All the jibber-jabber around The Internets about this year's North American Handmade Bicycle Show reminds me of a trip Dear Spouse and I took to NYC back in ought-ten. One of the jillions of museums we visited was the Museum of Arts and Design, which was featuring a show called Bespoke: The Handbuilt Bicycle.
The show displayed the handiwork of six builders who often haunt the aisles of NAHBS: Mike Flanigan, Jeff Jones, Dario Pegoretti, Richard Sachs, Peter Weigle, and Sacha White. The bikes were -- as you might expect -- gorgeous, made only more so by the fact that they were displayed in a museum setting by folks who really know how to show off amazing objects. It was by far my favorite museum experience of all time, and being married to a museum nerd (he said with love), I've had my share.
No disrespect to the other builders and their (jaw-dropping) work, but the bike that I couldn't stop going back to was the Richard Sachs cyclocross bike (Aside: My favorite thing about that link is how the museum text describes the bike as "mixed media/found objects.") It was one of the builder's personal race bikes, and still carried the dried mud of its last race. In a room full of gleaming, polished-to-within-an-inch-of-their lives show bikes, here sat this muddy mutt. You could almost imagine it leaving tire tracks across the gallery like the paw prints of a disobedient dog. But it wasn't just the glaring, grimy contrast that got my attention -- it was what that mud said about the builder and his bikes.
By choosing to show his race bike, mud and all, Sachs seemed to be calling attention to the fact that the bike was at its core a tool to get something done. Carve the lugs all you want, braze on all the stainless logos you can fit, bend the tubes into swoops and swirls, wrap every surface in matching leather, or paint circus animals on it, but at the end of the day, it still has to work as a bicycle. That attitude (which I admit, I may be fabricating in my own strange mind) has changed the way I ogle show bikes ever since. I like a good flourish as much as the next guy, but if a builder seems more interested in the gingerbread than in the bicycle itself, I'm moving on.
This is not to say there isn't artistry in a Sachs frame -- get in close on that muddy cross bike and you start to see the small details of a true master who's been honing his craft for decades. And if swoops and swirls float your boat, there's nothing inherently wrong with them. After all, you have to look at the bike while you're riding it, so it should look good to you. I just don't like to see flourish getting in the way of function. After all, I might have the prettiest hammer in the world, but if I can't drive a nail with it, what's the point?
Housekeeping Note: You may have noticed that my recent post about pal Tarik's experience at NAHBS is no more. Tarik has reached a satisfactory resolution with the NAHBS folks, so I thought it was only fair to redact my post in its entirety so half the story isn't floating out there for The Googles to find for all eternity. Nobody asked -- or forced -- me to take it down. It just seemed like the right thing to do.
Thursday, February 28, 2013
Sunday, February 24, 2013
Horses For Courses
The folks over (er, up, since this is Des Moines and they're in the Twin Cities) at All City Cycles recently put up a blog post called Why We Won't Put Model Names On Our Bikes. Word of warning, said post uses just the tiniest smattering of language that some readers may not find 100% appropriate. It doesn't offend me, but I certainly can't claim to be the Universal Arbiter of All Things in Good Taste. (Note that this example is nowhere near the "we hate our customers" marketing attitude that Surly seems to have taken lately on their blog, which is so egregious and f-bomb laden that I won't even link it. Surly folks, just because it's getting crowded out there on the quasi-fringe doesn't mean you have to find a fringier fringe from which to alienate.)
Obviously, since I link-juiced the crap out of All City in my lead, you can tell that I like a lot of what's going on in the post. I am not a fan of the "NASCAR-wannabe" look, where frames and components are encrusted with decal vomit from the factory. Hey, maybe your race team is getting paid to advertise for twenty different companies, but I'm not. In fact, I'm the one actually PAYING for the bike, so if you wanna put stickers on it, you'd better sponsor ME (and if there's a spot open on your Chubby Commuter Domestique squad, I'm available for the 2013 season).
