Lucky is the cyclist who has a parent cyclist. Early mentoring about the pain cave, guidance gluing on tires, these are worthwhile lessons a parent could lecture a child on. If one has to listen to a parental lecture, better it be about Eddy Merckx and how you are no Eddy Merckx than balancing your checking account. For the rest of us, our parents maybe helped in the purchase of our first bike to get us out of the house, then we were on our own N+1 quest, making our mistakes as we went along. @davidbeers is lucky, his father is a cyclist.
Yours in Cycling, Gianni
The first one was on Christmas Day, 1960. I got on the bike in the driveway and he gave me a push, no training wheels. I just rode down the street, until it was time to turn around. Since I couldn’t turn, I fell off. After that I never fell off until I was 13.
My Dad had a really cool racing bike called a Lentin Clubman. It had dropped bars with no bar tape, and he rode it with the leather saddle perched way up, on account of his long legs. One day I tried to ride it, without asking. I was flying down Old Chester Road before I realized that my hands were too small to reach the brake levers. My Dad appeared out of nowhere to stop me at the crest of the big hill. Smashed right into his chest; It must have hurt but he didn’t let on.
I had a 3-speed English bike called a Dunelt. It was a Raleigh knock-off with upright bars. I wanted a racing bike, a 10-speed. My Dad helped me get a real compromise: dropped bars and a derailleur kit to make it into a 9-speed. I put a lot of miles on that bike. The second time I fell off a bike was on the Dunelt, when I ran into a parked car. My thighs smacked the trunk so hard I couldn’t walk for a week.
My Dad taught me to tie a bow tie without a mirror. He used to ride his Clubman to work in downtown Washington; he had a rack on the back and he would lash his briefcase to it. On our way to the bus stop, we would see him cruise by, bow tie undone and flapping. I asked him once, if he tied it at the office. No, he explained with great amusement, the goal is this: First, to ride into the tunnel under Scott Circle, no hands, with the tie flapping, and then to emerge from the tunnel into the sunshine of K Street, no hands, straightening it.
Like all boys we wanted new, cool bikes, but we never got the one in the shop window. My Dad was always finding another route. For him the cleverness of the find was as important as the components were to me. It’s the same with furniture, and sportcoats, and houses. He sought out the advice of a dope dealer who also was my first riding mentor. That led to the first great bike I rode. The Mercian: Columbus tubing, Cinelli bars, Shimano drivetrain because Campy was out of the question.
I won some races on the Mercian, and placed well enough in some others to be named “Best New Member” of the National Capital Velo Club, sponsored by Georgetown Cycle Sport. They spelled my name wrong on the award I got. My Dad framed it, and “Dave Banks” has a place on the basement wall, next to my brother’s Ambassador’s Cup running trophy.
One thing we had in common was our understanding of the pain of losing bikes to thieves. The Mercian, The Clubman, The Legnano, a pair of Supercourses, all disappeared and the sorrow was joined by bitterness. At least with the Mercian I had put enough into it by then, a lot of Campy, that an insurance claim was worthwhile. It paid thirty cents on the dollar, so I bought a Bianchi with much lesser parts and started over.
For my thirtieth birthday my Dad got his dealer to find me a used Colnago frame. A work of art by itself, I hung it on the wall for two years and just looked at it. Then I got a big bonus from a house I built, and I blew it all on a Campy Record Grouppo. I was going to keep the Bianchi for riding in the rain, but then I had a better idea. I gave it to my Dad; fanciest bike he ever rode.
For my fiftieth birthday my Dad got my long-time riding partner Clemson and my wife to get me another used Colnago, all dressed up with Campy Record. Now I have two, kind of like Ferraris: a very fast new one, and a sweet vintage one, both turn heads.
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@piwakawaka
My eye can never undo what I've seen .
@ shilzy Is that how you trained back in the day 15kg on your back some real rule "5" going on there
@piwakawaka
They're Colnago's which allow some degree of discretion (non-slammed stems not-with-standing). The man sachels are, no doubt, filled with V, and the bikes have been parked after the dishing of much pain to the uninitiated.
And yes, the 80's are to be forgiven (save for the La Vie Claire kit, which was f'ing awesome).
@Ccos
Just makes it worse to disrespect a great brand, the stems are the least of the indiscretions, as for the LaVie Claire? Still fucking awesome....
@davidbeers I'm only joking man, got any other pics?
Wedge packs, not saddle bags - no violation there...
Great tale! Thanks for sharing.
