AN APPROPRIATE BICYCLE - Pt. 8: PROVENANCE, PART 1

I’ve been struggling to find any meaningful information pertaining to the Carlos ever since I first saw the bike advertised on Gumtree. The guys at the Vintage Bike Cave couldn't tell me much either, other than that the company originated from somewhere in north-east France. I like to think I'm fairly adept at sourcing intelligence on the world-wide-web, but all I could find was a discussion on Bike Forums (under a thread headed 'Classic & Vintage - Where are the Belgian Frames?') in which somebody had announced that, ‘Carlos was basically a French make, close to the Belgian border.’ I’d found this snippet of near worthless material – for it merely corroborated what the Vintage Bike Cave already told me – by typing something like ‘French bicycle Carlos 1980s manufacturer’ into my search-engine.

            Once the bike was mine, and I could study it more closely, I’d employed the tack of adding various components to my search: Ofmega (shifters), Suntour and Triplex (derailleurs), Vetta Gel (saddle), Shimano 105 (headset), and Gian Roberts (chainring) – but still nothing. Frustrated, I widened my investigation even further by using Google France and writing in French (Belgique, bicyclette, Francais…). This reaped instant reward. I unearthed a thread on some French website that alluded to Carlos being a Belgian company (with amused references to the Venezuelan political terrorist Carlos the Jackal thrown in) and the fact that a few Belgian teams used to race their bikes during the seventies and eighties. This was progress of sorts, if only because it was my first indication that Carlos used to make half-decent bicycles.

            Slightly obsessed, I started trawling through any cycling archive I could find, on the lookout for obscure pro-team names from the seventies and eighties. At first this proved futile, but did inadvertently direct me – via a brief overview of the 1982 Giro d’Italia on Wikipedia, and the Belgian rider Lucien Van Impe’s 4^th place finish in it – to a comprehensive list of all the professional Belgian riders that have ever competitively ridden a bicycle and the teams they raced for. I was nearing the end of this inventory when I clicked on the name of a Belgian Cyclist called Eddy Vanhaerens who it transpired once raced for a team called Carlos-Galli-Alan! Running a search on Carlos-Galli-Alan led me in turn to a website called Cycling Archives, an old photograph of said team and the results garnered during their singular year in existence. It seems that a Mr Dirk Baert was actually Carlos-Galli-Alan’s most successful cyclist, with three placings compared to Vanhaerens’ one, and probably should have featured on Wikipedia’s list of professional Belgian cyclists too. Anyway, feeding the phrase ‘Dirk Baert Carlos’ into Google revealed not only a great vision of the man, but the fact that he had also ridden for Carlos Cycles in 1975, Carlos-Galli in 1976 and 1979, and a team called Carlos-Gipiemme in 1977. Dirk had been those teams’ star man as well.

 

(Dirk Baert - Courtesy: Guy Didieu)

Born in Zwevegem, Belgium, in 1949, Dirk had embarked on his vocation with a team called Hertekamp-Magniflex in May 1970. In 1971 he moved to the more well-known Flandria-Mars marquee and continued to change teams every year before moving to Carlos Cycles in 1975, and remaining with them – or a variation thereof – until 1979. A time-trial specialist, Cycling Archives attributes 87 victories to the man, most of them road-races and criteriums. But he did partake in a few tours, and in 1974, riding for MIC-Ludo-Gribaldy, he competed in his only Tour de France, finishing 93^rd in the General Classification; along the way, he came in 5^th in the prologue in Brest; 7^th on Stage 6; 6^th on stages 8, 14, 20, and 21 (part a); and 4^th on Stage 21 (part b). Eddy Merckx won that year, and I hope that Dirk looks back on his own participation with some pride. (Do you think he does?)

So Dirk’s the main man as far as Carlos is concerned, although he’s brought me no closer to finding out anything about the bicycles Carlos built, let alone how old my Carlos actually is. It's an ambiguous issue anyway, because bikes are very often re-badged, or built in conjunction with other firms. From the pictures on Cycling Archives, for example, it's clear that Alan bikes were ridden by at least one of the permutations of the Carlos marque (as is evident from studying the picture above). Still, the ambiguous Franco-Belgian credentials of Carlos established, I now have a theme with which to inform my prospective team name. I will attend to this matter when that damned jersey shows up.

[Images courtesy of http://www.cyclingarchives.com/coureurs.php ]

AN APPROPRIATE BICYCLE - Pt. 7: THE JERSEY(S)

I am contemplating jerseys and what to call the team I'm supposed to be putting together for the London to Brighton Bike Ride, 2013. I'm thinking about the culmination of all that has gone on since I began my search for the appropriate bicycle; the point of it all – the race. Although the British Heart Foundation is keen to point out that the L2B isn't supposed to be race at all: it’s a charity event, to be taken at a pace that feels comfortable – just a bit of fun. Which is fair enough, and if I was really serious about road-racing then I’d be better off joining a cycling club, obtaining BC and/or CTC accreditation, and finding a local sportive in which to partake. That means I’d have to wear whatever jersey my notional club decreed. ‘We naturally like members to wear club kit,’ declares one such institution local to me, but it’s a pretty brutal offering, their kit, and the club’s handle displays little in the way of imagination. So that’s not going to happen.

