Richard Sachs Cycles

[e-RICHIE]

richard: have you still never ridden the nagasawa?

No, I haven't.

[Lionel]

No, I haven't.

garage queen :)

[MikeS]

No, I haven't.

I had a Nagasawa (gold flake) and rode the hell out of it down at Hellyer. It's the only bike I regret selling. Richard, I'd love to see a pic of yours.

Edit: "heck out of it down in Hellyer"

[e-RICHIE]

I had a Nagasawa (gold flake) and rode the hell out of it down at Hellyer. It's the only bike I regret selling. Richard, I'd love to see a pic of yours.

Edit: "heck out of it down in Hellyer"

They're on my Flickr Albums pages.

[MikeS]

They're on my Flickr Albums pages.

Ah, right. I remember that one. Very nice.

[ashwa64]

I love the evolution of the aesthetic of your frames, Richard. I would have never been able to foresee preferring another look to your classic red to the extent that i do. The recent red with the red ht might be my favorite. Keep killing it!

[e-RICHIE]

I love the evolution of the aesthetic of your frames, Richard. I would have never been able to foresee preferring another look to your classic red to the extent that i do. The recent red with the red ht might be my favorite. Keep killing it!

Giving myself up to House Industries - priceless and precious.

[ashwa64]

HI does incredible work... i have all kinds of stuff from them from their 'brackets' boxes to their eames blocks, kitchen towels, too. you guys make a great team. such a shame about rich... so young, so talented.

[e-RICHIE]

HI does incredible work... i have all kinds of stuff from them from their 'brackets' boxes to their eames blocks, kitchen towels, too. you guys make a great team. such a shame about rich... so young, so talented.

Thank you.

[ron l edmiston]

--- so very rare...
so very few can go "back to the future" with enjoyable success...

ronnie

[Lionel]

Richard,

Saw your FB post on the 47 years at the bench and building the last two orders "on the list".

Congrats ! This must be a bitter sweet feeling.

Looking forward to the next step.

[WFSTEKL]

The rock of Sisyphus has finally settled.

[e-RICHIE]

Conceptual Thought

Bicycle making is part metalwork, part design, and part alchemy. The person with the tools tries to coerce a batch of materials into a shape that mirrors his vision. These parts aren't equal. Unless they are. More than anything, the bicycle reflects the maker's foundation. His experience. The commitment he's made to tame the beast.

There aren't that many ways to make the same bicycle, that is - assuming we're narrowing down the size for a given user. Leave the boundaries of conventional dimensions and the unit will fit poorly. Or steer like a wheelbarrow. Or the range of parts we grab during assembly may not work fluidly.

When I read this Connecticut Magazine review of Lary Bloom's biography of Sol Lewitt, it resonates. Few of us invent anything. We take some lessons, summon up the drive to do this making thing, and have at it. The ones who last are those who digest the best. Who look around the most. And who respect the past rather than ignore it.

I won't compare making bicycles with art. Nor making art with fashion. Nor fashion with making bicycles. Nor making music with anything. The line that runs through these is that certain tenets exist and should be adhered to. Lines to stay between. Those who don't know this will if they pay attention. If they don't, I hope they marry well.

There's a reason to practice. There's a reason we practice. A mother lode of influences makes it hard to see what's real and what's only for the moment. Or the model year. Taking leads from those outside our circle who've become masters in theirs is a way for us to have a deeper impact in our own.

All This By Hand

https://www.amazon.com/Sol-LeWitt-Id...xk0Zrt08g9F5eU

[e-RICHIE]

One day at the Leverett Village Co-Op we met a man. A writer. Or maybe a writer to be. Deb had just graduated Simmons with a Masters Degree in Writing for Children. So our chance encounter came with some commonality. I just watched. And listened.

When the posturing was over, the man went to his car and grabbed a manuscript. Told us about the story. Used the word prolix a lot. And then turns to the very last page and is beyond excited to point out that the book doesn't end with a period. The last word is just that.

I've got a full plate of emotions. And that man's short period in my personal space looms large. I'm looking at my timeline. Measuring the work that's been done. Contrasting it with the life in front of me. Trying to make sense.

I'm in the middle. Not stuck in it. Just in it. There's no next place until there's no place at all. Is no place at all is really no place or is it what's next. What is it. Where is it. Too many have gone there. My heart asks questions. Reliving moments gives me strength. Reliving them also weakens me.

Being in the middle comes with time to ponder. To wonder. About next. There's this hallway. I hope a long one. A door waits. When I get near does it suddenly close. Will it swing wide open. Does everything stop. Or continue. Maybe that's when the story starts

All This By Hand

[e-RICHIE]

There's a moment in every assembly when the line appears. And you start to cross it. The other side is where hope is. And hope is everything when you make something for others. Because you make it for yourself first. Sometimes only. The rest is part of an equation that ties creativity to commerce. That ties desire to supply. I make for myself.

