Richard Sachs Cycles

[e-RICHIE]

Paralleling the timeline of the very magazine it debuted in (Bicycle Guide Volume 1 Number 1), the "Foo Foo Frame Of The Month” went from a nascent idea to an established concept that helped millions of framebuilders launch their careers. After the first installment, the feature was renamed “Hot Tubes“.

When I take a walk through the halls of my own ephemera and think about the present, I just have ask: Where did the real journalism in this industry go atmo?

[e-RICHIE]

This is a story written in 1992 for the Bridgestone Catalog, the famous and iconic annual gift given back to cycling enthusiasts by Grant Peterson. I had the good fortune to be a pal and admirer of GP, and believed that the kinds of bicycles he wanted to spec for the masses were similar to what I’d make if (IF) I was Richard Sachs Cycles International Worldwide Inc & Sons Ltd. But I wasn’t.

The synergy we had led to my being asked to contribute several articles based on my experiences in the hand-made sector. I focused on lugs and fork crowns in different years and issues. The fork crown text was presented several different ways, and a short version made it into an early 1990s catalog.

And then, as the decade continued, there was this “Write like Maynard” contest in VeloNews. First prize was a Merlin Newsboy. So in 1995 I revisited the words, channeled my inner Hershon, and submitted these pages. No one except Maynard can write like Maynard, but someone (else) won the bicycle.

Other iterations of the story live on my site. The salient message remains that I watched my trade change before my very eyes and no longer thought of it as a place I wanted to be. The fork crown was a metaphor. That was then.

[e-RICHIE]

I started my business in the summer of 1975 from seeds planted the previous autumn. It took a while for the details to fall into place. I wasn’t content with the materials commonly available from mainstream suppliers then. In that era, we all bought and used the material local distributors served up. That was a pathetic state of affairs according to my opinion.

I was waiting on the I.C. fork crowns that Cecil Behringer designed, and would be sold by Arnold Industries. It took a little longer for these to come to market, but it was worth it. The initial order for 60 pieces was about a half year’s supply for me. I hit the bench time hard in those days, and reaching ten units a month just wasn’t that big a deal. My, how have things changed.

In its day, the Behringer parts had no equal. It was the first component cast to accept not only the blade cross section, but also had a precision channel into which the reinforcing piece could be brazed simultaneously with the complete assembly. This enabled it to be integral to the joint rather than simply a decoration added onto the surface. It all seems so sensible now. But in 1975, this was an innovation to beat the band. The best part included that I had an exclusive. I bought enough, and committed to enough, so that I could launch a brand with parts no one else had. I love shit like that.

[e-RICHIE]

Doors open and close for a reason. We just don’t know what it is. I’ve been rerouted more times than I have opinions atmo.

Seniors at Peddie School could apply to four colleges – period. I selected Bard, Bennington, Antioch, and Marlboro. Yeah. I wanted to have a good time, use hallucinogens, and have many relationships. But it wouldn’t happen on these campuses. Four closed doors.

With no backup plan, I applied and got into Goddard and Franconia, and chose the Vermont school. My path now set, and I would be headed north in September. Then this note arrived. It’s not the acceptance letter – I have that one too. It’s the, “Sorry, we overbooked etc etc…” version informing me that my entrance was delayed until April. Doors close and open for a reason.

With a summer and then some to kill, I worked in Manhattan stocking shelves for a cosmetics company. I saw an ad in the Village Voice for a bike mechanic in Burlington (the one in Vermont). So, I quit one job and bought a one-way ticket on a Greyhound bus to get another. But that door was closed.

Stuck in Burlington, I worked at the Blodgett Pizza Oven factory by day and had a room at The Wilson Hotel by night. My way was lost for not getting that shop position. To right my self-esteem, I wrote to framebuilders in England and offered myself for free in return for the experience of seeing how bicycles were made. Nearly thirty letters sent. Three replies. Two said no. One said yes. To Witcomb Lightweight Cycles in London I flew.

No plan. No agenda. No expectations. And no college education. Doors swing both ways. I didn’t want to be a bicycle maker but years later, I became one.