What really struck me about the All-City post (besides the so-obvious-it's-brilliant "who needs a URL when there's Google?" observation) is the bit about different models from the same company. All-City gets away with leaving model names off their frames because they make distinctive frames. Strip the paint and decals, and you'll still be able to tell a Space Horse from a Nature Boy from a Macho Man (wow, I get the point about the stupid model names now). There are features and functional differences baked (er, welded) into the frames that make them unique, so they don't need a model name to stand out.
Contrast that with pretty much any of the "big players" in the bike business: your Trek-Specialized-Giant-Cannondale-whatevers. Within a category, they're often generating price points and SKUs, not unique bikes. In many cases, the same frame and fork are available with nothing more than different grades of components from the same company. The question becomes not, "Which bike has the features I want?" but rather, "How much do I want to pay for the same bike?" (or more cynically, "Which color do I like?") You can get Frameset A with Tiagra for $1000 or Frameset A with 105 for $1300 or Frameset A with Ultegra for $1800. Your salesperson will call this a "feature" (no judgement -- done it myself many times) because your Tiagra bike's frame is just as nice as the Ultegra one, which means you can upgrade later. Of course, it's only a feature if Frameset A meets your needs -- if not, no amount of upgrades will make it work.
So given the state of things, what do I look for when strolling a bike shop? Generally, if I look down a row in the "road" section and see nothing but identical STI hooked up to short-reach dual-pivot brake calipers over 700x23 tires, I yawn, turn around, and bolt. Why? Because that lineup tells me this shop equates "road" with "race" and effectively offers the same bike in a variety of colors and price points. If I look down the line and see a smattering of bar-end shifters, cantilever brakes, long-reach calipers (or even -- shudder -- discs), cyclocross or 29er tires, maybe a rack or two, and maybe even some fenders, THEN you have my attention. That's a shop selling unique bikes for distinctive use cases rather than trying to convince me that the same bike works for everyone.
Obviously, since I link-juiced the crap out of All City in my lead, you can tell that I like a lot of what's going on in the post. I am not a fan of the "NASCAR-wannabe" look, where frames and components are encrusted with decal vomit from the factory. Hey, maybe your race team is getting paid to advertise for twenty different companies, but I'm not. In fact, I'm the one actually PAYING for the bike, so if you wanna put stickers on it, you'd better sponsor ME (and if there's a spot open on your Chubby Commuter Domestique squad, I'm available for the 2013 season).
What really struck me about the All-City post (besides the so-obvious-it's-brilliant "who needs a URL when there's Google?" observation) is the bit about different models from the same company. All-City gets away with leaving model names off their frames because they make distinctive frames. Strip the paint and decals, and you'll still be able to tell a Space Horse from a Nature Boy from a Macho Man (wow, I get the point about the stupid model names now). There are features and functional differences baked (er, welded) into the frames that make them unique, so they don't need a model name to stand out.
Contrast that with pretty much any of the "big players" in the bike business: your Trek-Specialized-Giant-Cannondale-whatevers. Within a category, they're often generating price points and SKUs, not unique bikes. In many cases, the same frame and fork are available with nothing more than different grades of components from the same company. The question becomes not, "Which bike has the features I want?" but rather, "How much do I want to pay for the same bike?" (or more cynically, "Which color do I like?") You can get Frameset A with Tiagra for $1000 or Frameset A with 105 for $1300 or Frameset A with Ultegra for $1800. Your salesperson will call this a "feature" (no judgement -- done it myself many times) because your Tiagra bike's frame is just as nice as the Ultegra one, which means you can upgrade later. Of course, it's only a feature if Frameset A meets your needs -- if not, no amount of upgrades will make it work.
So given the state of things, what do I look for when strolling a bike shop? Generally, if I look down a row in the "road" section and see nothing but identical STI hooked up to short-reach dual-pivot brake calipers over 700x23 tires, I yawn, turn around, and bolt. Why? Because that lineup tells me this shop equates "road" with "race" and effectively offers the same bike in a variety of colors and price points. If I look down the line and see a smattering of bar-end shifters, cantilever brakes, long-reach calipers (or even -- shudder -- discs), cyclocross or 29er tires, maybe a rack or two, and maybe even some fenders, THEN you have my attention. That's a shop selling unique bikes for distinctive use cases rather than trying to convince me that the same bike works for everyone.