That line comes up fast. On the first day for me. It's when I'll get a sense of where the material stands in contrast to everything else I've touched. The line is thin enough to know what's past it. The line is thick enough to get stuck on it and wonder where things will go. Tolerances. Craftwork. Expectations.

When you make something for others, dreams are involved. Not theirs. Mine. These are all I care about. And why I come to the bench each day. So when the line comes up fast, I hope work doesn't go sideways. Because it can. It does. And when that happens I have to dig deeper. Because everything I need lives on the other side of the line.

All This By Hand

[e-RICHIE]

My Truth

The practice is the master. The maker is the servant.

I’m that guy. I get this. Repetition. Routine. Relentlessness. Cut from a different cloth. I’ve observed it. Disecected it. Defended it. Advocated for it. That ship sailed. The few cats who got it with me – some I knew only from afar. One I knew like a brother. All are gone.

In the mad rush to create energy around making a bicycle, as if it’s some noble pursuit. An answer to a higher calling. Bleeding for your craft. It’s become dumbed down. A side show to a larger carnival that routinely eats its own.

There are two thought bubbles that haunt my days. One is about experience. And the path walked to get there. And why can’t more folks look at the tailors at Kiton as role models. The other is about me. And why I even should care. I’ve eked out a career. Had an adult life at the bench. Everyone else can just go to Hell.

This is my truth.

All This By Hand

[e-RICHIE]

Main Line

He was Bob Scott and that's all I knew. His name was on an order form from one of my dealers. I made the bicycle. Maybe a year later I get a nice thank you note. He was Robert Montgomery Scott. And the stationery came from the office of the President at the Philadelphia Museum of Art. Now I knew a little more. But I never asked.

Mr. Scott and I became pen pals. I saved the letters. And articles about him. One in Town & Country shows him on a black Richard Sachs at Androssan, his estate in Villanova. Over the years he introduced me to his friend Walter Annenberg - a name I knew as a fellow Peddie School boy, though some 50 years separated our days in Hightstown.

All of this happened in the 1980s. And it was a small detour in a life I was living that was in sharp contrast to the ones men these men had. I was fortunate to have Mr. Scott as a client. But we came from different stations. In my work, I never ask who a person is. Or what he does. Or if he's connected. Sometimes I find out. But I never ask.

In the time that we were exchanging letters, Bob Scott and I never spoke on the telephone. We never met. But I knew the man from the time he gave me in correspondence. There was a courtesy and humanity in his paragraphs. He took the time to make a connection. We connected. I knew the man from his words and kindness.

In the very first letter Mr. Scott wrote, he waxes on about the pleasure his bicycle gives him. "If the truth be known, it has become a major distraction from the work I should be doing at the the Art Museum, and there are moments when I think it should be on exhibit here and not encumbered by my body going through the Philadelphia countryside."

Janny Scott is the daughter of Robert Montgomery Scott. She's an accomplished journalist in her own right. Last week she was interviewed on NPR. On Sunday, the New York Times reviewed her latest book about growing up Scott. It's called The Beneficiary: Fortune, Misfortune, and the Story of My Father. It's her story to tell. I'll stick with mine.

All This By Hand

[NYCfixie]

...In the time that we were exchanging letters, Bob Scott and I never spoke on the telephone. We never met. But I knew the man from the time he gave me in correspondence. There was a courtesy and humanity in his paragraphs. He took the time to make a connection. We connected. I knew the man from his words and kindness...

A glorious time before bits, bytes, and pixels.

[e-RICHIE]

07002

That’s my childhood home and where I lived until I went out into the world. The unit with the white garage door, and the trash can next to it. The Rothmans lived in the house with the red garage, and on the other side of us, the Powers. Every two houses, exactly the same as the next two. Some of my Bayonne peeps might see this and chime in. I go hot and cold on nostalgia. But the first 18+ years of my life, on West 27th Street, at that particular time in this country’s history – it was the perfect storm of security, challenges, and possibilities for this kid. I was blessed.

[e-RICHIE]

Maligned

As a bicycle maker, once a bicycle maker, I became obsessed with tolerances. After a decade of looking at the exterior trying to master it, it was clear(er) to me that the whole mattered more. I could decorate. I knew about position and morphology. Design parameters and limitations. But the making aspect was a black art that no one would could articulate. Points have to rest in a specific place for centerlines to zero out. It became a fetish. I chased for years. By the 1990s I realized that it was an impossible path to walk. Perhaps by acceptance. Maybe in defeat. My bicycles were less straight than those made by others. Once I let the metal tell me where it wanted to be, everything made sense. Mastery is overrated. And malignment will only make you work harder.

All This By Hand