They can be quite expensive, can cycling jerseys. There are cheap tops on the market as well, but they’re really rather uninspiring. That said, the most visually appealing jerseys aren't necessarily the ones that cost the most. I should probably lay my cards on the table here: I like replica team jerseys and I like jerseys of a bygone era, and, ideally, I’d like a shirt that combines elements of the two. The jerseys occupying the opposing ends of the fiscal spectrum, however, share a utilitarian approach to design that doesn't interest me at all.Primary colours overbear the palette, with black and white getting quite a look in too. Logos and patterns are conspicuous by their absence, which is admirable on one level but quite dull on another.

This ‘camping and outdoor’ attitude towards cycle wear is still a credible alternative to the third strain of tunic on offer to the aspiring cyclist: that of the novelty jersey. A company trading under the name 'Foska' appears to be the leader in this particular field, and they’re responsible for some real abominations: shirts adorned with adverts for various foodstuffs – Spam, Colman’s Mustard, Cornflakes, Marmite; wholesome cartoon characters from old-school comics; tax discs, flags and maps – the cycling equivalent, all, of wearing a wacky tie to the office. These atrocities come in at about £50, which represents the middle of the range with regard to cost. Fortunately, for that price there are far worthier alternatives.

I'm currently unemployed and so would like to exploit the fact that people might want to buy me things for Christmas, and stock up on cycling gear. My first thought had been for my team to be dressed in matching shirts. I have five people down for the L2B and I'm hoping these five people will still be with me when I start asking for money to sort out our accommodation come January. So I consulted the two potential members of my as yet un-named team who had cycled the London to Brighton Bike Ride before, to ask them for their thoughts regarding team attire. I’d started to have my doubts about matching jerseys, figuring it might give off rather arrogant vibes. Ben, who was the first to respond to my line of questioning, agreed that it might not be entirely appropriate, that one might want to consider entering a sportive if one wanted to take the ‘race’ so seriously, but that the L2B couldn't really be bettered for atmosphere. My brother, Simon, followed this up to say that he couldn't justify the expense of another jersey, for he did not cycle enough and owned a few already (Simon’s thing is marathons and the occasional triathlon). And so the way was paved for me to pore over cycling jerseys at my leisure.

I’d already been doing so, in fact, but with an eye to what I thought might be financially acceptable to my fellow riders. I’d identified the Giordana Tech Silverline, reduced from £74.99 to £37.50 on-line, as having solid potential. Available in black, white, lime green, red and blue, all with a white panel covering the chest and black trim around the collar and down the shoulder – and with a small motif perched upon the left breast – it was neutral enough to satisfy a miscellany of sartorial aspirations. At that price I figured I might go for the lime green rendition, if only as a jersey to train in, for as pleasing as the Giordana is there are far prettier shirts out there on the market. For £59.99, for instance, I could buy myself a Morvelo Chasseur de Cols Alpine race jersey, whilst £63 would afford me something from the excellent Solo range, the Moretti probably being the most attractive candidate. This is what I mean when I say that cycling jerseys can be quite dear, although I saw retro-style jerseys from Le Coq Sportif that were more exorbitant still.

                                                       Solo                                                                         Morvelo

So I drew a line under the Giordana – asked my parents for that – and decided that I would wait to see what the new year’s sales might bring with respect to either the Morvelo or the Solo. Besides, there was always Prendas Ciclismo – a small independent firm based in Dorset, apparently in their 17^th year – selling retro-inspired jerseys for anything between £30 and £40. (I instinctively like this company and if I wasn't so bloody minded concerning all things aesthetic I’d have probably ordered from them already, and do not rule out doing so in the future.)

Before putting these accoutrements to one side, I thought I’d have a cruise on eBay and was instantly struck by the ineluctable presence of an organisation called eTailBar.com. I’d searched for ‘retro cycling jerseys’, not because that’s what I was specifically after but because I didn't think eBay would have anything out of the ordinary listed under any other category. In fact, eTailBar do not deal exclusively in retro or second-hand goods but in cycling and running wear in general. Their presence on eBay, then, is probably to shift their fine line in second-hand cycling apparel, for the official website makes no reference to their vintage stock.

I saw a 'vintage' jersey that I liked – really liked – manufactured by the Swiss firm Descente, but the chest was measured at 38ʺ to 40ʺ, whereas I think mine measures just over 36ʺ. The guy who modelled it looked pretty buff too, although it did cling slavishly to his torso. The thing was, this top was going for a little over £13, including the postage from… France. They were a French company, and I backed off a little, just because… because I had no experience of that. I continued to run through their stock anyway and came across another shirt, this time in my size, made of a wool and polyamide mix, and coming in at just under £16. 

Ah, what the hell…


[POST-SCRIPT: A subsequent measuring of my chest revealed it to be just over 38ʺ – good news in some respects, but I might have saved myself a lot of bother if I’d scaled it from the off.]

AN APPROPRIATE BICYCLE - Pt. 6: ASPECTS OF CARLOS

Punctures, like buses (or sagacious oriental apes), appear to visit themselves upon me in batches of three, so I was more put out by the prospect of sustaining further damage than I was about fixing this singular perforation. It was your run-of the-mill sort of puncture: a small, almost central intrusion – just one of those things. I hadn't expected it to be anything else, but was glad to know that it hadn't been caused by the bicycle itself: an errable spoke or suchlike.

It was Tuesday before I finally had the opportunity to conceive what this Carlos was really made of, and it appeared to be good stuff, save for a few entirely corrigible concerns. Before departing on my test-run, I had raised the saddle by a couple of inches. It’s a deceptive exercise, raising a saddle, and it soon became clear that I had not heightened it nearly enough. Having not thought to take a spanner with me on that maiden voyage, I was obliged to spend a fair bit of time out of the saddle. This was a basic error that I admonished myself for.