Tuesday, February 12, 2013
The Planet Bike SuperFlash: Who Put That Mark On My Bench?
Yes, I've talked about the SuperFlash before, so I'll try not to tread that ground again. But that initial review was ancient history in Internets time, which -- I think -- says something new and important about the PBSF.
I'm gonna throw down and say that the SuperFlash is a benchmark product. There are brighter lights, cheaper lights, lights that have fancier strobe patterns, lights with better side visibility, more waterproof lights, more durable lights, lights that burn longer on a set of batteries, and lights that are less filling while still tasting great. But here we are, almost three years after my last review (and almost seven years after the PBSF was introduced), with LED technology chugging ahead, and yet when I look at another tail light, my measuring stick is still the ubiquitous SuperFlash. When I see a $50 light, my first thought is, "Well, it had better be twice as bright or twice as tough or burn twice as long than a $25 SuperFlash, or why bother?"
Of course, this "measuring stick" phenomenon hurts Planet Bike as much as it helps them. After all, they've since put out the "Turbo" version of the SuperFlash for about ten bucks more... but when I look at it in the store, I think, "It's not THAT much brighter than what I already have." So, despite the fact that my fleet of Flashes looks like hell (one's even had parts of its case superglued back on), I tend to leave well enough alone -- which is saying something for this perpetual upgrader.
The funny thing is, when I think about other benchmark bike products, the first thing that pops into my head (probably because I'm both old and in a tail light state of mind) is the venerable Vistalite VL300, lighting legend of the 90s, and the light that introduced cycling to those three little letters, LED:
About the size of a deck of cards, ran for what seemed like eternity (compared to the other non-LED lights available at the time) on two AA batteries, and -- if memory serves -- the case doubled as a reflector. Of course, those five teeny LEDs were absolutely anemic compared to just about anything available today, but at the time, the Vista was IT.
Okay, dear reader(s)... I'll throw this one to you. What's your benchmark bike product? Maybe not the greatest in its category, but the one you use to measure all others. Since I went with the Vista as my second example (as a benchmark of its era), I'll accept any historical period. Heck, if I get a particularly good/eloquent suggestion, maybe I'll reward the contributor with some useless piece of schwag from my junk pile (though before you get too excited, talk to Scott L about the quality of my schwag).
I'm gonna throw down and say that the SuperFlash is a benchmark product. There are brighter lights, cheaper lights, lights that have fancier strobe patterns, lights with better side visibility, more waterproof lights, more durable lights, lights that burn longer on a set of batteries, and lights that are less filling while still tasting great. But here we are, almost three years after my last review (and almost seven years after the PBSF was introduced), with LED technology chugging ahead, and yet when I look at another tail light, my measuring stick is still the ubiquitous SuperFlash. When I see a $50 light, my first thought is, "Well, it had better be twice as bright or twice as tough or burn twice as long than a $25 SuperFlash, or why bother?"
Of course, this "measuring stick" phenomenon hurts Planet Bike as much as it helps them. After all, they've since put out the "Turbo" version of the SuperFlash for about ten bucks more... but when I look at it in the store, I think, "It's not THAT much brighter than what I already have." So, despite the fact that my fleet of Flashes looks like hell (one's even had parts of its case superglued back on), I tend to leave well enough alone -- which is saying something for this perpetual upgrader.
The funny thing is, when I think about other benchmark bike products, the first thing that pops into my head (probably because I'm both old and in a tail light state of mind) is the venerable Vistalite VL300, lighting legend of the 90s, and the light that introduced cycling to those three little letters, LED:
About the size of a deck of cards, ran for what seemed like eternity (compared to the other non-LED lights available at the time) on two AA batteries, and -- if memory serves -- the case doubled as a reflector. Of course, those five teeny LEDs were absolutely anemic compared to just about anything available today, but at the time, the Vista was IT.
