Giant Flying Bicycles

     When I was a kid, between the ages of maybe eight and ten, I was really interested in airplanes.  I often sketched doodles of them on the backs of my worksheets at school, I tried to always read about them in library books, and I was absolutely fascinated by just about anything that flew.  Specifically, World War 2 military aircraft have always been sort of special to me.  Even though I don't really pursue it anymore as an interest, my eyes always light up and my mind starts racing when those kinds of aircraft are brought up.
     Part of this interest was spawned from my dad, whose interest came from his dad.  My grandpa was in the United States Air Force during World War 2.  His enthusiasm for flying carried over into his post-military life, and he has had a lifelong love of aircraft.  My dad and uncles inherited and shared this fascination, which was passed onto me.  It runs in the family, I guess.

     My birthday is nearing, and my lovely fiancee Keri surprised me today with a visit to the Pima Air and Space Museum, a world-class aviation museum right here in Tucson, Arizona.  I was extremely excited, and we had a really fun time.  My boyhood enthusiasm came right out, as I ran from airplane to airplane, telling Keri what I remembered about each one.  When we first entered the museum, we were unsurprisingly greeted with a replica reproduction of the Wright Flyer, the first successful powered aircraft.  Growing up in North Carolina, known as the "First in Flight", I learned about the Wright brothers in elementary school.  They were  bicycle mechanics and frame builders during the great Bicycle Boom of the Victorian Era.  They held patents on some bicycle inventions, and are credited for starting the standard today of left-sided crank arms being reverse-threaded so the pedals do not loosen themselves while pedaling.  That is a very important innovation for the bicycle!
     Although the replica was hung from the ceiling and it was difficult to see the entire thing, I couldn't help but smile as I noticed the bicycle-inspired parts.  Thick sprockets attached to the propellers were driven by what looked like a giant, heavy duty bicycle chain.  On the motor itself, which was a custom-built machine, a more standard-sized chain helped drive the system.  For some reason, and I'm not sure why, I noticed a bare bicycle hub mounted to the front of the canard wings.  The only purpose I can give it is that it assisted in the aircraft taking off from its wooden railed sled.

Left:  A reproduction of the Wright Flyer at the Dayton International Airport.  Source
Right:  A close-up of the bicycle-inspired drivetrain that propelled mankind skyward.  Source

     They used the money they earned from their bicycle business to fund the research and experiments that eventually led to the forefather of all modern aircraft.  Essentially, the airplane was invented by some guys who built and worked on bicycles.  Bicycles and airplanes have always been at least somewhat connected in my mind.  Recently, it has become more concrete to me.  Both are vehicles which were considered radical at their time of conception, paving new roads and opportunities.  For the airplane, it's obvious: man was able to fly in the sky after hundreds of years of yearning to do so.  For the bicycle, perhaps not as obvious:  people were liberated to go greater distances at lesser costs, both financially and physically.
     Both machines are built to be light and efficient, relying on physics to maintain stability, unlike a four-wheeled automobile, which is stable for geometric reasons.  This may seem like the silliest reason, but I think it deserves notice:  aircraft were for the longest time controlled via cables, just likes bicycles.  This is actually still true for smaller aircraft, such as Cessna bush planes.  Strong steel cables run from the controls of the aircraft's cockpit to the various rudders and ailerons that control the aircraft in the sky.  Larger, more modern aircraft, such as jet-powered fighters and civilian airliners, have obviously upgraded to hydraulic systems, just like the bicycle when cable-actuated brakes weren't cutting it for hardcore mountain bikers.  About halfway through our visit, I couldn't help but think that airplanes were just giant flying bicycles.

What I can only guess to be control cables, running along the inside of a B-17 Flying Fortress.  Taken at the Pima Air & Space Museum, March 4, 2013

     We only had a few hours to see the whole museum, as they closed at five o'clock, and we unfortunately entered the one building I unknowingly would have wanted to visit the most dead last.  This hangar housed a B-17 Flying Fortress, this time a plane which is a family favorite, as it was the aircraft my grandpa flew in during World War 2.  But just as we stepped into the cool air, one of the elderly volunteers told us they were closing this building in five minutes, so we had better hurry.  So we rush into the exhibit era, and lo and behold, there is a restored B-17 in all of its glory.  But propped next to a wall exhibit is something that I must admit interested me much more:  an era-specific bicycle!  I had never seen a bike this old so up close before!  As I excitedly kneeled to take pictures, another elderly volunteer came up and told me they were closing in a few minutes, so I should take that time to take pictures of the plane.  I smiled and didn't feel like explaining that I was a bicycle mechanic.  I only had a minute or so to look at it, but it was really cool.

