't seem opposed to the idea, so I went into my usual spiel, in which a main part is me explaining that I love old bicycles and that I prefer to keep old bikes on the road rather than add new bikes to the pavement and trails. There's a few reasons for this, and one I often list is that it conserves resources, as we aren't throwing away a potentially (or perfectly) functional bike for a brand new hunk of aluminum, steel and rubber, which is probably of lesser quality than what the person has already. When I say this, a big smirk creeps across his face. I notice a large, silver revolver stuck into a holster on the back of his belt. His black ball cap has the word "VETERAN" stitched in gold thread across the front.
"How veeeeery green of you!"
I'm sort of shocked by both the comment and the amount of venom in his tone. It insults me, which is odd as I agree with environmental issues, at least in philosophy. Mentally quick on my feet, and angered at his statement, I explain that both of my grandpas grew up in the Great Depression and they both hold onto things. They keep old things running and try to conserve what they use, because it is expensive to do otherwise and just unethical to waste.
His tone softens and he agrees that he doesn't like to throw things away. We ended up reaching a compromise, although I think he still thought of me as some kind of "environmental hippie."
As the day wore on, this event bothered me. It bothered me that the current mindset of a lot of people is to go out and buy buy buy. Has the consumerism that has run rampant since the 1980's finally snuffed out older American values, such as conservation and making do with what is given to us? Are these ideas now branded as controversial, left-wing and liberal by those who may have at one time embraced them?
Although I am only twenty-three at this very moment, and not that old at all, I was brought up to not waste things. My family didn't have a "clean your plate" rule at the dinner table, but I know from experience that what my mom made for dinner was what we ate, end of story. My dad did almost everything that had to be fixed or built by himself, which saved the family a lot of money. Even on TV shows which either praise or lampoon traditional American values, you get phrases like "We can't do that, it's wasteful".
Now we have the Kardashians. Now we are living in a time where America is more interested in celebrity drama than NASA. Kids aspire to be professional athletes, and rockstars, but go to college to be lawyers and doctors. The handy-man is seen as a lovable tramp, a low-life necessity in this world of things that move and go, and breakdown. It is difficult to find something that is repairable in a store. A broken lamp is sitting behind me right now because there is no way for me to open it up without damaging it, to try and figure out why it won't turn on. It is destined for Goodwill. When something breaks, buy a new one. I'm guilty of it just as much as the next person. But it feels wrong, and when I think about it, I don't agree with it. I wasn't raised this way! So why am I acting like this?
I guess my point is that by branding the same idea as a core value carried by those who lived through the Great Depression, I was able to shatter the anti-environmental, anti-"green" connotation that immediately soured the gun-toting Texan. Hemp-sandaled politics suddenly morphed into the creed of our fathers and grandfathers. Why did we forget these values? What happened?
Thursday, February 28, 2013
Tuesday, February 12, 2013
Take a Moment
The idea for this post started off being centered on bicycles, of course, but as the notion brewed in my mind it sort of grew to encompass, well, everything.
Have you ever stopped to consider the technology around you? No, I don't mean computers, cell phones and other high tech gizmos of the modern age. Those don't count. I mean the little things that make civilized life possible. I'm talking about ballpoint pens. Corrugated cardboard. Pneumatic tires. Have you ever wondered where these simple things that we take for granted come from? Have you ever wondered who came up with them? Because that is how they came to be: they were someone's idea. More than likely, it was a single person's idea. At some point, someone realized there was a way to solve a problem or make something easier; there was a way to write with ink more easily, a way to make cardboard significantly stronger, a way to take the bump and jostle out of road. That idea was realized, and granted it was improved and built upon for the decades to come, and likely will continue to be improved in the future, but ultimately that idea came out of seemingly nowhere.
It's so easy to take these things for granted today. It seems everything is comprised of hundreds if not thousands of tiny, specific parts, all different ideas that came at different times to ultimately come together into one item. The bicycle is a great example of that. Did you think that some day, some guy got a bright idea and hammered together a fully geared, chain driven bicycle with pneumatic rubber tires on laced wheels that stopped with caliper brakes, and that this idea came out of nowhere? I'll give you a hint, it didn't. Before pneumatic tires there were solid rubber tires, and before that there were simple wooden wheels, much like those found on a horse-drawn wagon. Having multiple gears on a bike was an idea that came sometime in the early part of the 20th century, and it was a notion that was met with great resistance at first. In fact, the very idea of a chain driven bicycle, something that might seem so simple and obvious to us today, was an idea that came about decades after the first velocipede was created. Before chains, the crank was mounted directly to the front wheel. The iconic "penny-farthing" was a great example of this, and you might be surprised to learn that it was very difficult to ride.
Fed up with the difficulty associated with riding the beast, the safety bicycle, the forefather of the modern bicycle, was invented in 1876. This significantly easier to ride vehicle led directly to the infamous "bicycle boom" of the 1890's, which would foster several technological achievements that we definitely take for granted today, pneumatic tires and road building standards being just a few. A lot of the technology that helped make the automobile not only possible, but also practical, was already "discovered" thanks to the bicycle.
In our superficial, consumerist society it's easy to get caught up with what things look like on the outside. But every once in a while, take a moment to think about what's inside, and what it took to create whatever is powering your high tech cell phone, or low tech ballpoint pen.