The handlebars were angled a little awkwardly, too – another minor quibble easily remedied. At worst, I envisaged having to remove the bar-tape and adjust the position of the bake levers to invoke a more relaxed geometry, but I wasn't going to rush into anything.

            The optical illusions that had plagued me now gradually shifted into focus. The bottom bracket was lower on the Carlos than it was on the Jamis Beatnik, accounting for their apparent – but inaccurate – similarity of stature. I concluded that if the stand-over of any given bicycle is correct, and the top-tube sits the requisite couple of inches below the crotch, then the bike probably fits. The saddle, seat-post and handlebars are designed for adjustment, it’s simply a case of playing around with them until one feels comfortable – crises over. I couldn't complain. Indeed, I was content with what my £295 had delivered and looked forward to taming my steed over the coming months.

 

It’s been cold of late but the wet weather has abated. The wind continues to be an irritating presence - it is autumn, after all - but there's been nothing to stop me from getting out there and riding my new bike. The sun has even been moved to put in a few appearances providing the perfect conditions for a spot of bicycle portraiture. (At this time of the year, the sun sits quite low in the sky, allowing for good pictures throughout much of the day.) I don’t expect such clemency to hold out for much longer, and it won’t be long before Carlos is retired for the winter, whereupon I shall be running instead.

So sit back and relax, then, and take a look at these pictures, taken in far from ideal conditions, but tweaked in Picassa to make them just about passable:

[Images: author's own]

AN APPROPRIATE BICYCLE - Pt. 5: CARLOS

£450 was my final offer, and it had neither matched nor exceeded the reserve. The only circumstances under which the Pinarello could now be mine was if I remained the highest bidder and that £450 was close enough to the seller’s valuation that he/she might let it go for less. By now I'm not sure I even cared.

            I left my house at 18:41 and the auction was due to reach fruition at 22:10:11. I assumed this time-scale was dependent on the exact moment the sale was floated and calculated on the basis of that – how else can you explain those extra 11 seconds of opportunity?

            When I logged on to eBay the following morning I was quite relieved to see that I had failed in my bid. But it was funny: my final offer had been the second-to-last tender of the day, before some opportunist came in with a bid of £460 at precisely 22:10:08. How’s that for taking it down to the wire?

As far as I could tell, at 22:10:04, the leading bid – my bid – was visible at £400. Somebody else then attempted to trump my bid with an offer of £422. I’d set my maximum bid at £450, so they were destined to fail, but this now placed me as the highest bidder with an offer of £430, because eBay raises the bid (in increments determined by the current value) on your behalf. Waiting in the wings, the eventual winner then submitted an offer of £460. I can only wonder what would have happened if, with the bidding set at £430 with just 3 seconds to run, the bidder had decided to chance his arm on a maximum offer of, say, £440. At least I think that's how it works...

But they still hadn't made the reserve. Had they taken a chance on my bid being close? Were they confident that the seller would acquiesce to the sellee and take whatever they could get?  Was I missing something concerning the nature of eBay? Was this a green light for the winning bidder to now enter into a personal dialogue with salesperson whereupon they’d thrash it out between them, reaching some sort of fiscal compromise? Consumed by intrigue, I sent the following email to the seller:

'Hey - are you selling your Pinarello for less than the reserve? I see that I was outbid at the last minute. If I'd known what the reserve was I might have bid higher in the first place. I don't really understand why people keep their reserve price secret - it just encouraged me to pull out of the bidding early. Anyway, if you let me know what you are prepared to take then I might still be interested.

Also, why did you buy a new saddle if you intended to sell the bike? I think you priced a lot of people out of the auction by having to cover that cost in your reserve.'

I wasn't expecting a reply to this and nor did I get one – which is a shame. It is a shame if only because it would make for more interesting reading, especially if the seller had somehow taken offence and sent me some sort of invective in return.(I never intend on being provocative or insidious, and it genuinely surprises me how irascible some folk can be when questioned via the medium of email. This rarely happens vis-à-vis, after all; people tend to take you at face value. There’s something about the email that seems to fool people into attributing a more cynical tone to the text. Maybe that says more about them than it does me. Or have I missed some sort of social convention here?) Anyway, the Pinarello was gone, the Raleigh had been long shipped and presumably received (to a disconcerting silence on the receiver’s part) and I was finally at liberty to buy that lovely looking Carlos.

And so I did. On Friday I climbed aboard the train to Waterloo, changed onto the Northern Line, vacated at Highgate and walked back down Archway Road. I felt strangely anxious as I neared the Vintage Bike Cave, so much so that I sought refuge in a delicatessen on the opposing side of the road, for a coffee to settle my nerves. This can be explained in part by a job vacancy at the Vintage Bike Cave that I had expressed a vague interest in. It seemed like it might be a nice place to work, I was unemployed, and working with bikes has to be kind of fun, no? But I was having second thoughts about that, because I’d noted the 70 minutes it had taken me to reach the Vintage Bike Cave, which was tolerable post rush-hour, but would be less so mid.

            I felt a little calmer after drinking mediocre coffee, and when I arrived through that back door the Carlos looked as impressive as I had remembered it. A ride around the block did nothing to dampen my enthusiasm and I knew that if there was any residual hesitation on my part, now would be the time for it to reveal itself to me.

And so the deal was done, the job was discussed (and left mutually open-ended), and I was on my way.