Left:  Front shot of the bike.  It was so interesting to see such an old bike!
Top-right:  Rod-actuated brakes, something that just does not exist anymore unless you're in a developing nation.
Middle-right:  The bottom bracket and crank arm, using the dreaded cotter-pin interface.
Bottom-right:  A Brooks saddle!  Now that assures me I have a quality product.
All taken at the Pima Air & Space Museum, on March 4, 2013

     I had never seen rod-actuated brakes before.  They are a very old precursor to the cable-actuated rim brakes we have today.  These used a solid rod that pulled up on a set of rubber pads, which actually gripped the underside of the bicycle rim instead of the sides like they do nowadays.  The bike was not in the best shape, but it was good enough for me to really enjoy.  Keri pointed out the saddle to me, which was none other than a Brooks leather saddle.  Quite worn and gnarled around the edges, but still very distinguishable, this makes me feel good about my purchase.  If a saddle from the 1940s can at least still bear its shape and resemblance then that is good enough for me.

     Seeing all of the airplanes sparked some strong memories for me too.  In every building, it seemed there was at least one plane that I learned about from my dad.  If it wasn't the SR-71 Blackbird, the current record holder for the fastest manned aircraft propelled by jet technology, it was the PT-19, an aircraft used to train new pilots on how to fly during World War 2, and a plane my dad always seemed to get excited about.  He loved it so much that we actually embarked on one of our first father-son projects, and built a wooden toy plane that we painted with the familiar blue-yellow color scheme.

Left:  The PT-19 on exhibit.  One of my dad's many favorite planes.  Taken at the Pima Air & Space Museum.
Top-right:  The wooden toy plane my dad and I built when I was a kid.
Bottom-right:  A close-up of the plane.  Note the (mostly) similar paint scheme.
All photos taken on March 4, 2013

     I was probably nine or ten years old, and he had just bought a scroll saw; for what exactly, I'm not sure.  But he wanted a project, so he decided he and I would build a little plane.  The fuselage was cut from a piece of pine, probably a two-by-four, and the wings, tail stabilizers and wheel struts were cut from hobby plywood.  I remember my job was to sand everything down to be really smooth, and that I hated doing it.  The propeller was from a model plane, one of those motorized hobby planes that run on a control line as you spin in a circle.  My dad liked playing with those, from time to time.  The most special piece though is the nose cone, a completely custom part that my dad made one night on his tiny lathe in the basement.  He was so proud of it, just a simple, polished piece of what I'm going to guess is steel due to its shine.  The vertical tail fin and the wheel struts were first attached to the fuselage with glued toothpicks, but when those broke he repaired it with cut bicycle spokes.  It seems bicycle spokes solved a lot of his problems.
     A love of airplanes will always be one of the bonds I have with my dad.  I think it transcended the need for any sort of discussion or validation.  It was simple:  we both were just naturally drawn to them.  The same could be said for bicycles, but I honestly think the sentiment runs deeper with airplanes.  Maybe it was because they are sort of mysterious and unattainable.
     I remember my dad briefly wanted to get his pilot's license, but he never got very far with it.  According to my mom, he started reading the books, and went up on an observation flight with a pilot to get a feeling of what he was in for.  After he got back down, I guess he decided he couldn't do it, because it required a lot of reading, written tests, and technical knowledge.  My dad felt his way through everything, just like me, and while you can fly with that sort of skill-set, I don't think it is really encouraged to let novices go up if they don't know exactly what they're doing beforehand.

My dad and his tandem jumper, right after they landed back on the Earth.  This picture
hung on a wall in his house ever since the day he leapt from the plane.
Date unknown, probably summer of 2002.