Have you ever stopped to consider the technology around you? No, I don't mean computers, cell phones and other high tech gizmos of the modern age. Those don't count. I mean the little things that make civilized life possible. I'm talking about ballpoint pens. Corrugated cardboard. Pneumatic tires. Have you ever wondered where these simple things that we take for granted come from? Have you ever wondered who came up with them? Because that is how they came to be: they were someone's idea. More than likely, it was a single person's idea. At some point, someone realized there was a way to solve a problem or make something easier; there was a way to write with ink more easily, a way to make cardboard significantly stronger, a way to take the bump and jostle out of road. That idea was realized, and granted it was improved and built upon for the decades to come, and likely will continue to be improved in the future, but ultimately that idea came out of seemingly nowhere.
It's so easy to take these things for granted today. It seems everything is comprised of hundreds if not thousands of tiny, specific parts, all different ideas that came at different times to ultimately come together into one item. The bicycle is a great example of that. Did you think that some day, some guy got a bright idea and hammered together a fully geared, chain driven bicycle with pneumatic rubber tires on laced wheels that stopped with caliper brakes, and that this idea came out of nowhere? I'll give you a hint, it didn't. Before pneumatic tires there were solid rubber tires, and before that there were simple wooden wheels, much like those found on a horse-drawn wagon. Having multiple gears on a bike was an idea that came sometime in the early part of the 20th century, and it was a notion that was met with great resistance at first. In fact, the very idea of a chain driven bicycle, something that might seem so simple and obvious to us today, was an idea that came about decades after the first velocipede was created. Before chains, the crank was mounted directly to the front wheel. The iconic "penny-farthing" was a great example of this, and you might be surprised to learn that it was very difficult to ride.
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| Left: Example of a "penny-farthing". Could you imagine trying to ride one? Right: Example of a safety bicycle. It may seem like common sense, but this was at one time a huge technological breakthrough. Source |
In our superficial, consumerist society it's easy to get caught up with what things look like on the outside. But every once in a while, take a moment to think about what's inside, and what it took to create whatever is powering your high tech cell phone, or low tech ballpoint pen.
Friday, January 25, 2013
Fuji-san, Part 3
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| Dirty hub, pre-cleaning, right after the axle was removed. January 18, 2013 |
I have an odd affinity for hubs. They hold a strange place in the bicycle mythos. They are important, yet often overlooked; they are very utilitarian yet can be very beautiful. I already mentioned my tastes in hubs in the previous post, but I'll recount it here. I love old hubs, especially hubs with high flanges and bold curves. The more narrow the hub shell, and higher the flange, the more I'll probably like the hub. A gentle concave curve connecting the two seals the deal.
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| Hub diagram. Hand drawn. January 19, 2013 |
Ah, but to those who aren't familiar with the inner workings of bicycle brackets, some of the above terms such as cone and locknut probably didn't make a ton of sense. I'll explain. A bicycle bracket--the hub on each wheel, the headset, and the bottom bracket--is essentially a bearing assembly that allows an axle or spindle to spin. The hubs let your wheels roll along the ground, the headset lets you turn your handlebars, and the bottom bracket lets you turn the crank when you pedal. Although they are each a little different (the headset usually being the most different) they all operate on the same principles and share the same parts, in concept. I'll explain in the context of a hub, as the terminology does change a little depending on which bracket you're dealing with.
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| Inner Hub Diagram. Hand Drawn. January 23, 2013 |
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| The axle, bearings, and hardware from my hub, pre-cleaning. I regretfully forgot to photograph the disassembled parts after their cleaning, but this will do to show some real life examples. Note the concave surfaces on the cones, and the washer-spacer combo between the locknut and cone. January 18, 2013 |
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| Close up of the stamped lettering. Note the 6 and 80, which I believe designates the hub being made in June of 1980. January 23, 2013 |
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| SunShine Gyro-Master front hub, still laced to the original rim and uncleaned. Note the nasty, dried grease on and around the dust cover. January 18, 2013 |
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| Left: Hub shell before cleaning and polishing. January 18, 2013 Right: Hub shell after cleaning and polishing. Wow! January 25, 2013 |
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| Left: Outside of hub assembly before cleaning. January 18, 2013 Right: Outside of hub assembly after cleaning. Shiny! January 25, 2013 |
While working at Ike's Bikes in Richmond, Indiana, my first job as a bike mechanic, we got a call one day that an older store that used to sell bicycle equipment was wanting to give us all of their old new stock. The store mentioned was Veach's, a name that should spark quiet excitement in most anyone raised in Richmond from the past several decades. A very old store, Veach's is mostly loved and revered as an "old fashioned" toy store, one where you can find figurines, dolls, model kits and other more "wholesome" play-things. Early in my own life, the toys were still in the basement of the store, while the first floor housed an assortment of odds and ends. There was always great excitement when we would visit Veach's with my grandparents, and one of my earliest memories is standing in the basement of that store getting a birthday present. Sometime during my early childhood, the store dropped the "five and dime store" act on the ground floor and became a full-blown toy store, which is what it still is today. At some point I guess they sold bike parts and accessories, maybe even a few bikes. They ended up giving us all of the stuff they never managed to sell, most of it coming from the late '80's or early '90's if I had to guess. A lot of it was relatively useless, out-of-date and cheap crap. But some of it was still useful, and each of us three mechanics divvied up the tubes of Phil grease for our own personal stashes. I got three tubes out of it, which should last me a good while.