Okay, dear reader(s)... I'll throw this one to you. What's your benchmark bike product? Maybe not the greatest in its category, but the one you use to measure all others. Since I went with the Vista as my second example (as a benchmark of its era), I'll accept any historical period. Heck, if I get a particularly good/eloquent suggestion, maybe I'll reward the contributor with some useless piece of schwag from my junk pile (though before you get too excited, talk to Scott L about the quality of my schwag).
Saturday, February 9, 2013
Making A Spectacle Of Myself
I'm going WAY out on a very trivial limb today, and spitting in the faces of the Cycling Fashion Police.
Sunglasses should be worn INSIDE your helmet straps. Yes, I said it. In boldface, no less. And yes, I know that pretty much every "here's how not to look like a newbie bike dork" article says otherwise. Even the otherwise brilliant BikeSnobNYC misses the boat on this one (though the rest of that post is pretty darn solid).
Here's the thing: When I'm wearing both of these accessories together, I want to be able to take each one of them on and off independently. Maybe some clouds rolled in and I need to tuck my sunglasses away. Or maybe I'm at a rest stop and want to pop off my lid to cool my bald spot. Straps in or out doesn't make one bit of difference in the first scenario -- you can get your sunglasses on and off with ease no matter where they are in relation to your helmet straps. But let's take that second scenario. You stop the bike, hop off, undo your helmet buckle, lift the helmet off your head, and -- SONOFAB_TCH! The straps knock your glasses off. Why? Because you listened to the Fashion Police instead of common sense. And you probably scratched your glasses to boot. Sure, you could have taken your glasses off first, but then you're taking the glasses off so you can get out of your helmet only to put your glasses back on. Why?
(Now that raises an interesting question: Do people who wear prescription glasses while riding go straps-in or straps-out? Because many of those folks need their glasses on all the time, and thus would probably want to be able to remove their helmet without taking their glasses off. I'll have to study that one.)
If someone can tell me a PRACTICAL, FUNCTIONAL reason for "straps in", I'm all ears. But until then, I'm letting my dork flag fly in the form of fluttering helmet straps, unfettered by sunglasses.
(Thank goodness someone's out there tackling the big issues, right?)
Sunglasses should be worn INSIDE your helmet straps. Yes, I said it. In boldface, no less. And yes, I know that pretty much every "here's how not to look like a newbie bike dork" article says otherwise. Even the otherwise brilliant BikeSnobNYC misses the boat on this one (though the rest of that post is pretty darn solid).
Here's the thing: When I'm wearing both of these accessories together, I want to be able to take each one of them on and off independently. Maybe some clouds rolled in and I need to tuck my sunglasses away. Or maybe I'm at a rest stop and want to pop off my lid to cool my bald spot. Straps in or out doesn't make one bit of difference in the first scenario -- you can get your sunglasses on and off with ease no matter where they are in relation to your helmet straps. But let's take that second scenario. You stop the bike, hop off, undo your helmet buckle, lift the helmet off your head, and -- SONOFAB_TCH! The straps knock your glasses off. Why? Because you listened to the Fashion Police instead of common sense. And you probably scratched your glasses to boot. Sure, you could have taken your glasses off first, but then you're taking the glasses off so you can get out of your helmet only to put your glasses back on. Why?
(Now that raises an interesting question: Do people who wear prescription glasses while riding go straps-in or straps-out? Because many of those folks need their glasses on all the time, and thus would probably want to be able to remove their helmet without taking their glasses off. I'll have to study that one.)
If someone can tell me a PRACTICAL, FUNCTIONAL reason for "straps in", I'm all ears. But until then, I'm letting my dork flag fly in the form of fluttering helmet straps, unfettered by sunglasses.
(Thank goodness someone's out there tackling the big issues, right?)