     Despite this, my dad maintained a lifelong desire to take to the skies.  After our family moved back to Indiana and my parents split up, my dad took to visiting the local airport and watching the skydivers.  He liked to go up into the jump plane and ride back down as the plane tried to beat the plummeting skydivers to the surface.  One day, my dad decided he wanted to join them, and he soon found himself leaping out of the door of an airplane, strapped to an experienced skydiver in a tandem jump.  It was one of my dad's proudest moments, something he had always wanted to do and something he would always be excited to talk about afterwards.  He really loved doing it, although he only did it once; it was a pricey endeavor.  He really wanted me to do it when I was old enough, but I refused.  I enjoy airplanes more as museum pieces, and at least, when safely buckled inside of one.  But maybe someday when I'm in my early forties, that will change.

My entire gallery of the trip to the Pima Air & Space Museum can be found here, on my Facebook profile.  If you ever find yourself in the Tucson era, and you're a fan of aviation, I highly recommend visiting the museum, although I do also recommend to come earlier in the day as our two hour visit was not long enough.

The Creed of our Forefathers

     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?

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.

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

     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.

Fuji-san, Part 3

Dirty hub, pre-cleaning, right after the axle was removed.
January 18, 2013

     Although it will be a little while before I can accumulate enough funds to build the wheels I have planned for my Fuji, I can still enjoy the process of prepping what I do have--the hubs--so that when the money is ready I can start quickly.  I also figure this will be a good place to go deeper into hubs, as I sort of glazed over that step in my previous post about my first solo wheel build.

     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.

Hub diagram.  Hand drawn.
January 19, 2013

     In addition to enjoying their aesthetic, I also enjoy working on hubs.  Overhauling a hub is something I almost always enjoy, especially if the hub starts off being very nasty and dirty.  I love taking out the axle, reading the story the bearings may or may not tell, cleaning everything, and putting it all back together into a clean, smooth state of operation again.  It can be very fulfilling.  One of the first things that was handed to me as a fresh and learning bike mechanic was a wheel with a loose hub.  My manager explained the process of adjustment, and handed it to me.  I probably sat with that wheel in my lap, constantly tightening and loosening the cones and locknuts, for about an hour.  Frustrated, I handed the wheel to my manager and asked if it was acceptable.  Without saying anything, he loosened the locknuts, hand tightened the cones and gave it back to me.  "Like this," he said.  It was buttery smooth and had no play, or side-to-side wobble.  Of course it had to be tightened (that is the tricky part), but I was irritated that I was struggling so much with something apparently so simple.  I remember making some comment about taking an example home to practice so that I could get the procedure down, and my manager firmly responded that I was not paid enough to ever "take anything home."  And so I never did.

     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.

Inner Hub Diagram.  Hand Drawn.
January 23, 2013

     On each end of the hub you have an inward-facing cup, where a ring of bearings rests.  Running through that ring of bearings will be your axle, which towards each end will have a cone:  in essence a nut with a concave machined surface on the outward rim, which allows the axle to roll on the bearings.  Behind the cone you can sometimes have a washer, spacer, or two, and then finally a locknut, which is tightened to lock the whole assembly together.

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

     A properly adjusted hub will allow the axle to spin freely and fluidly, yet have absolutely no play.  A loosely adjusted hub will definitely allow the axle to spin freely, but you'll be able to move the axle side-to-side and maybe even up and down within the assembly.  This means that there is space between the bearings and either the cup or the concave surface of the cone.  As you ride on a loosely adjusted hub, that play will deform the cup and cone surfaces so that they are no longer smooth, and may even deform the precise concave curve necessary for the bearings to roll.  Give it enough time, and you can even deform the bearings, turning them into misshapen little lumps of steel.  A hub that is adjusted too tight will make it difficult to turn the axle, and over time the same damage can occur--rough surfaces and disfigured bearings.  Properly adjusted hubs--in addition to all your brackets--are a very important yet often overlooked form of bicycle maintenance that needs to be kept up on.