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| Left: Preparing to assemble the second and last bearing assembly. Top Right: Phil Waterproof Grease, still with the Veach's price tag for $2.00 (it retails for about $10 now) Middle Right: Greased cups, ready for bearings. Bottom Right: Bearings resting in the greased cup, ready for the axle and cone to be installed. Note the ring they form in the cup. All taken January 23, 2013 |
Now, normally I'm doing this to a hub that is laced to a wheel, so when I flip the hub around, I can rest the axle on a surface, and the wheel can lean slightly to one side while I wrap up the job on the unfinished side. Doing this kind of work to a lone hub is actually kind of an awkward process, but I managed to carefully balance the hub on the axle. Probably not the smartest option, but it was kind of cool and worked out for me. At this point I basically repeated the steps on this side of the hub, and sealed the deal with the cone, spacer, washer, and locknut. Now comes the adjustment.
As explained above, hub adjustment is important. It can also be a bit tricky. Hand tightening the cones to the proper positions isn't that hard, it's the procedure of tightening them against the locknuts that almost always screws up the adjustment. This happens because as you secure the cone, and turn the locknut to tighten the assembly, the axle virtually always spins with it, at least a little bit, thus eliminating the position your cone was in. There's two ways to deal with this, and honestly one way is the "right" way, and one way is the "not-so-right" way.
The "right" way, which I do at work, involves an axle vise. This is a special tool inserted into a vice, which allows you to clamp onto an axle without damaging the threads. With the axle secure, you can then make your adjustment and tighten the assembly without fear of the cone position changing. It is still a little tricky, as I find the position awkward, but it does usually make it a lot easier. The "not-so-right" way, which I learned in Indiana and use on my own bikes, is to actually over-tighten the cone first, so that then when you tighten it against the locknut and the axle turns too, you are actually loosening it to (hopefully) an adequate adjustment. It doesn't always work, and can be frustrating to find that proper amount of over-tightness. But it works well when you don't have an axle vise. If there is still just a hair of play in the adjustment, another trick is to secure the first locknut, and then tighten the second. Again, it is a bit of a messy fix, but you are essentially compressing the whole assembly at that point. This way you can nudge the cones together without starting over again. These "not-so-right" procedures are what I did to my hub here.
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| The inked lettering. The "r" in "master" would not hold the ink, it is a shallow letter. Probably a sign of the less-than-highest quality of the hubs. January 25, 2013 |
With all of that said and done, the hub is now ready to be measured to determine spoke length for the future wheel build. It won't be the next wheel I build, I am going to build a rear wheel for Keri's bike, but it will probably come after that. I can't wait.
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| Another close up of the inked lettering. I love how the "R" snakes below the "O". January 25, 2013 |
Monday, January 14, 2013
Keri's Motobecane, Part 2
There isn't much in the bicycle mythos that is more worshiped or revered than the bicycle wheel. Specifically, the traditional bicycle wheel, if you want to retain the mystical connotation. It is an under-appreciated wonder of engineering, and represents a perfect combination of simplicity, elegance, and good design. There's a lot to be said about the bicycle wheel, and this isn't a place where you'll hear a lot of it. If I were to go into a more in-depth explanation of what goes into a bicycle wheel, this would be a very long and probably somewhat boring post. Instead, I'm just going to recount my experience of my first completely solo wheel build, with nuggets of vital information.
I say completely solo because I had help on my first wheel build ever. A coworker in Indiana helped me plan and build a wheelset for a very awesome Schwinn racing bike from the 1970's that I briefly owned. He essentially walked me through the process of lacing the wheel, and then he wrapped it up by tensioning the spokes. We only did this for the rear wheel, for I attempted to solo the front wheel but couldn't figure out how to start the lacing. Looking back, I blame his desire to uphold a common signature of wheel building: lining up any sort of logo on the hub with the valve stem hole. It's a little tricky as typically a hub gets turned during the lacing process. He ended up building that wheel for me.
Since then I hadn't tried to build any wheels. The need, or funds, never really came up. That began to change as our bicycles re-entered our lives after moving to Tucson, Arizona. In particular I was needing to build a set of wheels for my fiancee Keri's Motobecane. We got her bike with the stock wheels, sporting beautiful high flange hubs and--gulp--single-walled rims. Interestingly enough, the front rim is aluminum, and the rear is steel. The hubs are the same, so that leads me to believe they are the original wheels. Not sure what is going on with that.
But the problem, besides the fact that Keri was riding on inferior, ready-to-bust wheels, was that she kept getting flats. A ridiculous number of flats. As a mechanic, who has to change numerous tubes a day, I am typically pretty unsympathetic about this sort of thing. Getting a flat is part of riding a bike, plain and simple. But Keri was having serious trouble, especially from her rims. Now, a bit of bicycle knowledge.
Between single-walled rims and double-walled rims, there is no contest. Single-walled rims are significantly weaker, more prone to going out of true, and their only positive quality is that they are the cheaper alternative. Double-walled rims are more or less the norm on any bike past the $500 mark, and as my former manager would always say, "No bike mechanic would build himself a wheel without a double-walled rim." They are much stronger, add very little weight, and the price jump is honestly not that bad. What you gain in integrity far outpaces the price jump.