            The man who worked on the lathe – the proprietor of the Vintage Bike Cave – had scoffed at my reluctance to cycle back to Twickenham. It had been estimated that the journey – a journey that involved dicing with death on London’s very terrible roads – would take over an hour and a half, but I had already planned on riding to Gospel Oak to take the train home from there. This I attempted to do, although it was hard to know which way to go about it. At first I pushed my new bike down the Archway Road as far as Upper Holloway, because I thought it might be a good idea to see how long the walk would take, just in case I did indeed end up working at the Vintage Bike Cave. On reaching the intersection beneath Archway Tower I realised that Gospel Oak was too far from Highgate for this theory to make any sense, estimating that it would take at least 20 minutes on foot, thus negating any advantage the Silverlink Metro direct to Richmond might have to offer. I climbed onto the Carlos and started cycling in the vague direction of Gospel Oak.

            It should be pointed out that when I had ridden the Raleigh Record Ace to my courier I was struck by how comfortable it had felt. This was unexpected as I had been riding my Jamis Beatnik in order to preserve the Raleigh for sale, and had got quite used to that smaller machine. This physical amenity, then, took me by surprise, but it reassured me that the Carlos – whose dimensions I had measured to be almost exactly the same as the Raleigh – was probably of an appropriate size (the new found comfort of the Raleigh had also motivated me in continuing to bid for the Pinarello). But now I had the Carlos with me I was convinced that it was smaller than the Raleigh, although still bigger than my Jamis. This bode well for it assuaged any fears that it might be either too big or too small, but the fact that I could simultaneously consider it both left me rather perplexed.

            Meanwhile, my normally reliable sense of direction was letting me down. Meanwhile, the normally unreliable BBC weather forecast was also letting me down – or not. ‘It would remain dry for the rest of the day,’ they had told me this morning, but now it started to rain. I found myself in Kentish Town again, but knew I needed to be further west. I took a turn down a road that furthered itself in a westerly direction, but it led me straight into the bowels of an industrial estate. I retraced my steps and pushed my bike along Kentish Town Road instead, for I knew I’d get very wet if I continued cycling. This allowed me to admire the reflection of my new bicycle in the shop-windows I passed and assess its scale in proportion to my own form.

            I went too far: found a map of the area just outside Camden Gardens and saw the error of my ways, turned down Hawley Road, but on the wrong side, crossed over the road to join Castlehaven Road, which I knew would take me to onto Prince of Wales Road, allowing me to catch my train at Kentish Town West. As I got back on my new bike to ride up Castlehaven Road, I noticed that my rear tyre had a puncture.

[POST-SCRIPT: I did eventually receive a response from the Pinarello Guy, sent some weeks later and only picked up by me a few weeks after that again. He explained that he was in no hurry to sell the bicycle and that he happy to hang onto it if nobody offered what he considered to be a reasonable price. He assured me that the bicycle was not stolen (I'm not sure where that notion came from), that he wanted to sell it to someone who would appreciate it (admirable) and he intended to put it on eBay again – with a reserve in place – but if I was still interested than I was welcome to view the bicycle before bidding.

So far so very reasonable, but then he went on to explain the point of putting a reserve price in place – to keep it, in secret – and that if I didn't like this method of doing business then there were alternatives, both on eBay itself and on other websites (Gumtree, I assume). Maybe that made no sense to me but it did to him – and others too, apparently. It was obvious I’d rubbed him up the wrong way.

He confirmed that he had bought the new saddle prior to his decision to sell the bike and that it was his prerogative to change his mind. I couldn't argue with that but I got the impression that he thought that I was questioning the value he had placed on the bike itself, which was not the case. I just thought that he hadn't done a great job in trying to sell it. This was my reply:

‘Thanks for getting back to me - I only just picked this up as it wasn't sent to my email (or maybe it went to my spam?)

Everything makes a little more sense, now you've said you don't need to sell and are prepared to wait (I never for one moment thought it was stolen, by the way). It's just hard to know whether something is worth bidding on when you have no idea what the seller is holding out for. But you are right: it is a beautiful bike, and you should expect more than £460 - I was never calling into question your valuation. Unfortunately, money is tight for me right now so I ended up buying a Carlos for £295. It's no Pinarello, but it rides well and serves its purpose (and it’s sized right, which I could never be sure of with the Pinarello).

Good luck with the sale - with that saddle it's got to be worth at least £580. List it next time as a Pinarello 'Veneto' (just the one t) and hopefully someone will meet your reserve.’

I hoped he would not submit a response this second time around – what would be the point? He evidently hoped to make more than £500, but he’d only provided the bike’s measurements after I prompted him to do so, and hadn't even spelled Veneto right.]

AN APPROPRIATE BICYCLE - Pt.4: THE PERILS OF EBAY

The next day, after having discussed the contrasting merits of Gumtree and eBay (sic) with a friend of mine the night before, I whimsically decided to take a look at what sort of bicycles there were for sale on the latter. I had begun to feel like I was having some sort of affair behind the Vintage Bike Cave’s back, ogling over all these bikes after supposedly betrothing myself to the Carlos. But I couldn't help myself. Besides, I still fully expected to end up in bed with the Carlos come the end of the week.