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

     Now, onto my hub.  The 1980 Fuji S12-S came stock with a pair of SunShine Gyro-Master hubs.  Interestingly, a Google search on any information on these hubs tends to only bring up sealed bearing BMX hubs from the mid '80's.  Indeed, I've never come across any SunShine hubs as a mechanic, at least any that I've noticed.  Regardless, I think they are very pretty and I rather enjoy the look of mine.  I noticed something interesting on my hubs.  Beneath the SunShine logo, "6 80" is stamped into the aluminum.  The "6" looks obviously stamped at a different time from the "80", and both numbers appear to not quite line up with the rest of the lettering.  I know the frame of my Fuji was made in July of 1980.  I would wager this stamp means the hub was made in June of 1980.  I love that I can pinpoint when the parts of my bike were actually manufactured!

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

     The hubs, and indeed the whole wheels, that accompany the bike came to me very dirty, with old gritty grease and corrosion covering much of the hub surface.  I was anxious to see how much, if any, shine was beneath all of the grime.  After unlacing the wheel, I took the bare hub and disassembled the inner workings on my kitchen floor.  The very top picture of this post shows what it looked like after I opened it up:  nasty, reddish brown grease, one of my least favorites to find.  I hand cleaned everything the best I could with paper towels, and took the parts into work with me the next day to use our parts cleaner.  As I've mentioned in a few previous posts, we have an ultrasonic parts cleaner where I work at REI, and that does a pretty good job of getting a lot of that old, dried grime off.  I popped my parts in with a coworker who was cleaning some of his own parts (a disassembled crank), and after a few bouts everything came out looking very good.  There was shine underneath all of that dirt!

Left:  Hub shell before cleaning and polishing.  January 18, 2013
Right:  Hub shell after cleaning and polishing.  Wow!  January 25, 2013

     A lot, if not most or all, of the high powers of bicycle knowledge out there will tell you to never reuse the original bearings if you're overhauling a hub, or any bracket for that matter.  This is, in all truth, sound knowledge, as bearings can lose their integrity and roundness over time.  However, some of the first bicycle work I ever did involved me and my dad overhauling the headset on my newly acquired Cannondale SR500.  I remember my dad telling me that you were to always inspect the bearing surface for any cracks, dents, or other marring   Looking through a magnified eyepiece--much like the stereotypical jeweler appraising a fine gem--I remember he and I looking at the tiny bearings that came out of my headset.  We determined they were fine enough to reuse, and they are the bearings that are still in there today.  I'm not allowed to--and I don't--reuse bearings at my job now at REI, but I have no problem doing that for myself.  Small, silly traditions are helpful for keeping connections alive inside of our souls.

Left:  Outside of hub assembly before cleaning.  January 18, 2013
Right:  Outside of hub assembly after cleaning.  Shiny!  January 25, 2013

     One night I sat down at my computer desk to reassemble the hub.  I had my newly cleaned parts, the original bearings (which looked great by the way), and all of the appropriate tools, including one of my precious tubes of Phil Waterproof Grease.  A few words on grease:  it's important.  Way more important, in my opinion, than the lube which goes on your chain and cables.  That stuff will eventually come off, be it from wind, water, or time.  It's natural.  Grease stays inside of your bike for a long time, and helps it perform it's most basic bicycle functions:  turning, pedaling, and rolling along the ground.  Personally, I've only ever used two of the products out there:  Phil Waterproof Grease, and Park Tool's Poly-Lube Grease.  Between the two, I much prefer Phil's grease.  It's thicker, and heavier, and easier to use in my opinion.  The Park Tool grease is slimier and thinner feeling.  It feels cheap.  I nabbed a few tubes of Phil Waterproof Grease before I left Indiana.  I got these tubes in a slightly amusing manner.

     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.

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

     I spread the grease on the inside of one of the cups with my finger, leaving a thin but substantial layer.  Then, I placed half of the bearings, nine of them, in a ring around the cup.  The thick, sticky qualities of Phil Waterproof Grease doesn't make this hard to do.  I then spread another thin layer of grease on top of the bearings, and gently coated the concave surface of the cone; the part that would contact the bearing surfaces.  The cone itself was tightened against the locknut and spacers on the axle, ready to interface with the bearings.  After I popped the dustcap into place--a thin, lipped ring of metal that protects the grease inside from, you guessed it, dust and dirt--I slid the axle-cone assembly in, and flipped the hub around.  One side was done.