[Bob Ross]

I selected Bard, Bennington, Antioch, and Marlboro. Yeah. I wanted to have a good time, use hallucinogens, and have many relationships.

fwiw, one of my dearest friends went to Bard in the 1970s...and from his descriptions of his college years, yeah, you had that place pegged. :)

[e-RICHIE]

My team thing, making bicycles for the group, nurturing a few riders at a time, and trying to make every moment last forever, goes back a long time. By its second decade, it ran on automatic. There was no plan, not that one ever existed. The youngsters from the early 1980s grew up. Another combination of folks comprised the Cat 1-2 teams we ended the decade with. By 1990, our presence on the circuit was predominately in the 35+ events.

I continued with the CYBC program, and also began supplying frames to a local junior development team. I was “giving back to the sport” on several fronts, but it lacked cohesion. What I needed was to find the focus switch and flick it.

One person who helped me turn the corner was Adam Myerson. We chatted at the Tour of Somerville in May, and Adam proposed a cyclocross program for the fall. I agreed. The alliance that began in 1996 lasted four seasons. It was this connection that renewed my interest in and commitment to race support. By 2001, I left road altogether. It would be ‘cross only from that point.

Myerson was the consummate racer who, in fulfilling his role as a brand ambassador, had no equal. The pairing helped me set the table for what most now know as the Richard Sachs Cyclocross Team. All of this grew from a seed planted in Somerville, New Jersey.

I was never a stranger to cyclocross, having attended many events while living in London in 1972. I was at Crystal Palace when Erik De Vlaeminck won his 6th World Championship. I got ‘cross. But in the states, it was still a sidebar in 1996. Adam helped change that.

[rwsaunders]

ER...don't feel too poorly about the letter. In this day and age, you are now notified via text of your college acceptance decisions. I saved this message from my son's phone..."Congrats! You've been accepted to J--- C------ University. Check your email for more information." I'm not kidding...talk about an absence of elegance.

[e-RICHIE]

ER...don't feel too poorly about the letter. In this day and age, you are now notified via text of your college acceptance decisions. I saved this message from my son's phone..."Congrats! You've been accepted to J--- C------ University. Check your email for more information." I'm not kidding...talk about an absence of elegance.

Nice. I don't text, or even know how to. Nor do I own a mobile device. But I can wait by the phone like there's no tomorrow atmo.

[e-RICHIE]

The traditional path for a framebuilder creating a knowledge base includes the sport, either as a participant or as a supplier to those who pin the numbers on. You want to walk on water? Nothing lets you know where the rocks are faster than seeing what works best when a finish line is part of the equation. If a framebuilder doesn’t have a background that includes the peloton, caveat emptor. That’s French for shop elsewhere. However, if the guy can spell peloton, I’ll cut him some slack.

My own racing career was meh for many, many years after my first ABLA license arrived. It wasn’t until my mid-thirties that I was able to balance training, rest, tactical sense, and meter out efforts so that I could put my personal imprint on a race. And it felt good.

On the other hand, I had the good fortune to have quite a few clients who were regularly at the front. By the end of the 1970s, I could count at least thirty members from the National Teams of USA and Canada among those who had ordered a bicycle from me. The input of each one of them would lay the foundation for my opinions to come.

The very first rider of any renown to place an order was Dave Chauner​. A two time Olympian, and one of the best cyclists in North America at the time, Dave’s letter arrived in early 1974. To paraphrase my feelings at the time, “Dave Chauner just asked me to make him a bicycle. Holy fucking shit“. I plotzed. And it felt good.

[e-RICHIE]

Secret societies. Fraternal orders. Self-selected cadres. Brotherhoods. Sisterhoods. These organizations need not be necessarily dark, illicit, radically political, or even rigid. But for them to survive and endure, members have to work as a unit and with complete selflessness. These groups come together to raise bars and nurture the next in line. It’s a deliberate and slow process, that of passing on knowledge bases and accumulated experience. They’re not for those who need instant gratification or outside recognition. The goal is to do good work, not to be doing said good work only when cameras are rolling, or when a scribe wants to report on your humble origins or secret handshakes.

