In the Light of Day

The frame I built with Mike Flanigan over the winter has long been completed and powdercoated. I've been staring at it and doing a lot of thinking... which, somehow, hasn't translated into taking any pictures. Before I knew it, a couple of months passed. And now here I am, about to skip town for much of the summer. So before setting off, I took some early morning shots of my so-called creation. 

When I look at this frameset and remember all that went into making it, the dominant sensations are those of physical and emotional exhaustion. I was a mediocre student. Making this thing was difficult and I struggled. It was difficult physically: The all-day filing, sanding, and even waving around the heavy torch, was exhausting for someone of my meager upper body strength. But no less difficult was the acute and constant awareness of working on something I was not good at. Of genuinely trying hard and getting at best so-so results, hour after hour and day after day. That was tough to take. 

So when I look at the lugwork, rather than admire its beauty I shudder at the memory of what it took to braze the joints correctly and then get the shorelines looking half-decent. 

The solidified mess of steel and silver that I gouged away at for hours with a variety of files to define and redefine the outlines. And don't get me started on the fork crown. 

Or the seat cluster with its made-from-scratch endcaps on the chainstays.

Brazing these on while taking care not to melt the rest of the joint, then endlessly scraping off the extra filler material in hopes of achieving at least a semblance of symmetry and elegance of form...

The brake bridge, which I had wanted to braze without reinforcer plates...

The bottom bracket, with its myriad of crevices, the tight spaces making it nearly impossible to file without gouging another tube. 

The acrid smell of flux. My eyes tearing up. Standing on my feet for hours at a time. The sandpaperlike texture of my fingers. The deep aches in my arms.

In the end, most of it looks more or less all right... except, ironically, for the dropouts. I had spent more time working on these than on any other part of the bike, and they look the worst - the one part of the frame that is glaringly amateur. The transitions are not entirely smooth and the braze on the drivetrain side betrays a couple of surface "pinholes." When pinholes happen in a lugless braze, it can be for several reasons. With small surface ones like mine it is likely mild contamination from burnt flux or metal dust. With some luck, they can be buffed out. Those pinholes kept me awake at night. I filed and buffed until I was sure I'd gotten rid of them - but somehow the powdercoat magnified rather than hid them, along with the not so smooth stay-to-dropout transitions. Naturally, this is the part of the frame I notice and think about the most. It hurts to look, but I keep looking.

I keep looking. And at first, maybe I feel mostly empty, numb, disappointed at my ineptitude. But with time I notice that underneath it there stirs something that almost resembles love. This thing has cut me, burned me, made me angry, made my eyes water, deprived me of sleep, and drained me of energy... What else can I do but love it.

Paul Carson Step-Through Bicycle

As I stood composing this shot, a woman passing by with grocery bags stopped beside me. Looking at the bicycle, she tilted her head to the side and smiled. "That bike!" she said, "It looks like... happiness." It was a funny outburst, no doubt inspired more by the sunny day and the quaint tree-lined street, than by the bicycle itself. But I knew what she meant. Because this particular bike fit into the idyllic backdrop perfectly. Simple, friendly and inviting, it looked like no more and no less than what it was - a yellow bicycle on a beautiful summer morning. Maybe Paul is onto something here, I thought.

Even though Paul Carson makes bikes and teaches others how to, I do not really think of him as a framebuilder. He is more of an engineer, an experimenter, a problem-solver. Paul doesn't see what he does as a craft, but as production that he loves to simplify and optimise. You might not find him polishing frame joints for hours on end. But you will find him making ridable prototypes with speed and ingenuity ...as well as the tools, fixtures and parts to facilitate doing so. In a sense, Paul is like a magic genie who can turn wishful thinking into reality, and fast. On one occasion, I watched him make a rear rack in under 20 minutes, so that he could try out a pannier on his roadbike. Another time, I wondered how difficult it would be to make a double-plated fork crown from scratch. He asked me to elaborate. I explained and showed pictures. He thought about it, then ducked into a corner. Hack-hack-hack. File-file-file. Flames! Flames! "Like this?" 

And there it was - double-plated fork crown for oval blades, spaced for a wide tire, just as I described. "Glad you like it," he shrugged. "I'll get a batch of these machined." That's Paul Carson, in a nutshell.