     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.

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

     The final step is purely a cosmetic one, and a trick that I learned from a coworker who also has a fondness for old bicycle parts.  He showed me how you can use a Sharpie to ink the stamped lettering on old parts, and then use rubbing alcohol to wipe away the excess, leaving the black ink in the recessed letters.  It really helps the lettering pop and be readable.  The "r" and part of the "e" in "master" were difficult to keep the ink in, due to the recessed lines being very shallow.  More than likely this was because the stamp for "GYRO-master" did not firmly press into the right side, no doubt a sign of how these hubs aren't the highest quality parts out there.  No matter to me, I think it looks great.

     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.

Another close up of the inked lettering.  I love how the "R" snakes below the "O".
January 25, 2013

Note:  As you may have noticed, I provided two illustrations to demonstrate mechanical diagrams that would have been otherwise difficult or impossible to photograph myself.  Wanting to keep as much material original as possible on my blog, and to also stretch my lazy drawing muscle, I found this to be a fun alternative.  If you liked the drawings, or would prefer less-crappy diagrams from a professional source, let me know in the comments.  I'm anxious to hear some input.

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.

Starting the wheel building process.  January 9, 2013

     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.

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

     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!

Left:  Nasty side shot of the hub.
Right:  Stamped name on the hub shell, reads "NORMANDY FRANCE".
Both taken November 29, 2012

     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.

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

     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.

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 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!

A Christmas gift from Keri, which I used to build her wheel!  Source

     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.

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

     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.

A quarter of the spokes laced, another quarter ready to be laced.  January 9, 2013

     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.

Three quarters of the spokes are laced.  Note how it is beginning to
resemble a normal wheel.  January 9, 2013

     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.

Finished wheel.  Note the rings of reflected light on the
floor and walls.  Shiny!  January 14, 2013

     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.

Final product.  January 14, 2013

Fuji-san, Part 2

The Fuji prior to its cleaning, resting on the Rillito River Path.
Note the brown chain.  July 11, 2012

     I'll begin this post with some more mundane information which I did not include in my previous post, introducing my favorite Fuji bicycle.  I chose to not go into this information because at the time I was doing that work on the bike, I simply didn't have the information yet.  Not that it was beyond me--it all started with me recording the serial number--but I simply wasn't interested, or didn't think to research the bike.  Sometime in the middle of the summer of 2012, however, after my beloved mountain bike was stolen, I took it upon myself to record the serial numbers of all the bikes under my supervision.  In doing so, I became interested in the story of my bike.  What year was it?  What model?  Was all of the stuff that I hadn't changed yet truly stock?  Luckily for me, this information wasn't too terribly hard to find.

Scan from the 1980 Fuji catalog.  That is my bike, although I apparently have the "Ice Blue" version.  Source

     By my best reckoning, my Fuji is an S12-S made in July of 1980.  This was a touring model for Fuji that started in the early 1970's, as the S10-S.  Originally a "ten speed", with five gears in the rear and two gears in the front, in 1977 it got upgraded to a twelve speed drivetrain, with six gears in the back.  In 1979 it became the S12-S, gaining small upgrades such as a Nitto stem, new derailleurs, and side-pull brakes.  Between 1979 and 1980 the S12-S is nearly identical, with the only real change being the unique derailleurs.  The 1981 model gained an extra chainring, bumping the gearing up to eighteen speeds.  So my bike sits right in 1980, which is slightly disappointing, as I always wanted to have a steel bike from the 1970's.  But hey, the Blues Brothers movie was released in 1980, so I can take that as a good sign.

     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.

Rear derailleur, before going into the parts cleaner.  December 13, 2012

The arrow points to the gap in the cage,
allowing the chain to be
easily removed.  January 4, 2013

     But first, a word on the derailleurs.  As with the crank arms, both the front and rear derailleurs on the S12-S were specially marked with the Fuji name.  Made by Suntour, the Vx S (rear) and Vx (front) are exceptional middle-range derailleurs.  They are not top-of-the-line, but for me they are perfect.  More than anything, I think they are extremely nice looking and very elegant.  I am very fond of the Quick Cage feature especially on the rear derailleur.  Notice in the picture to the right  how there is no outward plate connecting the pulleys on the cage of the derailleur.  This allows you to easily remove the chain from the derailleur, a process that would otherwise require you to either break the chain, or loosen both pulley bolts to remove the cage plate.  Instead, with this design I just bend the chain a bit and it falls right out.  Beautiful.