We’re here because someone once took the time. Mentored us. Challenged and dared us. If we made it from the dark into the light at all, it’s because others shared. And shared without a crowd watching, a desire for public adoration, or waiting for people to hit the Like button. Our trade continues only because sharing is part of its long tradition, and not some new concept that was invented after Y2K.

[e-RICHIE]

When building bicycles becomes an exercise rather than a work of art, I probably will lose interest.

The year was 1975. And I was only 21. And, I did say “probably.” That leaves a
little room for a change of mind. Next year I’ll be 21 for the third time. I better
keep exercising atmo.

[e-RICHIE]

In 1979, I was the mechanic for the Shimano International Team men’s squad for the Red Zinger Bicycle Classic. Twice after that, I helped the women’s team when the event was renamed the Coors International Bicycle Classic. These were good times and memories still linger. The experiences gave me insights into group dynamics, pecking orders, and of course, keep equipment prepared for the daily grind. It’s all very different than just working on a bicycle for an eager client.

The original connection came through my pal, Jack Nash (RIP). We met in 1972 when he was working at Shaw’s Hike and Bike in Stowe and I was briefly at The Ski Rack in Burlington. Years later, he and Warren opened Onion River Sports, a Montpelier store that sold my frames. Jack and I raced with and against each for many years. It was he who tapped me for the Colorado trip. It wouldn’t be the first, or last, time he gifted me a golden opportunity.

Early on in my relationship with the Japanese firm, head engineer Keizo Shimano ordered one of my bicycles. It was odd because I was asked to supply components that, in my estimation, were the best available for touring use. It was a hodgepodge of Huret Duopar derailleurs, TA triple cranks, Campagnolo 1037A pedals, Mafac cantilevers, an Eclipse rack and bag system, Phil hubs laced to who-knows-what wheel products, an Ideale saddle, etcetera. A no-holds-barred ordeal. But why? Actually, I never asked.

A year later I found out that the bicycle was used for reasons other than to provide riding enjoyment for Mr. Shimano. His company wanted to make inroads into the burgeoning touring market here. The bicycle was the template for ideas and inspiration for the Deore group, introduced soon after.

[e-RICHIE]

I’d be hard pressed to explain to anyone, myself included, why I read Town & Country each month. But I’ve taken the magazine for decades. The best I can do – if I reach – is that I’m shallow, and also like to see what people are wearing, not that I’d mine any fashion ideas. I wouldn’t. I don’t wear clothes as much as I put on a uniform each day. Enough said.

When an article about Robert Montgomery Scott appeared in 1990, with my black bicycle front and center in a sidebar along with a reference to Mr. Annenberg in the larger story, I wrote to Mr. Scott at the museum and let him know my connection to his friend. Until that time, I never assumed they were colleagues. As a Peddie School graduate, it was impossible not to know the name, Walter Annenburg.

My note to Philadelphia in turn begot one back to me from St. Davids. I told that story here maybe a week ago. I was cc-ed on the letter shown below. It’s an example, a mighty fine one by the way, of why I don’t begrudge the serendipitous route I took from Bayonne to Hightstown to Burlington to London and then to a bench in Chester where, many years later, I became a bicycle maker.

[e-RICHIE]

I came up in a time when lugs were ubiquitous. No matter where you looked, or what you focused on, all bicycle frames were made by hand and had lugs – the great ones as well as the price point models. In a way, it informed those new to the trade because examples and inspiration were ever present. Unlike conversations now that include lugs being a reflection of “the maker’s soul”, lugs were once just components used in a joining process. Their inclusion didn’t imply anything. Some shapes were ornate, some completely industrial. Some brazers had a way with the torch, and others were all thumbs. What I remember is that no one, as in NO ONE, ever went all Holier-Than-Thou about his work simply because lugs were part of the assembly.

There’s a renaissance with these parts in the Y2K era. Folks wax religiously about handmade frames and reference the details seen on lugs. The windows. The symmetry. The asymmetry. The inspiration for them. The extra 14 ounces of brass mounds added to the crutch areas and the six hours it took to file them back into French-y radii. Mon dieu. That’s French for give me a fucking break atmo.