I've only ever bid on eBay the once, and that was for something completely unrelated, but it was enough to get the drift. I understand that serious bidders tend to wait for the dying moments of any auction to launch pre-emptive bids, I am aware that some sellers put a reserve in place, that others offer the opportunity to Buy It Now (italics host-site’s own). What I also learned, snooping around eBay on a Sunday evening, is that you are not supposed to contact the seller with an offer until the auction has run its course – assuming that the opportunity to Buy It Now does not apply – but that you can email them to request further information about whatever it is they’re peddling

The first thing that grabbed my roving eye was a red 1980s Duravia, another French marquee that proved almost as elusive as Carlos. The bicycle in question was available for me to buy (it) now for £295, with only about 15 minutes left until sale’s end. Despite the absence of any bids, there was nowhere near enough time left to table my own. No, I needed a good few days to procrastinate, weighing up this and that, before deciding, quite viscerally, whether something convincingly appealed. But the Duravia was a good looking bike, sold by yet another vintage bike dealership bothering to clean up and present their stock for maximum impact (although the new triple-tone black/green/white Vittoria Pro Team tyres they’d fitted were a terrible choice). It was just as well, perhaps, that the sale was about to run its course, because I would have been lumbered with another dilemma to wrestle with for the coming week and I was starting to grow very weary of this whole process. When was I just going to buy myself an appropriate bicycle and start riding the damned thing?

As I was about to knock my eBay surfing on the head, I only went and stumbled upon a vintage Pinarello Veneto! The auction had another three days to run – there was no Buy It Now option on this bike – and the reserve had yet to be met. In truth, it looked like the velocipede might be marginally too big for me. The seller reckoned it was either a 58 cm frame or 60 cm, that he was 183 cm in height and it fitted him fine – and that was all he had to say on the subject. I'm about 180/181 cm, so it was not an altogether improbable fit. But I’d struggled with these sizing issues with the Raleigh and had since come to conclude that whilst my inseam implies I could handle a 58-60 cm sized frame, my ‘reach’ does not. In other words, my legs are in longer proportion to my body – perhaps. Dear old Carlos, on the other hand, had been quoted at 57.5 cm, which looked like a nice compromise. Why was I even considering submitting a bid for the Pinarello?

Because it was one of the most beautiful bikes I’d ever laid my eyes on; because it dated back to 1989, so was not so old that the parts should have suffered too much wear; because it had new wheels and tyres; it had a brand new Brooks Swift titanium saddle… but why had he fitted his bike with a new Brookes Swift titanium saddle just to then sell it on again? A Brookes Swift titanium saddle goes for about £180, so I could only assume his reserve was pitched to cover this extra cost. Why price yourself out of the market like that? Why add value to something that doesn't need adding value to? Maybe he bought the saddle not long before deciding to sell, because the pictures corroborated his claim that it was indeed brand new. I could resell the saddle but there was no guarantee of finding a buyer willing to cover my costs – not even for a pillion of Brookes’ calibre.

I asked the seller for a few more measurements, but they were inconclusive. I increased my bid anyway, because I thought I had a fair idea as to the bike’s real value. Still the reserve remained undisturbed. The next day I upped my bid again, no doubt irritating those who like to leave their bidding to the final moments. Again the reserve remained undisturbed.

I emailed the Vintage Bike Cave to reassure them of my sustained enthusiasm for the Carlos but would probably have to wait until Friday now. (I would have done this regardless of my bidding for the Pinarello because I had decided against picking the Carlos up late on Wednesday and cycling it across London to my bouldering place. It just looked far too dangerous on the map – that journey on a bike to which I was unaccustomed.) I thought very carefully about how much I would be able to pay for the Pinarello, because I wouldn't be near a computer for the final five hours of auction and would need to rely on a pre-prepared maximum bid to secure any purchase. My fingers hovered over the keyboard with much hesitation. I had no idea whether my last bid of £400 was anywhere near the reserve price but doubted that it was - £500 would have to be a safer bet. How far was I prepared to go?

AN APPROPRIATE BICYCLE- Pt. 3: A TRIP TO DALSTON KINGSLAND

I emailed the Vintage Bike Cave to re-affirm my interest in the Carlos and to explain that it would probably be another week before I could and buy and collect. They were pleased, said they rated the bike and they would alert me to any third party interest, thus providing me with the opportunity to stake my claim in advance – perhaps with a debit card number.

            The next day I established that the funds for the Raleigh had been deposited into my account, but I had things to do and so taking the bike to my courier would have to wait until Monday (it was a Friday). And I thought that that was genuinely that, but on Saturday I couldn't help but have another sweep of Gumtree. To my surprise, I found an advert, which had been posted a mere 5 minutes earlier, for a vintage Holdsworth selling for £140. Holdsworth will need no introduction to those with an interest in classic bikes: it is a brand name that carries some weight. The advertisement read thus:

In Mint Condition Classic 1980s Holdsworth Racing Bike All In Perfect Working Order Also. I Need To Sell Due To Moving Away So If Anyone Wants A Beautiful Classic Holdsworth Bike For A Bargain Price Please Call Me On….

There was no current photograph of the bike (and the seller had insisted on capitalizing every word). Instead, he had sourced a page from an old Holdsworth catalogue showing a Triath-Elan VS in all its glory. It’s not that unusual for people to do this – we don’t all have cameras, or computers to upload our pictures on to – but I would normally take it as a sign to steer well clear. I did a bit of research anyway, discovered that the bike would have dated back to somewhere between 1984 and 1986, found some genuine photographs of the same model, looking resplendent in steel blue, and thought to myself that I’d quite like to ride that bike. The £140 asking price suggested the deal was too good to be true, but you never know with these things. I phoned the seller, who told me that a friend of his had placed the advert but that the picture his pal had posted was a true reflection of the bike he was selling and that it really was in very good condition indeed. He went on to tell me that the bike had been his dad’s, so he knew little about it other than it would suit someone of 5 foot 11 inches or thereabouts, for that was the height of his old man. I am 5 foot 11 inches. It sounded plausible – that he had inherited the bicycle from his father – but the way he talked about it aroused my suspicion; like he didn't actually want to talk about it. I decided to catch the train to Dalston Kingsland to see for myself.