Rim tape, which is used on double-walled rims to protect the tube from blowing out on the milled nipple holes, is tougher than rim strips, which are essentially giant rubber bands. The rubber rim strips were not covering up all of the little holes that tend to line the inside edges of steel rims either, and I am certain those were causing trouble for her too. So, I decided to kill two birds with one stone and work on upgrading her wheels entirely.
One of my greatest hang ups when picking out components for a wheel is the hub. I have a great affection for vintage hub designs, specifically high flanges and narrow hub shell. Some of the most beautiful hubs, in my opinion, have a deep yet gentle concave profile. They're hard to come by, and nowadays they only exist as track hubs, although I'll admit I don't find many modern track hubs very keen to look at. More typical road hubs simply don't follow the aesthetic of their predecessors, they tend to have low flanges and thick hub shells, with hard angles connecting the two. Not there is anything specifically wrong with this style, I just prefer the older look. I've spent a lot of time looking at hubs, trying to find ones I liked. Then one day, I realized how silly I was being. I could just use the hubs that came with her bike!
They are, from the best that I can tell, the stock hubs that would have come on the bike. Normandy hubs, made in France. Aluminum, thirty-six holes and overall a nice design. Not my favorite, but a nice look. They resemble a pair of Campagnolo hubs I have laced to a set of vintage wheels hanging on my wall. I started by unlacing the front wheel. After that, I took the hub in with me to work and disassembled it to clean and repack everything. I have an ultrasonic parts cleaner at my disposal there, and that did a good job of removing a lot of the grim and crud. A lot of the tarnish still persisted, however, so I had to use another trick. A Google search unveiled a relatively simple procedure using Brillo pads and elbow grease to clean up aluminium. Filling the kitchen sink with warm water, I scrubbed away. All-in-all it worked rather well, considering I only spent a few bucks on a box full of Brillo pads. The site that offered the Brillo trick also suggested rubbing a ball of aluminium foil onto the object to shine it up, but this did not yield any favorable results for me. This is probably because there aren't many flat surfaces on the hub. But maybe I was just doing it wrong.
While disassembling the hub, I accidentally botched up the axle. Old axles tend to have a shallow groove cut along the length of the axle, for keyed washers that lie between the cone and lock nut. The same thing tends to exist more commonly on threaded headsets. And just like on the threaded headsets, these keyed washers tend to turn in place and lodge their key in the threads. If you're careful you can usually work the washer back to where the key lines up with the key slot, but if you're not careful you can booger up the threads. This is what I ended up doing to the original axle. I decided on replacing it with a modern axle, which isn't that big of a deal. There isn't much that is special about axles, at least to me.
With the hub finished up, I was able to make all of the necessary measurements to calculate spoke length. There is some fancy math you can use to do this (I don't know it) but nowadays there are a plethora of online spoke length calculators. I used the United Bicycle Institute's calculator. 296mm spokes were what came out for me, for a three-cross front wheel. Time for some more explanation.
The lacing of the spokes of a bicycle wheel is just one of the several ways to categorize wheels. The United Bicycle Institute's calculator goes up to five-cross, so I guess you can say you can go from zero to five. The term " # cross" signifies how many other spokes a single spoke will bisect. On a three-cross wheel, every spoke crosses three other spokes. On a four-cross wheel, every spoke crosses four other spokes. This design is a simple yet extremely effective way of building strength--through tangents, much like a truss bridge--into a bicycle wheel in a lightweight manner. Typically the more spokes a single spoke crosses, the stronger the wheel. This adds weight of course (due to longer spokes) but the increase in weight is not a tremendous thing. Three-cross wheels are considered the "norm", although this is slowly disappearing. I chose to lace Keri's wheel in three-cross mostly because I've found they are easy to replace spokes in. I've had to replace spokes in four-cross wheels and I found it frustrating sliding the spoke into place.
The spokes I used were cheaper, relatively simple spokes. The problem is that spokes can be very expensive, and can be just as "high tech" as the hubs or rims. I went with Wheel Master straight gauge stainless steel spokes. A box of seventy-five spokes retails for $30, and although I don't need seventy-five, it ended up being my cheapest option. For a little more money, I could have gone with some DT Swiss double-butted spokes, which would be stronger and lighter, but it would have been a hassle. I figure this wheel will be a good preliminary build for Keri, if she gets more serious we can bust out the big bucks when the time comes.
The final component is the rim, and an important one it is! There aren't many 27" rim options out there anymore. The only two viable options I had were Sun or Weinmann rims. I decided to stay away from Weinmann. They don't really make a bad product but they are sort of synonymous with cheap in wheels. Sun, on the other hand, makes some nice yet affordable rims, and I've actually had experience with them. I own a pair of pre-built wheels with Sun M-13II rims that are currently on my Fuji or Cannondale (I have to swap between bikes depending on what I want to ride.) They look great and have held up well for over a year now. I could have gotten another M-13II rim but I figured I already know how it holds up, so I'll experiment and try the Sun CR-18. It is a little more wide but also appears to be a little more sturdy. In addition, the 27" CR-18 comes polished. Pretty!