I’ve published a lot on the subject going back decades. I rarely write this: Lugs are in the baggage I carry for having started when I did. My frames aren’t better because they have lugs, they’re better because I’ve finally mastered their use.

[e-RICHIE]

Framebuilding seems a bit watered down these days. The mediocre work has become ubiquitous.

The industry pyramid I came up in is inverted. The niche was once the high peak from which all innovation and style emanated. Product managers at such places as Illustrious Bicycle Company Inc. would mine ideas and find ways to dumb them down so that “theirs” might have some of the élan that “ours” did, but at price points that consumers would love. This trade once led. Now it leads in adornment only, if that.

Very few people are training for the task. Yet so many are heralded after their seventh frame. Or they self-herald by blogging about the adventure. There’s an underlying tone from folks in their seedling stage suggesting they’re ready to sell what they make. And folks who’ve actually trained for their careers are saying otherwise. Does anyone even practice anymore? It’s all so ass-fucking-backwards.

I have strong opinions about standards related to my profession. I’m asking those who are new, who are on the left hand side of the developmental timeline, who may be self-taught, or perhaps took a class and leaped straight into taking orders – please exercise some due diligence and do more work, do better work, get a job in production for a spell so you can hone a skill or three, or simply take a breath before you hang out a shingle and cash checks.

Or don’t.

[e-RICHIE]

I started my business in the summer of ’75. No, this isn’t a Bryan Adams lyric I’m channeling. From the get-go I was hustling through nearly four frames a week. I did one a day, and then four forks on Friday. Mind you, back then I had more drive, knew less, and also was in the shop on weekends too. When time permitted, I took in repairs such as those shown in the invoice below.

You can tell from the graphic that in January 1976 my stationery had finally arrived and the RS corporate identity program was in full swing. I wanted everything I touched to reek of the maker’s hand. To be an extension of my heart and creative side. Anything that came from me to a client, or even to an inquirer, should be something they'd want to save and treasure forever. I'm sure Gene Dixon still has the original of the scan below. I’d be disappointed to know otherwise. The details are in the details.

If one looks closely, it’s clear from the rates listed that these were different times. I mean, replacing the front end and then some of a Colnago Super and charging $50 labor? And painting frames for – YIKES – close to $35? I must have made money; I just know how I did it. The words "Top Ramen" never appeared on any of my shopping lists. Different times, huh.

And for the grammar geeks out there, yes I know. I should have written, “Here are the figures on the 2 repairs", rather than, “Here’s the figures on the 2 repairs”. I've been redeeming myself for that one gaffe ever since.

[e-RICHIE]

I didn’t go to England to learn a trade, or because I wanted to be a framebuilder. And there was no way to prepare for the ordeal. I had no idea what to expect. I knew a bit about bicycles, but wasn’t a geek about them. Same with the sport; I followed some headliners but cared precious little about the second tier. What would I walk into when the taxi left me off at Witcomb Lightweight Cycles, me all anxious and tired from my first international flight?

I’d planned to stay seven months or until my money ran out. It lasted almost a year. I wanted to fit in, not be a pestering American. I didn’t know anything about the trade and had nothing in common the folks I’d be sharing personal space with for a very long time. We get the adventure we deserve, or some such nonsense.

The man in one picture is Jim Collier. He stood two benches from me while I was abroad. Jim was a journeyman framebuilder who spent his life making bicycles that had other people’s names on them. He’d worked at Claud Butler’s. He built frames for A. S. Gillott’s. He taught Ron Cooper his trade. I had the good fortune to hear his file strokes, watch his joints being brazed, and listen to his stories until the day I flew home.

In the other picture is me, the eighteen year old boy. I did my ever loving best to leave my bourgeois baggage at JFK, assimilate into my new routine, and make every effort to absorb the experience. It sinks in deeper with each passing day.