Thursday, February 7, 2013
The Ikea Bike, Redux
If you've been wasting time here for a couple years or more, you may remember my post about the Ikea Bike-Shaped Object. Rest easy, though, as this post is NOT about that.
Rather, this little ditty was inspired by a recent NPR report by Shankar Vedantam, the most fun name to say in all of radio -- and maybe even a great bike brand/model combination: "The new Shankar Vedantam is laterally stiff and vertically compliant." Yeah, I'd read that review.
Anyway, the report is called Why You Love That Ikea Table, Even If It's Crooked, and it describes a psychological phenomenon called the Ikea Effect. The gist of the effect is that you attach more value to something that you built yourself. And while I don't have excessive fondness for the many examples of Swedish particleboard assembled by yours truly here at The Cycle World Headquarters (though most of this blog comes to you from the robot-butt-tested embrace of a Poang chair), I have felt the Ikea Effect on two wheels.
I think the cyclist's Ikea Effect is most noticeable in commuter bikes. As I've hypothesized before, I don't think there's such a thing as the perfect commuter bike. As a result, most commuter bikes are highly specialized for a particular user's commute, slapped together from any number of sources over the years. The resulting mongrel probably has next-to-zero appeal to anyone else, but for the person who did the slapping-together, it is a thing of sublime beauty.
I first noticed this as a mechanic in a shop in Iowa City, where we took perverse pride in our bizarre commuter creations. Mine started life as a too-small-for-me Nishiki Citisport. The "too small" was fixed with a ridiculous stem and seatpost, the heavy stock wheels swapped for my old MTB race wheels, upright bars gave way to flat ("unsafe at any speed" warranty takeoffs, if memory serves), and I shifted the thing with an old Rapidfire unit for good measure. Oh, and it sported a vaporware-since-forever Ibis Hot Unit coffee portage system. Paul had an old French roadie converted to flat bars with what seemed like barely functional centerpull brakes and a thumbshifter that kinda-sorta indexed with half the cogs on its vintage freewheel. Brian's daily ride was a Rustoleum-painted Schwinn cruiser with a crazy-long stem/seatpost and homemade headset seals cut from old inntertubes that made the bars almost impossible to turn. Chris had an old ten-speed that he literally pulled from a Dumpster and patched together with whatever parts the shop was about to send to the same fate.
None of these sound terribly appealing, right? (And you're probably wondering how I got a job there as a salesperson.) On the off chance that one of our beasts was out of commission (which didn't happen as often as you'd think) and we had to borrow someone else's for a lunch run, we HATED it. Much ribbing ensued after a game of musical bikes... "how do you ride that piece of crap?" But as much as we couldn't stand each other's creations, we ADORED our own. Its quirks were our quirks. We made it ourselves. And it doesn't get any better than that.
Rather, this little ditty was inspired by a recent NPR report by Shankar Vedantam, the most fun name to say in all of radio -- and maybe even a great bike brand/model combination: "The new Shankar Vedantam is laterally stiff and vertically compliant." Yeah, I'd read that review.
Anyway, the report is called Why You Love That Ikea Table, Even If It's Crooked, and it describes a psychological phenomenon called the Ikea Effect. The gist of the effect is that you attach more value to something that you built yourself. And while I don't have excessive fondness for the many examples of Swedish particleboard assembled by yours truly here at The Cycle World Headquarters (though most of this blog comes to you from the robot-butt-tested embrace of a Poang chair), I have felt the Ikea Effect on two wheels.
I think the cyclist's Ikea Effect is most noticeable in commuter bikes. As I've hypothesized before, I don't think there's such a thing as the perfect commuter bike. As a result, most commuter bikes are highly specialized for a particular user's commute, slapped together from any number of sources over the years. The resulting mongrel probably has next-to-zero appeal to anyone else, but for the person who did the slapping-together, it is a thing of sublime beauty.