With all of the parts finally in my possession, I could begin the wheel building process. Luckily I had just received the book "Zinn & the Art of Road Bike Maintenance" from Keri for Christmas, and it has a step-by-step procedure for building a three-cross wheel. I then proceeded to sit on my living room floor and anxiously began the lacing process.
I won't go into any real detail on the lacing process, as it would balloon the size of the post and isn't that relevant. To sum it up, I began by lacing half of the spokes for one flange to the rim, and then laced half of the spokes for the opposite flange.
Then I spun the hub as far as I could and began truly lacing the third quarter of spokes. I say truly because it was at this point that I started crossing spokes and, in a sense, weaving them to create a strong wheel. After the last two quarters of spokes were done, I had an untensioned, yet fully laced, bicycle wheel. What an accomplishment it felt like! But the hardest part was about to happen, the tensioning.
Naturally, after lacing a wheel you have to bring all of the spokes up to proper tension. A poorly tensioned wheel won't last as long as a properly done one, and tensioning can be a tricky process. I did some preliminary tensioning at home, by tightening every spoke until I knew I was in the ball-park. But I had to eventually take it into work with me to use a proper truing stand. I attempted to use a bike and it's fork flipped upside down, but that only helped me get into the ballpark. It didn't quite provide me with the precision I was needing. In addition to tensioning the spokes I have to of course maintain lateral trueness--that's the elimination of side-to-side wobble--and radial trueness--making sure the rim is a perfect circle and not lopsided. There is also the dish of the wheel to consider, which essentially means whether or not the rim is in the center of the fork or frame when the wheel is mounted. Balancing all of these attributes while making sure the spokes are at a proper tension can be harrowing on the mind, especially when dealing with thirty-six of them! Eventually I managed to get the wheel within sufficient tolerances. No wheel is truly perfect, simply because there are too many elements pushing and pulling against others. You could make a perfectly true wheel, but it may not be uniformly tensioned. Likewise, a uniformly tensioned wheel more than likely wouldn't be perfectly true. You have to reach a state of balance between all of these parameters in order to build a good wheel. There is some serious Taoism going on in wheel building.
With the wheel ready, I applied the rim tape, installed the tire and tube, and mounted the wheel in the Motobecane's fork. Needless to say, it all looks great. Can't wait to start on the rear wheel.
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| Starting the wheel building process. January 9, 2013 |
Since then I hadn't tried to build any wheels. The need, or funds, never really came up. That began to change as our bicycles re-entered our lives after moving to Tucson, Arizona. In particular I was needing to build a set of wheels for my fiancee Keri's Motobecane. We got her bike with the stock wheels, sporting beautiful high flange hubs and--gulp--single-walled rims. Interestingly enough, the front rim is aluminum, and the rear is steel. The hubs are the same, so that leads me to believe they are the original wheels. Not sure what is going on with that.
But the problem, besides the fact that Keri was riding on inferior, ready-to-bust wheels, was that she kept getting flats. A ridiculous number of flats. As a mechanic, who has to change numerous tubes a day, I am typically pretty unsympathetic about this sort of thing. Getting a flat is part of riding a bike, plain and simple. But Keri was having serious trouble, especially from her rims. Now, a bit of bicycle knowledge.
Between single-walled rims and double-walled rims, there is no contest. Single-walled rims are significantly weaker, more prone to going out of true, and their only positive quality is that they are the cheaper alternative. Double-walled rims are more or less the norm on any bike past the $500 mark, and as my former manager would always say, "No bike mechanic would build himself a wheel without a double-walled rim." They are much stronger, add very little weight, and the price jump is honestly not that bad. What you gain in integrity far outpaces the price jump.
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| Left: Single-walled rim. Note the upside-down U shape of the rim. Source Right: Double-walled rim. Note the second wall, adding a dramatic amount of strength. Source |
One of my greatest hang ups when picking out components for a wheel is the hub. I have a great affection for vintage hub designs, specifically high flanges and narrow hub shell. Some of the most beautiful hubs, in my opinion, have a deep yet gentle concave profile. They're hard to come by, and nowadays they only exist as track hubs, although I'll admit I don't find many modern track hubs very keen to look at. More typical road hubs simply don't follow the aesthetic of their predecessors, they tend to have low flanges and thick hub shells, with hard angles connecting the two. Not there is anything specifically wrong with this style, I just prefer the older look. I've spent a lot of time looking at hubs, trying to find ones I liked. Then one day, I realized how silly I was being. I could just use the hubs that came with her bike!
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| Left: Nasty side shot of the hub. Right: Stamped name on the hub shell, reads "NORMANDY FRANCE". Both taken November 29, 2012 |
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| Look at how shiny and clean it turned out! Note: The golden yellow tone comes from the poor lighting of my living room. December 1, 2012 |
With the hub finished up, I was able to make all of the necessary measurements to calculate spoke length. There is some fancy math you can use to do this (I don't know it) but nowadays there are a plethora of online spoke length calculators. I used the United Bicycle Institute's calculator. 296mm spokes were what came out for me, for a three-cross front wheel. Time for some more explanation.
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| An example of a spoke on a three cross wheel. Each arrow points to a point where the highlighted spoke is crossing another spoke. January 14, 2013 |
The spokes I used were cheaper, relatively simple spokes. The problem is that spokes can be very expensive, and can be just as "high tech" as the hubs or rims. I went with Wheel Master straight gauge stainless steel spokes. A box of seventy-five spokes retails for $30, and although I don't need seventy-five, it ended up being my cheapest option. For a little more money, I could have gone with some DT Swiss double-butted spokes, which would be stronger and lighter, but it would have been a hassle. I figure this wheel will be a good preliminary build for Keri, if she gets more serious we can bust out the big bucks when the time comes.