I love the mention of the Mercian, I as fell under the spell of becoming a Velominati (all be it a Wannabe) in the early 80's. It was a dream for me to ride for over 2 months in the UK and ride to the their factory and order a custom frame.
Better yet, the day I got engaged, I ordered one for my Velomihottie to be. To be ridden on our delayed Honeymoon for over two months in Europe. After our trip to Italy last year, she deserved a custom Serotta, Campy Super Record of course. After 30 years this is especially sweet.
The young lady in the photo 1) loves bikes 2) loves riding bikes 3) loves riding bikes fast 4) loves setting PRs 5) loves racing and most of all 6) loves winning. The old man, yea, her dad, needless to say really digs supporting her ideas re: n+1 . She also knows that flames on her helmet add speed. Of course. Kids and bikes... the best. RC
@sthilzy
Wonderful photo. It captures something essential about how puberty should properly flow into adolescence on a motherfucking bike. Already Casually Deliberate.
My dad rode a Raleigh from the 70's. I'm not completely sure what model it was, but it might have been a Sprite. It was yellow and looked a lot like this one:
When I was tall enough to manage it (at the time it seemed gigantic) I *loved* riding that bike. I felt like I was sailing a schooner across the sea.
My own childhood bikes were sadly never quite that cool, but I can't blame my dad. He kept me in bikes even if they weren't the best. The first one of my own I remember having was orange and black and had solid rubber tires and training wheels. I think it also had a number plate. But I quickly outgrew that and moved on to my first somewhat-real bike:
This is me in around 1980, riding my Schucks BMX. It was as good as you'd expect a hardware store brand bike to be. The high-tech stamped sheet metal gusseting at the head tube meant it was tough enough to handle all the sweet jumps I could throw at it. As we both grew up, the reflectors and chain guard would be jettisoned, and eventually I rattle-canned it flat black, because I found a can of flat black paint in my dad's garage. It developed a horrible squeaky bottom bracket which led to my unfortunate nickname of "creaky" among neighborhood peers.
When this poor bike's day in the sun had faded, dad bought me a Huffy "Stu Thomsen" BMX. Again, only the best for this kid. I beat the living snot out of that bike until dad furnished me with a sweet 12 speed (heavy emphasis on "12" in those days) from Coast to Coast hardware. My "Coast King" was truly an elegant machine. I think it was silver, and amazingly only weighed 45 pounds.
Times and tastes change, and eventually I was Too Old for a Kids Bike (BMX) and mountain bikes had suddenly become a thing. Another trip to the hardware store was in order, and I become the proud owner of a Huffy Scout. It miraculously weighed a good 4 or 5 pounds less than the 12 speed, and with its superior handling and off-road prowess, I could now go anywhere.
This lasted until I was about 18. Around that time, I was starting college and had a job and a little money of my own. I went out to buy my first REAL, non-department store, actual-bike-store bike. I discovered a shop called Silverdale Cyclery (my own LBS to this day), made nice with the staff, asked a million questions, drooled on the expensive parts in the glass case for months, and finally spent $300 (a truly fantastic sum in my eyes) on an actual, honest-to-goodness mountain bike.
It was a yellow Raleigh.
Thanks for getting me there, dad.
Wow - one of my guide-to-manhood moments was when I was riding my Schwinn Traveler and Dad was on his brand new custom Klein (with the internal cable routing, no less). This was Dad's uber-bike. Custom geometry (he was 6'6"), full Dura-Ace, and in dark grey. Looking back I imagine it rode like a rock, but that's not the point of this story. We were not wealthy - the Klein was the pinnacle of his bike ownership and was probably worth more than either (both?) of the cars we had at the time. That bike represented lot's of hard hours of work and sacrifice and it was his prized possession. That's important to understand. So back to the story... We were hanging out at the base of a big climb and I asked him if I could ride the Klein up the hill. At this point I was only about 6'1", so the bike was a bit large for me. He hesitated for just a moment, then said "OK, give it what you've got". I -flew- up that hill. Then I fell over. Remember we were running cleats and toe straps. I was so deep in the pain cave that I neglected to loosen the straps. I managed to scrape up the brake levers, the cranks and somehow the right seatstay. Even though I didn't know what damage I'd done, I remember laying on the ground just wallowing in guilt and embarrassment. Dad rolled up, looked things over, took a deep breath, and said "That was pretty good. Try not to fall down next time". Not a word was ever said about the damage I did to his dream bike. I flash back to that moment pretty often these days as I raise his grandson...