[e-RICHIE]

When I returned from 20 days in Italy in late 1979, I made every effort to use the experience and mirror what I saw. Nothing prepared me for the contrast between what I imagined the trade to be, and what I encountered. It was the last time in my rose-colored-glasses period as a FNG trying to get to the next rung – the last time I’d feel romantic about my trade. I returned a pragmatist and have remained one. Any emotion I was attaching to the, er – art of framebuilding, vaporized. I was impressed by the tools I saw used, the way men approached the many small steps that make up the whole of the assembly procedure, and the how each brand presented itself. And that included marketing collateral.

Here in the states, costs for 4 color printing were very high. But with my new found resolve, producing a new brochure became a priority. I hired a design firm (after vetting a bunch…), got some bad-ass studio photography, and wrote some convincing yet austere text about who I was, what I did, and what you’d get for ponying up and placing an order.

The result was a multi-page fold out piece of which I was supremely proud. But the budget was such that I decided these wouldn’t be distributed for free. I only mailed them out if folks sent the two dollars mentioned in the ads I placed in various magazines. Got myself a whole lotta’ envelopes with two dollars in them for a good long while.

I saved all the inquiries. Many were charming, engaging, and kinda’ sorta’ personal. Here’s one from 1980. I never closed this sale. Jeez I hope the cat made it out alive.

[e-RICHIE]

There are discussions all day and every day about what it takes to build a frame, how to know when it’s right, and the maker ready for the market. These often evolve into Varsity Team level debates with regard to how much training one should have before cashing a check. When does the transition from being able to build a frame to becoming a framebuilder happen?

I was a terribly slow learner. Even though I had a couple plus hundred frames under my belt before my name was on one, I ambled along for years. By 1976, I was making out 110 units a season on average for the longest time. Despite the prodigious numbers, I never felt like it was clicking from end to end. I had the knowledge. My reflexes were good. I didn’t lack for tools. But there was always the intangible.

My internals couldn’t live with the deception. By 1990, I came out. Others reference how wonderful their work is, yet when I looked at mine all I’d see was what was missing. I speak from experience when I say the material tells you what it wants to be. Your job is to tame it. Over time, that became the focus. My obsession. So when the reporter asks about the pleasure derived from doing the same thing “over and over” I’m left wondering why I can’t make the same frame twice in a row.

How long would I have to stand at the bench before I’d feel confident, so arrogantly confident, that the miscues, whether they even mattered at all, no longer haunted me? A very long time.

[Burnette]

Richard,
I have made your posts in the Smoked Out section a regular stop as of late. It’s been a pretty good read lately and I have been enjoying the look back and how it pertains to the present.
I get more of where you are coming from now by seeing where you have been.
I blew up the article above 200% so I could read it and found a truism for me. I’m short of stature and recently went to a bike shop that I don’t go by too often just to window shop. It has a brand I like, snazzy bikes they are. Climbers, aero, they have all the cool stuff covered. But when it comes to sizing it gets kinda wonky on my end of the size spectrum and then there was something about the head tube height. Many compromises to get that suit to fit me.
I rode with three very strong riders last year in Yadkinville, NC. They were good on the flats and awesome on the climbs. What was odd was that before we headed out on the ride, we looked at each other’s bike and I noticed that all three of them had stems pointing up pretty high and one had a seat tube with not much showing. All said they either bought from the floor or ordered from a bike shop and that they were measured before the sale. I guess you can still dance in an ill fitting suit, but I wonder if it wasn’t ideal? Now, it’s not so uncommon that some people have body issues and need whatever they need to get on the bike.
And to be fair, I’m sure some customers ask for a performance geometry framed bikes when their body may require a more up right enduro bike. The bike shop then changes bars, stems and such to get them fitted right.
But the third leg of that equation is it seems possible that some shops will put you on that bike they have to sell no matter how far forward, backward, up or down they position you to get you on it. Even I, on my own bike, I have changed stems and seat placement to get “fitted”, but I know for sure that I have had to do much with the add ons to get over the pedals right. And it’s not quite right yet.
The thing that keeps me thinking about a bike made to compliment my size is that whatever is going on in my head (wants), what I will receive is a bike that places a guy my size above and between the wheels proper (needs). The fact that the bike will look good, like it was made to fit me, well, who doesn’t like a nice tailored suit?
Keep the posts coming. It’s an interesting perspective.
Wayne Burnette