The final component is the rim, and an important one it is! There aren't many 27" rim options out there anymore. The only two viable options I had were Sun or Weinmann rims. I decided to stay away from Weinmann. They don't really make a bad product but they are sort of synonymous with cheap in wheels. Sun, on the other hand, makes some nice yet affordable rims, and I've actually had experience with them. I own a pair of pre-built wheels with Sun M-13II rims that are currently on my Fuji or Cannondale (I have to swap between bikes depending on what I want to ride.) They look great and have held up well for over a year now. I could have gotten another M-13II rim but I figured I already know how it holds up, so I'll experiment and try the Sun CR-18. It is a little more wide but also appears to be a little more sturdy. In addition, the 27" CR-18 comes polished. Pretty!
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| A Christmas gift from Keri, which I used to build her wheel! Source |
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| Beginning of the lacing process. Sun CR-18 rim, Zinn's book, Normandy hub, 36 nipples and spokes, spoke wrench and slotted screwdriver. January 9, 2013 |
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| A quarter of the spokes laced, another quarter ready to be laced. January 9, 2013 |
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| Three quarters of the spokes are laced. Note how it is beginning to resemble a normal wheel. January 9, 2013 |
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| Finished wheel. Note the rings of reflected light on the floor and walls. Shiny! January 14, 2013 |
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| Final product. January 14, 2013 |
Sunday, January 6, 2013
Fuji-san, Part 2
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| The Fuji prior to its cleaning, resting on the Rillito River Path. Note the brown chain. July 11, 2012 |
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| Scan from the 1980 Fuji catalog. That is my bike, although I apparently have the "Ice Blue" version. Source |
With that out of the way, I can describe the latest work I've done to the bike. It all started in the middle of December, 2012, one night after work when I decided to linger around and wait for my fiancee Keri to get off so we could both drive home. I was anxious to get started on a small project I had been planning, to basically clean and polish up the stem on my Fuji as it was a bit scuffed up and had some nasty tarnish on the underside of the shaft forward. As is often the case when casually working on one's own equipment, I got lost in the moment and found myself with an almost completely unassembled bicycle, having removed the drivetrain, handlebars and stem. I figured with the bike out of commission as I cleaned the stem, it was as good a time as any to clean up the derailleurs. I had just recently cleaned my freewheel in our parts cleaner at work, and it came out looking almost brand new, so I was excited to see what my beautiful derailleurs would look like. I was in for a bit of a surprise.
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| Rear derailleur, before going into the parts cleaner. December 13, 2012 |
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| The arrow points to the gap in the cage, allowing the chain to be easily removed. January 4, 2013 |
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| Rear derailleur, after the parts cleaner. Note the chunk of black paint that came off! December 13, 2012 |
The stem on the other hand, the whole reason for me dismantling my bike, came out with hardly any noticeable improvements. Sure, some of the tarnish was gone, but the stem didn't really shine the way I wanted it to. A week or so later, while in Wal-Mart the metal polish section caught my eye, and after reading through the labels I picked up Brasso Metal Polish. That night I attempted to polish up the stem but again, with little result. I guess compared to how the stem originally was, it is an improvement, but it didn't really turn out the way I had in mind. Of course, I have virtually no experience in polishing metals, and I'm sure there are some tricks I could learn to really make it look the way I want. For now, this'll have to do though.
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| Left: Stem before cleaning. Note the black splotches and tarnish. December 13, 2012 Right: Stem after cleaning and polishing. January 6, 2013 |
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| The newly installed and painted Suntour Vx S rear derailleur. January 4, 2013 |
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| Left: Newly painted and installed Suntour Vx front derailleur. January 4, 2013 Right: The worn groove on the outward cage plate of the front derailleur. January 4, 2013 |
The final piece to the puzzle was putting it all back together and wrapping my handlebars with new bar tape. With my new Brooks saddle, some of my coworkers suggested I go with my idea of getting brown bar tape. I toyed with the idea of getting leather bar tape, but the honest truth is that it is just too expensive, and I've heard it isn't even that comfortable either. I went with my standby, Origin-8 Cork Handlebar Tape, color brown. And I have to say, it looks great.
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| Left: A rare shot of me actually working on a bike, taken by a kind coworker. Right Top: Down the top tube. Right Middle: Bottom bracket shell from the front triangle. Note the small crease of rust between the seat tube and down tube, oh no! Right Bottom: Bottom bracket shell from the rear triangle. All taken January 4, 2013 |
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| Full shot of the completed bike. January 4, 2013 |
Note: For those interested in an unusually well put together and informative website on rear derailleurs, I can recommend Disraeli Gears. It is where I gained some knowledge on my own equipment, and I find it interesting to read about some of the other ones out there as well.
I can also recommend this website as a resource for "Classic Fuji" bicycles, years 1971 through 1991. It is where I found the information regarding serial numbers, and there are quite a few catalog scans from every one of those years. A great website for Fuji enthusiasts.