            I had my head in a book for most of the journey (The Great Game by Peter Hopkirk) but took a break somewhere around Brondesbury Park. It looked nice, Brondesbury, but then places often do from the vantage of the London over-ground. You’re up in the trees, and the spires of local churches have an advantage over the more low-rise clutter that subjugates one's view from street-level: an isosceles order amongst the chlorophylloid chaos. Further afield you might discern more exalted  landmarks, or the city itself, and if there are interesting meteorological weather formations afoot, then they’re nice to behold too. So my 45 minutes train journey on a Saturday afternoon was actually quite pleasing and in complete contrast to the havoc that greeted me when I disembarked at Dalston.

            Dalston Kingsland’s a weird one. On the surface it’s reminiscent of old Stratford, or the more unsavoury elements of Ealing, with dated shopping malls and boutiques without any real focus. Look more closely amongst the crowds and the shops selling cheap linen and you’ll see hipster types buzzing about on single-speed bikes, or socialist workers encouraging you to join them on demos. I suppose I live quite a cosseted existence out west, and so all this can seem rather exotic.

            I’d texted my seller when one stop away from Dalston Kingsland and didn't have to wait long. As soon as I saw him I felt I knew his game. I might be wrong, and it could be awfully unfair of me to say, but my first thought was that the bicycle was probably a stolen one.  I've never known anybody who’s owned a Holdsworth, but I’d wager that their offspring don’t generally turn out like this: wearing baseball caps at jaunty angles, with nicotine stained teeth, baggy tracksuit bottoms, dirty finger-nails and a gait that nods from side to side. To be fair, the man (of approximately 25 years) was terribly polite and did seem to know his subject. The bike was in good condition – very good condition – but it was not a Triath-Elan, nor was it steel blue, and the tyres weren't of the racing kind. It looked to me to be a lower-end model (although still with a Reynolds 531 frame), was black and its tyres were a right chunky pair of monsters. This gave me an escape clause and I could relax safe in the knowledge that I’d be under no obligation to buy something that hadn't met with my expectations – the expectations that he’d handed to me. But it was a nice bike… and it was only £140… but no, I couldn't live myself knowing it was stolen. But I didn't know if it was stolen. But I would have to do something about those tyres, and I don’t really like black coloured bikes… Sensing my disinterest, he asked me to make him an offer. I was confident I could sell it and make a profit, but this bike business was starting to get ridiculous. I declined, thanked him for coming to meet me, he said it was no problem, and I went home.

A Holdsworth Triath-Elan VS

Back at the office, as it was fast becoming, I thought I’d Google-search for stolen Holdsworths. I don’t think I had any intention of doing anything about this potential act of pilferage, should something come up, but it would satisfy my curiosity and validate my instinct. Nothing was immediately apparent but I then decided to run a search on the guy’s name and telephone number to see if that threw anything up. And it did: about 30 adverts on Gumtree (some live, some dead), most of them with appropriated images (but not all) and almost all of them selling bikes at £140 a go. He normally didn't even bother to explain the motivation behind the sell, although there was mention of him actively building up single-speeds here and there, and that he was ‘Moving Away’ again. The bikes were usually in ‘Perfect Working Order’ or ‘Looking New’ with ‘No Service Needed’.

            By the end of the day the advert for the Holdsworth was no more.

AN APPROPRIATE BICYCLE - Pt. 2: THE JOY OF TRADE

It’s clear that if I'm to fulfil my ambition of sampling a flavour of competitive road cycling then I will need to enrol in an event. It’s also clear that I’m in no position to enter something very serious, and the most obvious avenue open to me is a charity ride, like the London to Brighton: it is 54 miles long and that feels about right. In fact, there are sportives being held all over country for much of the time, and they’re normally very accommodating, with ‘standard’ and ‘epic’ distances to suit. Which would best cater to my needs is moot: I have both a relative and a friend in mind who I hope to persuade to cycle with me, and I know they appreciate the London to Brighton, having both ridden it twice. They may well be up for a sportive at some point in time, but I wouldn't know how to go about choosing one. I’d like to get other people on board too, and the London to Brighton will incentivise in way the ‘Sussex Surrey Scramble’ cannot. One other person has indicated that he might like to partake, and I also reckon the guy who lives below me wouldn't mind giving it a go.
            All this can wait, but when the time comes to get this thing off the ground I’ll be the one doing the bulk of the work: event registration, booking hotels, arranging that people meet beforehand. It’s my project and my idea and therefore my responsibility. As Directeur Sportif I’ll be the one who names the team and describes its culture. I look forward to that.

I suppose my brush with Gumtree had been somewhat successful, for it had revealed to me that there were vintage bikes aplenty to be had (if no apparent bargains), and also – and more importantly – that there were small, independently owned businesses selling working models for reasonable prices. So I continued to purge Gumtree for road bicycles and would visit De Vlo’s website on a daily basis to see if they’d finished off the works-in-progress that they’d assured me were on the way. De Vlo’s website led to me their Facebook page, which in turn led me to a company called the Vintage Bike Cave, based in Highgate, north London. I’d already spotted the Vintage Bike Cave selling their wares on Gumtree but had been put off by the graphics employed on their website and the plethora of vintage spares they had on sale. One might have a degree of empathy with my feeling towards the former, but why should the latter hold any leeway when it came to buying a used bicycle? I suppose the recent explosion of interest in cycling – and its vintage component in particular – has made me wary of some of the newer businesses currently ploughing this rather specific furrow. I don’t know enough about bicycles to say either way, but is that Campagnolo group-set really worth that much? And is it reasonable to expect someone to pay a couple of hundred quid for a steel bicycle frame that looks like it was chanced upon in a skip? Having said that, the Vintage Bike Cave had a couple of bikes I liked the look of, not as immediately arresting as the beautifully photographed Diamant from De Vlo London, but priced along similar lines and of corresponding age. Further, they seemed to be an altogether beefier operation, and as such it occurred to me that they might be able to do me a deal on my Raleigh Record Ace – some sort of part-exchange, perhaps?