Unlike most other local builders, Paul is not part of the racing scene. He isn't even really part of the local bike scene so much; he is just his own entity. Perhaps that is why he gravitates toward making city bikes. City bikes have an immediate and obvious utility. And it is fun to see them cruising around the neighbourhood, ridden by ordinary people, carrying milk and potted plants. Over the past months, we've been discussing some ideas for step-through designs. We both like the feel of old English 3-speeds and we also like low trail. Wouldn't it be great to combine these? While our ideas diverge when it comes to wheel size and exact geometry specs, overall Paul's idea of a great step-through is not dissimilar to mine. When he asked me to try his prototype, I was eager to give it a go. 

Made of touring grade cro-moly tubing, the Paul Carson Step-Through is designed around 700C wheels with up to 35mm tires and fenders. It has a gently curved top tube, and is proportioned so that the handlebars can sit at or just above saddle height. 72° head tube angle and 73° seat tube angle. Trail in the mid-40s.

These framesets will be made to order in a range of sizes and with a menu of options, with prices starting at $650 for a TIG-welded frameset with standard (lugged) fork crown, made for caliper brakes. The price includes powdercoat in a range of standard colours and a headset. Extras include the option of fillet-brazed construction, handmade double-plated fork crown, handmade stem, and cantilever/ v-brake bosses. Turn around is 4 weeks.

Paul designed this frame with versatility of build in mind. Semi-horizontal dropouts make it possible to use either derailleur or hub gearing. The bottom bracket height (300mm with 28mm tires) is sufficient to set up the bike as a fixed gear. Braze-ons include eyelets for racks and fenders. 440mm chainstays are long enough to carry panniers without heel strike. And the front-end geometry will handle a front load.

The demo bike I tried was built in size 55cm and with all the extra options. Fillet-brazed joints, smoothly finished, but not fussed over. 

Canti-lever bosses and cable hanger. Twin plate fork crown.

And fillet-brazed stem (threadless).

Paul set this bike up with 28mm tires and fenders, a single speed drivetrain,

swept-back handlebars with cork grips,

and a Brooks Flyer saddle.

Leaving my own bike at the Asylum, I rode the Step-Through around town in the course of the morning, simulating some of my regular routes. When I struggle for something to say about a bike's handling, that generally strikes me as a good thing - as it means nothing is "wrong" with it. Paul's bike felt familiar, natural, normal. It also felt casual and accessible, more like a cool, repainted vintage bike than a new handmade bike. And it really did look oddly at home in our neighbourhood.

The fit worked well for me, with a more aggressive posture than a fully upright bike. There was no toe overlap with the size 55cm frame and 28mm tires with fenders, though it was close. The steering felt responsive and intuitive. My own city bikes are low trail (under 30mm) and this bike handled like a more neutral version of them.

As far as nit-picks, the step-over height could be a bit lower for my taste. And in my view, a practical city bike (especially for a pothole-ridden neighbourhood like ours) would ideally be specced with 35mm wide tires minimum, not maximum. This is where a smaller wheel size might be worth considering, especially if toe clearance is a priority. Personally, I also prefer lower bottom brackets. But I know that some riders like to feel as if they are "sitting high in traffic" on their bike, which the higher bottom bracket accomplishes. Otherwise, not much else to criticise; I liked the bike.

Paul Carson is an exciting person to know. He has ideas about streamlining the framebuilding process to make handmade bikes more accessible, and I will be following his work with interest. Made in this vein, the Carson Step-Through is not meant to be an artisanal show-stopper. It is a cute, friendly, ridable bike, with a friendly price, handmade in Somerville MA. 

The Art of Exuberant Subtlety

Squinting in the harsh mid-day light and holding my breath, I rolled this rare machine I had been entrusted with across the grassy clearing. I leaned it against a tree. I arranged it amidst some flowers. I positioned it this way and that, in the sunshine and in shadow. With the camera to my eye, I crouched, I kneeled, I loomed, I stepped back. And yet, the bicycle refused to draw attention to itself. It was as if in his quest to achieve harmony - a harmony of proportion, colour and form - the builder had gone one step too far. So harmonious was this bicycle, so perfectly at home in these woods on this beautiful spring day, that it was in fact part of the scenery. 