Fuji-san, Part 1
At this point in my life, I have a stable of four bikes: two of my own bikes, the mountain bike I inherited from my dad, and I have current custody of my mom's road bike. I guess you could say five if you count my fiancee Keri's bike. Between the two bikes that I ride, my 1980 Fuji is by far my favorite.
In the middle of August, 2011 I was starting my last month of work at Ike's Bikes, the small bike shop in Richmond, Indiana that I consider myself to "come from." Our work day was over, and as we were locking up the place a guy rolled up to the store on a bike. Frustrated , I opened the door and asked if there was anything we could do for him real quick. He said he was wanting to sell the bike, and as I was explaining the shop policy--"We don't buy bikes, but we will sell it for you on consignment"--I took a look at what he rode in on. The first thing I noticed was the head tube; this thing was huge! It probably fit me. It was an old steel road bike. It was a Fuji. And it actually looked to be in halfway decent shape. I wanted to buy the bike, but I was not in any financial position to shell out the amount of cash I figured the guy would want. I mentioned this, and after some back and forth prodding he gave me a price: $30.
Thirty dollars! My manager had to spot me some cash, but we gave the man his money and the bike was mine. I'll probably never forget my manager's comment after we wheeled the bike back into the shop. "Man, you need to make sure you never get rid of those crank arms." As seen in the above picture, the name Fuji is molded into the crank arm in an almost art-deco style. I've never seen a crank arm that I like more than these.
I rode the bike home and excitedly started planning what I was going to do to it. The giant reflectors--front, rear, and one on each wheel--had to go. The saddle wasn't in good condition, and neither was the bar-tape. The wheels were probably the least-impressive part of the bike: single-walled rims and un-extraordinary. But the frame and drivetrain were beautiful. I knew I had a real gem.
For this particular blog post, I'll recount what I did to the bike while still in Indiana. In the next post, I'll tell what I've done more recently. I essentially broke the bike down as far as it would go, removing and cleaning the componentry and prepping it for the more essential upgrades that I could afford at the time. I discovered that even the bottom bracket was special: stamped on both cups was a very tiny outline of Mount Fuji--Fuji-san in Japanese--which is Fuji Bicycle's logo. I was surprised and very excited to find this. It's not every day you find unique markings on a bottom bracket. The bottom bracket--the bearings and spindle which your crank mounts to, allowing your feet to spin and pedal--is rarely embellished or adorned, especially nowadays.
A few weeks passed as I waited for funds to accumulate and parts to come in. I had to change the brakes for a few reasons. First and foremost, I was going to eventually replace the 27" wheelset for a 700c wheelset. I needed to do this because the bike actually ended up being just a hair too tall for me. I could ride it, but the top tube was just high enough to make it slightly uncomfortable. Since the 700c wheel size is slightly smaller than a 27" wheel, I figured this would alleviate enough of that to make the bike tolerable. Lucky for me, I would end up being right.
But first I had to get new brake calipers. I briefly went over this in my post about Keri's Motobecane, but I'll go over it again here. Because 27" and 700c wheels are so close to one another, brake calipers exist out there that can work with either wheel size. These "long reach" calipers are great for exactly what I was wanting to do: convert a bike to a smaller wheel size. Luckily at the time I was able to get my hands on some Tektro R536 long reach, standard bolt calipers. They don't make these anymore, or at least I can't find them. They're great because they were actually affordable, being around $30 each. The closest part I can find now is much more expensive, I believe about double the price. I've actually contemplated cleaning up those old calipers and reinstalling them on the bike. But I would have to return to 27" wheels, and I just can't do that. So these Tektros will have to do for now.
In addition to the calipers, I wanted new levers. What came on the bike were the older, non-aero style levers that I just don't like. It's purely an aesthetic issue for me. Even though I tend to love old things on bikes, this style of brake lever is one place where I need something more modern. To clarify what I'm talking about, aero style brake levers are what you could say is the modern norm. The brake cable and housing leave the brake lever through the rear, and run under the bar tape along the handlebar until it exits the bar tape, where it then heads toward the brake caliper. The older non-aero style has the cable and housing exit the lever at the top, looping up and around to wherever it needs to go. I don't find it very elegant, and it has always bothered me. Some people like this style, and I can respect that, but I'll just never be able to appreciate it. I ended up getting some nice Dia-Compe BL-07 levers, a nice and affordable, and appropriately retro looking, set of levers. I've been very happy with them.
With the brakes sorted out, the other adjustments I made were rather minor. I got a new seatpost, an Origin-8 Sport Lite Alloy Post, in silver. Nothing too fancy, I mostly upgraded this because I don't much care for the pillar style post and the mounting guts that come with it. The Sport Lite uses a double bolt setup where each bolt essentially counter-tensions the other. It is admittedly not the most elegant adjustment to make, at least in my opinion, but I love the way it looks and it felt right on such a classy bike. The saddle I got for the bike at this time was an Origin-8 Pro Fit, an affordable, sleek and lightweight saddle that is honestly a bit more serious than anything I should ever need. But to be truthful, it has been one of the most comfortable saddles I've ever owned. I would eventually replace the saddle with a Brooks, as I discussed in a previous post.