I first noticed this as a mechanic in a shop in Iowa City, where we took perverse pride in our bizarre commuter creations. Mine started life as a too-small-for-me Nishiki Citisport. The "too small" was fixed with a ridiculous stem and seatpost, the heavy stock wheels swapped for my old MTB race wheels, upright bars gave way to flat ("unsafe at any speed" warranty takeoffs, if memory serves), and I shifted the thing with an old Rapidfire unit for good measure. Oh, and it sported a vaporware-since-forever Ibis Hot Unit coffee portage system. Paul had an old French roadie converted to flat bars with what seemed like barely functional centerpull brakes and a thumbshifter that kinda-sorta indexed with half the cogs on its vintage freewheel. Brian's daily ride was a Rustoleum-painted Schwinn cruiser with a crazy-long stem/seatpost and homemade headset seals cut from old inntertubes that made the bars almost impossible to turn. Chris had an old ten-speed that he literally pulled from a Dumpster and patched together with whatever parts the shop was about to send to the same fate.
None of these sound terribly appealing, right? (And you're probably wondering how I got a job there as a salesperson.) On the off chance that one of our beasts was out of commission (which didn't happen as often as you'd think) and we had to borrow someone else's for a lunch run, we HATED it. Much ribbing ensued after a game of musical bikes... "how do you ride that piece of crap?" But as much as we couldn't stand each other's creations, we ADORED our own. Its quirks were our quirks. We made it ourselves. And it doesn't get any better than that.
Sunday, February 3, 2013
Two Kinds Of Fun: Failure Of The "One Bike" Exercise
Not long ago, Pal Scott (the Sloth with Five Foot-Digits) posted his take on a "one bike to rule them all" thought exercise (that he got from some other blog, but I'll let you chase that link via his post, because, hey, isn't that whole "Choose Your Own Adventure" linky-thing part of what makes the Internets fun?)
I've grappled and grappled with it until my grappler is sore, but to no avail. So I decided to cast my gaze to my navel and interrogate (that's grad-school speak for "figger out") why I have such a problem coming up with the one ideal bike (other than my innate squirrel-like tendency to hoard). And I think it's because my biking fun comes from two often-contradictory sources, and those don't play nicely together in one bicycle.
My first fun is going fast. Granted, with the physiological and motivational gifts I've been given, "fast" is a relative term. But within those constraints, I like the feel of the wind in my bald spot. I like the way the pavement goes by when I'm turning a big gear. And I like the sound of (relatively) skinny tires on smooth pavement (even though those buzzkills at Bicycle Quarterly will tell you that the sound is a placebo effect unrelated to real speed).
My second fun is running stuff over. Granted, with two bum shoulders and an aftermarket titanium femur, I don't do that with the off-roader's enthusiasm I had in my youth, but it's still a hoot to bash into the occasional obstacle with nary a care. I've channeled that into a more practical concern (or, more accurately, justified it) by treating it as a commuter necessity -- when you use a bike to get somewhere, it should be able to take a beating without batting an eye. And there's always perverse pride/pleasure in riding over something that non-bikers think can't be ridden, even if that something is just a little snow.
It's easy to put those two purposes into two bikes -- my go-relatively-fast is my Raleigh road machine, while my run-stuff-over is my fat-tired Swift folder. Neither one pushes the slider out to the extreme end of the continuum (with fatbikes on one end and 13-pound carbon racers on the other) -- in a pinch, the Swift could stand in on a semi-fast ride, and the Raleigh could get dirt on it -- but they're definitely horses for courses. Putting those contradictory ideas into one bike is where the challenge lies -- slide too far toward the roughstuff end, and the go-fast fun disappears. Slide too far toward go-fast, and your banging-around reliability is gone. Cyclocross bikes come close, but even they have to sit on the same spectrum... you can get everything from a monstercross tank to a leg-shaver's superlight race dream.
(You may note that I haven't mentioned luggage capacity. I'm in a "carry it on me" phase these days, so it doesn't enter as a design consideration. Both of my bikes can take racks, though.)