            First off, I decided to call in the specifications on the two bikes that appealed to me: a Peugeot Competition with a 531 Reynolds frame – possibly a PKN-10 dating back to the late 1970s – and a chrome Carlos 10-speed racer of indeterminate origin. They both had 700c sized wheels, which was now a prerequisite of mine, and were valued at £345 and £295 respectively. I liked the look of both.

 The Peugeot

The specs had them sized about the same as my Raleigh, but with the marginally smaller 700c wheels bringing them in at slightly under. Their wheelbases were a little shorter, too (we’re talking about a difference of 3 or 4 centimetres here). Next I enquired as to what sort of discount the Vintage Bike Cave might be able to offer me in return for my Raleigh. Not much, was the answer – or that which fell way short of my own valuation. They asked me what I was looking for, I told them about £170, and they said – based on the photographs I had emailed them – that the most they could give me in part-exchange was a discount of £100. This was not to say that they disapproved of the value I had placed on my bike, just that they would not be able to make a sufficient margin based on the amount I was asking for. They advised that I try and sell it myself, so I did.

            The prospect of selling the Raleigh on Gumtree was not one that I looked forward to. It was the logistical element that bothered me – having to meet with people and maybe haggle a bit over the price – but I decided to proceed. Here is what I wrote for my advert:

Raleigh Record Ace: size 22½"/57 cm - with 531 Reynolds double-butted lugged frame and forks, Campagnolo gear-set and Weinmann Brakes, dating back to approximately 1984.  All parts are original except for the Schwalbe Marathon tyres fitted 2 months ago.

There are the surface abrasions that one might expect (nothing terminal - just a bit scruffy) but it rides fast and well.  Could do with a new saddle and bar-tape.

Would make for a great conversion to fixed-gear/single-speed bike (if you did want to do that then you could sell the Campagnolo gear shifters for about £20 - maybe the same for the derailleurs; they are in excellent condition).

... or you can ride as it is, although I'd advise a basic service: it handles great at the front but the back wheel needs a little adjustment from when I changed the rear tyre - I'm not a great mechanic!

... or it could be restored to its former glory, which I intended to do before time and money got the better of me (I have another bike so cannot justify this).

The size would be ideal for somebody between 5 foot 9 inches and 6 foot 2 inches; the seat-post measures 57 cm and top-tube measures 57 cm too.

I am flexible with regards to times and could arrange to meet in either Richmond / Teddington / Chiswick / Hounslow / Kingston / Mortlake - otherwise I am based in Twickenham.  The more convenient for me, the more flexible I'll be with the price.

I was asking for £180, to cover the cost of the tyres and a little of my labour – the three hours I must have spent stripping down and cleaning the bike. Essentially, I was attempting to break about even.

            Interest was almost immediate but seemed rather speculative. One guy in particular appeared to be very keen however, a notion that I arrived at via the medium of text, but all other enquiries came to nothing. Then the keen guy came back with an offer of £170, which I was willing to accept. There was a problem, though: he lived in Edinburgh. It was still early days for my advert so I was quite happy to bide my time for now, but told the keen guy that I would look into the possibility of shipping the bike to the Scottish capital. The reason why I was prepared to explore this avenue of delivery was because I know someone who works in logistics, close enough to where I live for it not to be too much bother, and nice enough a guy to do me some sort of deal. Actually, when I called my contact I made it clear that I wasn't looking for any favours with regard to the price, because that was a cost I intended to pass on to the prospective buyer, but he offered me a fairly decent rate anyway. I presented the keen guy with my quote and he made me a revised offer of £190, to include postage. It was a little lower than I would have liked, given the hassle of having to find a designated box for the bike, and then the need to haul it over to my courier’s warehouse, but if I wanted to follow up on my interest in those bikes at the Vintage Bike Cave then it would certainly be of benefit to resolve the matter as soon as was possible.

            I was also starting to develop a fondness for my potential buyer. I tried to provide as much information on the bike as I could, and to be honest in doing so. Given the time I was going to have to put aside to sort all this out, I decided I would have to insist on being paid up front. I do not think I was being unreasonable in making this a condition of our transaction, but I'm not sure how willing I would have been to part with my money without knowing the person I was dealing with. The keen guy seemed to hold no such concerns, and so we came to an agreement, bank details were passed on and I set about finding a box.

            Finding a box turned out to be a breeze. I emailed Moore’s Cycles in Twickenham, who duly obliged. All I needed to do now was to wait for the money to materialise and then I could go about the actual shipping.

            In the meantime, I felt I should really get things rolling with the Vintage Bike Cave and have a look at those bikes. On checking that they were still for sale it was discovered that the Peugeot was currently reserved, pending a visit from a potential buyer who had submitted a deposit. It was still available for viewing, and the Carlos was still very much available for buying.