The last part I swapped out at the time were the pedals. It came with what you should expect from a bike of this era, "quill" style road pedals. I like the visual aesthetic of the pedals, but I hate riding with them. They are designed to have a "right" side and "wrong" side, the "right" side being raised and the "wrong" side being convex and difficult to keep your foot on. I recently learned these pedals are like this to allow for tighter cornering. It makes sense, but I want to know why an "equal" sided pedal in this visual style hasn't been made yet.
I have a somewhat strange affinity for track pedals. I know, they run on the same idea of a "right" and "wrong" side, but it is usually much less pronounced and flipping them is, I've found, much easier. They can also look pretty sharp. They may look odd on a bike like mine to some people, but I enjoy it. I splurged a little on the pedals, getting the Origin-8 Track Pro pedals, coming in at about $30. It was splurging at the time. These sleek, silver pedals look great, and with sealed bearings they have been great.
The frame was overall in great condition. No rust, and the paint job was almost pristine. I did notice on the top tube what appeared to be a series of scratches and scrapes, covered in blue touch-up paint that wasn't quite the right tone. The fork was also in good shape, although the chromed parts did have some spots of surface rust. I improvised and used a small amount of Tri-Flow with a very high grit sand paper to very lightly rub off the surface rust. It may have not been the best solution, but I feel I did a good job.
Finally I wrapped the bars with one of my standbys: Origin-8 Cork Handlebar Tape. Black, of course. I kept the original wheels, as they would be expensive to upgrade, and I was going to get some Continental Gatorskin tires of course. I was only a few weeks from moving to Arizona anyways, so that could wait. The bike sadly saw little use during my first half year in Arizona, for I was in the biking hell-hole that is Bullhead City. I rode my bikes only twice in the six months I lived there. Finally, when Keri and I moved to Tucson, was I able to enjoy my bike again, and I soon began to like my Fuji more than my Cannondale. Not too long after the move, though, I noticed a tear in the sidewall of the old, decaying tires on the Fuji. Too poor to even buy a new tire--and not wanting to due to my plans to eventually go to 700c--I actually took the relatively new 700c wheels from my Cannondale, complete with Gatorskin tires, and put them on the Fuji. Thank goodness for forward thinking with those brake calipers! Since then, the Fuji has become my main bike, and I love it. In my next blog post, I'll go over the recent cleaning I've done with the bike.
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| The beautiful crank arm, on the day I got my Fuji. August 11, 2011 |
Thirty dollars! My manager had to spot me some cash, but we gave the man his money and the bike was mine. I'll probably never forget my manager's comment after we wheeled the bike back into the shop. "Man, you need to make sure you never get rid of those crank arms." As seen in the above picture, the name Fuji is molded into the crank arm in an almost art-deco style. I've never seen a crank arm that I like more than these.
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| The original setup, granny reflectors and all. August 11, 2011 |
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| Left: The rear derailleur. Top Right: Rear drivetrain. Bottom Right: Dia-compe ratcheting friction shifters. All taken the day I got the bike. August 11, 2011 |
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| The drive side cup. Note the Mount Fuji stamp at the top. August 26, 2011 |
For this particular blog post, I'll recount what I did to the bike while still in Indiana. In the next post, I'll tell what I've done more recently. I essentially broke the bike down as far as it would go, removing and cleaning the componentry and prepping it for the more essential upgrades that I could afford at the time. I discovered that even the bottom bracket was special: stamped on both cups was a very tiny outline of Mount Fuji--Fuji-san in Japanese--which is Fuji Bicycle's logo. I was surprised and very excited to find this. It's not every day you find unique markings on a bottom bracket. The bottom bracket--the bearings and spindle which your crank mounts to, allowing your feet to spin and pedal--is rarely embellished or adorned, especially nowadays.
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| Non-drive side cup. Again, note the smaller Mount Fuji Stamp. August 26, 2011 |
A few weeks passed as I waited for funds to accumulate and parts to come in. I had to change the brakes for a few reasons. First and foremost, I was going to eventually replace the 27" wheelset for a 700c wheelset. I needed to do this because the bike actually ended up being just a hair too tall for me. I could ride it, but the top tube was just high enough to make it slightly uncomfortable. Since the 700c wheel size is slightly smaller than a 27" wheel, I figured this would alleviate enough of that to make the bike tolerable. Lucky for me, I would end up being right.
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| Left: Original brake calipers. Nasty. Right: New brake calipers. Shiny. September 6, 2011 |
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| Left: The non-aero style on the Fuji the day it came home. August 11, 2011 Right: An example of the routing of cables on an aero style setup, before the bar tape is applied. September 14, 2011 |
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| The Origin-8 Sport Lite post and Pro Fit saddle. Ignore the improperly placed plate on that bolt, I wasn't finished yet. September 6, 2011 |
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| The Origin-8 Track Pro pedals. September 6, 2011 |
The frame was overall in great condition. No rust, and the paint job was almost pristine. I did notice on the top tube what appeared to be a series of scratches and scrapes, covered in blue touch-up paint that wasn't quite the right tone. The fork was also in good shape, although the chromed parts did have some spots of surface rust. I improvised and used a small amount of Tri-Flow with a very high grit sand paper to very lightly rub off the surface rust. It may have not been the best solution, but I feel I did a good job.
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| Left: Surface rust on the fork, before touching up. Right: After touching up with Tri-Flow and sandpaper. September 6, 2011 |
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| The awesome Fuji head badge. August 11, 2011 |
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