I will take up the Sloth's cause for long-reach caliper brakes, though. A frame that uses the Tektro 73mm-reach model to its fullest would be as close to my ideal one-bike as possible. Such a frame would look like a racer from ten feet while accepting everything from 28mm road slicks to 35mm studded tires to 45mm "small-29er" tires. I know you could just do that with cantilevers (or, shudder, discs), but I have an irrational dislike of the cable stops that cantis require. Build it with eyelets for fenders and racks (since I might grow out of this luggage-on-me-phase), use light (but not stupid-light) tubes, slope the top tube (I know, retro-dork heresy), and put vertical drops on the back, and we'll talk. I'd even accept non-steel tubing (more retro-dork heresy). As far as I know, that's a custom request these days, so I'll stick with my two bikes for now.
I've grappled and grappled with it until my grappler is sore, but to no avail. So I decided to cast my gaze to my navel and interrogate (that's grad-school speak for "figger out") why I have such a problem coming up with the one ideal bike (other than my innate squirrel-like tendency to hoard). And I think it's because my biking fun comes from two often-contradictory sources, and those don't play nicely together in one bicycle.
My first fun is going fast. Granted, with the physiological and motivational gifts I've been given, "fast" is a relative term. But within those constraints, I like the feel of the wind in my bald spot. I like the way the pavement goes by when I'm turning a big gear. And I like the sound of (relatively) skinny tires on smooth pavement (even though those buzzkills at Bicycle Quarterly will tell you that the sound is a placebo effect unrelated to real speed).
My second fun is running stuff over. Granted, with two bum shoulders and an aftermarket titanium femur, I don't do that with the off-roader's enthusiasm I had in my youth, but it's still a hoot to bash into the occasional obstacle with nary a care. I've channeled that into a more practical concern (or, more accurately, justified it) by treating it as a commuter necessity -- when you use a bike to get somewhere, it should be able to take a beating without batting an eye. And there's always perverse pride/pleasure in riding over something that non-bikers think can't be ridden, even if that something is just a little snow.
It's easy to put those two purposes into two bikes -- my go-relatively-fast is my Raleigh road machine, while my run-stuff-over is my fat-tired Swift folder. Neither one pushes the slider out to the extreme end of the continuum (with fatbikes on one end and 13-pound carbon racers on the other) -- in a pinch, the Swift could stand in on a semi-fast ride, and the Raleigh could get dirt on it -- but they're definitely horses for courses. Putting those contradictory ideas into one bike is where the challenge lies -- slide too far toward the roughstuff end, and the go-fast fun disappears. Slide too far toward go-fast, and your banging-around reliability is gone. Cyclocross bikes come close, but even they have to sit on the same spectrum... you can get everything from a monstercross tank to a leg-shaver's superlight race dream.
(You may note that I haven't mentioned luggage capacity. I'm in a "carry it on me" phase these days, so it doesn't enter as a design consideration. Both of my bikes can take racks, though.)
I will take up the Sloth's cause for long-reach caliper brakes, though. A frame that uses the Tektro 73mm-reach model to its fullest would be as close to my ideal one-bike as possible. Such a frame would look like a racer from ten feet while accepting everything from 28mm road slicks to 35mm studded tires to 45mm "small-29er" tires. I know you could just do that with cantilevers (or, shudder, discs), but I have an irrational dislike of the cable stops that cantis require. Build it with eyelets for fenders and racks (since I might grow out of this luggage-on-me-phase), use light (but not stupid-light) tubes, slope the top tube (I know, retro-dork heresy), and put vertical drops on the back, and we'll talk. I'd even accept non-steel tubing (more retro-dork heresy). As far as I know, that's a custom request these days, so I'll stick with my two bikes for now.
Friday, February 1, 2013
One For The Paddlefeet Fashionistas: Shimano M088LE
If my incessant whining hasn't already clued you in, I have very wide feet. Give me as many Es as you've got, but don't expect change back. As a result, it can be a little challenging to find bike-specific footwear suited for my flippers.