Rear derailleur, after the parts cleaner.  Note the chunk of black paint that came off!  December 13, 2012

     As you can see above, the derailleur came out looking very nice and clean, except for one part... the paint!  The parts cleaner ate off a sizeable chunk of the thin black paint backing the raised Fuji label.  As I discovered this, the front derailleur was in the parts cleaner, losing an even larger part of its paint.  I should have known better, the parts cleaner has been known to remove the thin plastic veneer that covers a lot of modern Shimano components.  To say I was upset would be an understatement, but I quickly decided how I would fix it:  model paint.

     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.

Left:  Stem before cleaning.  Note the black splotches and tarnish.  December 13, 2012
Right:  Stem after cleaning and polishing.  January 6, 2013

     Back to the derailleurs.  I bought a quarter ounce vial of Testors Gloss Black enamel model paint from Michaels, hoping to remedy the decorative destruction the parts cleaner wrought on my beautiful Suntour derailleurs.  The first night, sitting on the kitchen floor with paper towels as my protection against coloring the linoleum, I tediously and carefully pricked paint onto the bare metal surface using one of Keri's wooden makeup tools.  It should be noted here that I do not excel at such tedious affairs, because my hands have never been tremendously steady.  The process was a bit stressful on me, for I had a great fear of ruining the part even more than before, and even a slight bob of my hand in the wrong direction could, and did, put paint where it didn't need to be.  I had to scrape the raised letters clean with the opposite, chisel shaped end of Keri's tool.  It turned out okay.  I can see the flaws and tell it is painted, but a coworker said she wouldn't have noticed if I didn't point it out, so I guess I did well enough.

The newly installed and painted Suntour Vx S rear derailleur.  January 4, 2013

     The front derailleur's paint job turned out a little better in my opinion.  There was less to paint around the letters for it, which meant it wasn't as tedious.  The painted section is also facing forward on the seat tube clamp, which makes it a little less obvious when looking at the bike from the side.  While I had the part off I noticed a surprisingly deep groove cut into the outward cage plate, caused by the chain rubbing and grinding into the metal due to the derailleur not being properly trimmed.  I had never noticed this before, and it scared me a little, but I have seen far worse, that is for sure.  It'll be fine for me.

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

     I chose to not clean the cranks or chainrings simply because I did not want to risk any damage to the molded lettering.  Yes, I could potentially fix it with model paint, but the end result doesn't look nearly as good as the original.  I'm okay with it being a little dirty, for now.  Perhaps after I get a little better at this, I can give it a shot.

     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.

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

     I was so happy to get this bike running again.  In the three or so weeks the Fuji was in pieces, I had to ride my Cannondale.  Although the Cannondale has some special meaning to me, I just don't like riding it as much as the Fuji.  Steel is real, as they say.  Or maybe it's the geometry, my Cannondale has very aggressive racing geometry, compared to the more lackadaisical touring geometry of the Fuji.  Whatever the reason may truly be, I love my Fuji, I love the Brooks, and I love the brown bar tape.

Full shot of the completed bike.  January 4, 2013

     I have semi-secret names for all of my bikes.  At least they were semi-secrets, they won't be anymore, as nothing is a secret on the internet.  The first bike I named, Yamamaru, was my Cannondale mountain bike that has been stolen from me.  The second bike, Douromaru, is my Cannondale road bike that I still have, and begrudgingly had to ride for the past month.  I haven't, and won't, name my dad's mountain bike.  The Fuji, I decided last night, will simply be named Fuji-san.  The Japanese name for Mount Fuji, Fuji-san can also be translated simply as Mr. Fuji.  Indeed, it seems the Japanese have, at least subconsciously, some kind of unusual association that mountains are entities instead of things, a sentiment I can agree with.  Perhaps that is reading too far into it.  But, I like it, and it is simple.  Fuji-san it is.  I hope to hold onto the bike for a very, very long time.

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.