To appreciate a JP Weigle, one must appreciate this level of subtlety. There is no Weigle website. Just some flickr pictures, minimal publicity, word of mouth, and one of the longest wait lists in the business. Because to those in the know, the builder's name is synonymous with randonneuring machines in the classic French tradition, made to the highest standards. Today this style of bike is not as rare - and, by extension, not as striking - as it was just a few years ago. There are fewer heated debates about its low trail geometry and 650B tires. There are also fewer oohs and aahs about its integrated fenders, racks, lighting, handlebar bags and other iconic features. But a Weigle machine is not so much about these things in themselves, as it is about how they are done. They say that Weigle is the master of the thinned lug, of the French-curve fork blade, of the sculptural, minimalist front rack, of the near-invisible internal wiring, of the perfectly installed fenders. Hardly anyone uses the word "beautiful" to describe his work, although it is assumed. The words used are: meticulous, impeccable, flawless. It is by design that no part of a Weigle calls attention to itself. 

In his rural Connecticut workshop, JP (Peter) Weigle has a presence that is as quietly compelling as one of his creations. Dressed in gray on gray and of serene disposition, he is easy to miss in a room full of colourful jerseys and animated conversation. "But where is Peter?" visitors ask. Eventually he is spotted, in a corner, speaking in a muted yet impassioned tone as he points to some tiny detail on either his own frame or a vintage one in his custody. On my visit I was treated to a Jo Routens, stripped of paint, its brazed joints exposed to be studied. And beside it was the yet-unpainted bike I was trying to photograph now - nearly ready. 

The future owner, Elton (second from the left), left the paint colour up to Peter, confident that whatever the builder chose would be right for the bike.

The racing green frame with nickel-plated fork blades and stays is a congruent combination of darks and lights, of matte and reflective surfaces.  

The embellishments - such as the lug cutouts filled with tiny bursts of red and the golden box lining - are noticeable only on close inspection, but are so numerous and discreet that one could spend hours looking over the bike and still miss some.

The lugs are thinned out to such an extent, that they are almost flush with the tubes. It is difficult to get their intricate shorelines to show up on camera. No doubt it is to highlight this aspect of the construction that lug outlining has been omitted. 

In addition to the frame and fork, Peter made the canti-mount front rack

which features a left-side light mount extension 

and sits low and stable on the bike, the platform secured to the front fender.

He also made the rear rack, 

which attaches both at the dropouts and at the canti bosses.

The custom cable hanger and tail light are also his own work, as is the reworked ("Special OH-HEC") pump - poorly pictured here, but lovely.

The internally routed dynamo-powered lighting was set up in collaboration with AT Électricalités - aka "Somervillain," who now moonlights as a bike electrician of renown skill. He explains how he set up the lighting step by step here. Examining the bike in person, the entry and exit points of the wiring are extremely difficult to spot even if you know where they are. 

The rest of the build the owner put together himself. It included a Grand Bois stem and decaleur,

modern Rene Herse crankset,

Shimano Dura Ace rear derailleur and cassette,

9-speed Campagnolo ergo shifters,

vintage Mafac brakes

Handbuilt wheels around Pacenti rims, with a Chris King hub in the rear and a Schmidt SON dynamo hub in the front, and of course Grand Bois Hetre (extra leger!) 650Bx42mm tires,

Gilles Berthoud touring saddle,

Berthoud handlebar bag,

and long coverage Honjo fenders, which Peter Weigle installed using his own special method prior to Elton doing the rest of the build.

The elegant Nitto bottle cages are a nice complement to the build,

as are the two-tone Crankbrothers pedals and Wippermann chain.  

Even after such a long description, there are many details I've missed. I need a clearer background and softer lighting to really do justice to it all. The curve of the brake bridge, the hidden lug cutouts, the pump peg, the delicate little braze-ons... this is a bike whose beauty "unfolds" the more closely you look at it. But standing there in a patch of woods, it makes you think about cycling rather than its own self. And Elton surely has plans to do some brevets on this beautiful machine this season. In the meantime he has been commuting on it to work.

Living in New England, I've been lucky enough to encounter a few Weigle bikes "in the wild" (for example, this one), made over the span of several decades. Like a number of other well known American builders, Peter Weigle got his start at Witcomb Cycles in London, UK in the early 1970s. And while today he is best known for his low trail randonneuring machines with 650B wheels, he did not begin working on such designs until 2005-2006. Before then there were Weigle racing bikes, mountain bikes, touring bikes - all showing the fashions of the times, yet also his distinct brand of elaborately subtle detail. I feel fortunate to have seen some of these bicycles and spoken to their owners. 

Peter Weigle's small workshop in the woods is neat and tidy when visitors appear. The builder's friends tease that he never allows anyone to watch him work, his technique being top secret. Whatever the secret is, the results continue to entice bicycle lovers to dream of his machines, whether admiring them from afar or putting their names on the years-long wait list.