Three long years ago, I rolled the dice with mail order footwear and lucked into an inexpensive pair of wide shoes from Performance Bike's house brand, Forte (probably rebranded Exustars). Of course, being an idiot, I didn't order six pairs at the time and stockpile them for later. So, after three years and who-knows-how-many miles, those babies are used up: tread worn down, side panels ready to blow out, and some serious sole grooves from ATAC and Crank Brothers pedals. They'll do in a pinch (and I'll keep them around as emergency backups), but I have to face facts: They're effectively toasted, and as far as I can tell, this model has long since become vaporware.
I started my replacement quest (and started annoying my spouse) late last summer, trying (and failing) in some Specialized touring shoes -- which were wide enough but suffered from Weird Cleat Placement Syndrome. The closest runner up was the wide version of Shimano's M087 (especially since I have good history with the old, normal-width M077). Unfortunately, my vanity got the best of me, since the M087 only came in this color:
Call me crazy, but walking around the store in these things, I felt like I was just one white belt away from looking like the cycling equivalent of this guy:
Although I guess the cycling equivalent of Herb Tarlek would be this guy:
My point is, those shoes had way too much white in 'em for my (usually questionable) taste. And the abovementioned annoyed spouse (who has excellent taste in all things save men) agreed.
Someone at Shimano heard my plaintive cry, though, since this year's equivalent of the M087 is the M088 -- which still comes in wide (look for model number M088LE, where E stands for "Egads, you have a wide foot!") and, heavens be praised, has a much more subdued, mostly-black-and-logo-lite aesthetic:
Not much to report yet, as I've only put in a couple indoor trainer torture sessions on them, but things are looking promising so far. Until they get a little break-in time with my orthotics, they're a thin-sock-only proposition, but that's something I've come to expect. These are definitely the most high-tech shoes I've wrapped around my dogs, what with the ratcheting buckle (I've always been a laces and/or Velcro guy), so I'm intrigued to see if it makes a whit of difference.
Stay tuned, my fat-footed bretheren. I'll keep you posted.
Three long years ago, I rolled the dice with mail order footwear and lucked into an inexpensive pair of wide shoes from Performance Bike's house brand, Forte (probably rebranded Exustars). Of course, being an idiot, I didn't order six pairs at the time and stockpile them for later. So, after three years and who-knows-how-many miles, those babies are used up: tread worn down, side panels ready to blow out, and some serious sole grooves from ATAC and Crank Brothers pedals. They'll do in a pinch (and I'll keep them around as emergency backups), but I have to face facts: They're effectively toasted, and as far as I can tell, this model has long since become vaporware.
I started my replacement quest (and started annoying my spouse) late last summer, trying (and failing) in some Specialized touring shoes -- which were wide enough but suffered from Weird Cleat Placement Syndrome. The closest runner up was the wide version of Shimano's M087 (especially since I have good history with the old, normal-width M077). Unfortunately, my vanity got the best of me, since the M087 only came in this color:
Call me crazy, but walking around the store in these things, I felt like I was just one white belt away from looking like the cycling equivalent of this guy:
Although I guess the cycling equivalent of Herb Tarlek would be this guy:
My point is, those shoes had way too much white in 'em for my (usually questionable) taste. And the abovementioned annoyed spouse (who has excellent taste in all things save men) agreed.
Someone at Shimano heard my plaintive cry, though, since this year's equivalent of the M087 is the M088 -- which still comes in wide (look for model number M088LE, where E stands for "Egads, you have a wide foot!") and, heavens be praised, has a much more subdued, mostly-black-and-logo-lite aesthetic:
Not much to report yet, as I've only put in a couple indoor trainer torture sessions on them, but things are looking promising so far. Until they get a little break-in time with my orthotics, they're a thin-sock-only proposition, but that's something I've come to expect. These are definitely the most high-tech shoes I've wrapped around my dogs, what with the ratcheting buckle (I've always been a laces and/or Velcro guy), so I'm intrigued to see if it makes a whit of difference.
Stay tuned, my fat-footed bretheren. I'll keep you posted.
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