            I am not sure how absorbing it really is to read about a nascent cycling enthusiast attempting to sell a bike, but hopefully the acquisition of its replacement piques a little more interest. Wednesday night is bouldering night, so to save on the expense of travel I elected to visit the Vintage Bike Cave late on a Wednesday afternoon. Highgate was the destination, but I thought I’d pause for thought on the South Bank on my way, as can be my want. After drinking my coffee, I crossed the Thames to Embankment and joined the Northern Line from there.

            Highgate, when I arrived, was a far and pleasing cry from the environs of Bow that I had to trudge through on my way to see the Diamant the week prior. I had never been to Highgate before and passed the Boogaloo on Archway Road, a pub whose grand reputation precedes it and that I had one day always hoped to visit. Now was not the time but it felt like a good omen to see it there.

            The Vintage Bike Cave was smaller than I had envisaged, monopolising a cramped bunker of a room. A young man was there to let me in through the back entrance, for the cave occupied the lower floor of a building whose basements were not accessible from the front. The bikes were ready for my inspection, for I had fired off an email before I left to tell them that I was on my way. An older guy took a break from his lathe to move them onto track-stands so I might better appreciate the work that had been done on them. Like with De Vlo, the bikes were a testament to some great care and attention: they were clean and well-oiled, with new tyres, brake pads and bar-tape. Actually, the Peugeot – the more expensive of the two bikes – looked the more tired. This was probably because it was undoubtedly older than the Carlos, but maybe too because it was white, and white is a colour that doesn't tend to weather very well. It was still a nice looking bicycle, although it was the Carlos that was feeling its way under my skin.

            The older guy who had taken a break from his lathe couldn't tell me much about Carlos other than that they were a French company.  Further research established that they heralded from an area close to the Belgian border, but I uncovered nothing more than that.  This is not necessarily a bad thing and might account for the £50 price differential between; everybody’s heard of Peugeot but how many of us are aware of Carlos?

            I probably spent about 10 minutes poring over those two bikes before having a snoop around the workshop and chatting a little with the younger guy. I told him that I was very interested in the Carlos but that I could only instigate a purchase once my Raleigh had been officially sold. I added that I would be prepared to lay a deposit, should the Carlos illicit further interest, and that if all went well I’d be back in a week to take another look and, in all likelihood, hand over money. And then I walked south towards Holloway because I still had two hours to spare before I was due to boulder in London Bridge.

The Carlos

It is a pleasing experience, walking down the Archway road towards Upper Holloway. There’s a really good bit where the B540 passes over on high, and the iron bridge that supports it frames a view of the city beyond, The Shard inevitably taking centre-stage. Upper Holloway itself lies beyond that, and it’s pleasant enough – Archway Tower is the stand-out feature here. I elected then to take Junction Road south, but Holloway Road, St. John’s Way and Highgate Hill are all possibilities. The area around Holloway Tower and Junction Road differs to the approach down Archway Road. It’s a busier environment for one, and I’d dare to say a bit more cosmopolitan. It reminds me a little of Hammersmith, with a touch of Southwark thrown in for good measure. That it is to say that there’s a mix of both Victorian terracing and red-brick 1980s type developments, the sort that seem to cordon themselves from the street with high walls and indeterminate front doors. There are cafes that look like they might be kind of cool, but you can’t be entirely sure.

            One thing I become very aware of, as I continue my way down Junction Road, is the concentration of bicycles and people riding them. They’re everywhere, and with quite a substantial vintage presence – you don’t find that in West London. Then I hit Tufnell Park, but I'm not sure what to make of that.

            I have a sandwich on my person that needs to be eaten approximately two hours before I commence bouldering. It’s about 17.45 and I’d very much like to have it devoured by 18.15 – bouldering tends to commence at around 20.00 – and I am on the look-out for the appropriate seating.

            Down Fortress Road, now, and the architecture is mostly Victorian. I pass the Bike House and a red steel framed bicycle catches my eye from within. It’s your more typical sort of high-street bike shop but the owners have saw fit to sell a few second-hand steel numbers on the side. The red one’s quite nice but they want £400 for it, and I'm not sure it’s worth that.

            I make the transition into Kentish Town – a more familiar territory. There’s the Bull & Gate to my right. I went there once, when I was a student, to see some aspiring indie band – it was before Britpop had started and everything.

            I think I spot an eating opportunity on the corner of Kentish Town Road and Leighton Road, but I’d have to share with tramps. Down Kentish Town Road, I’d forgotten how vibrant this area was. I reach the confluence with Royal College Street and for the first time I hesitate as to what direction I should follow. My desert boots are not proving to be shoes made for much walking, and my heels are beginning to protest. I persevere with Royal College Street and soon pass a triangular park that looks the perfect place to pause for my sandwich. Alas, ‘College Gardens’ are locked up for the night. Or maybe it’s a private residential area?

            But Camden Road Station awaits just around the corner, and there are seats there – free from vagrants – where I can finally get stuck into that chicken sandwich I made earlier.  It’s rather dull fare but serves its purpose. It is approximately 18:15.

            It will take me about 20 minutes to arrive at London Bridge, so still too early to make my way there. I’ll wander up and down Camden High Street for half an hour or so, to kill time and review what I've been missing these last few years. Apart from the rappers and the Emo kids, not so much, but I like what they've done up by the lock where a vicious fire took hold some time ago. They have adapted old scooters for people to sit on, overlooking the canal, to eat from the many stalls selling ethnic strains of food. If our climate was only hotter it would make for a wonderful place to hang out.