Richard Sachs Cycles

[e-RICHIE]

I’ve always been obsessed with order and information. I think that’s why I’ve collected things through the years. And kept records. And I kept records of the records. When I started my business in 1975, what I knew most was that I was free to make my own frames, with no one to lean on. Writing things down was a way to create my own little jewel of a world and control every aspect of it.

I may have had a decent send up having worked with the Witcomb family in London and then at Witcomb USA in East Haddam. I could make frames and fill orders. Running a business, however, was uncharted territory.

I wasn’t going to compromise on anything, knowingly at least. That extended well past the workbench and into my office – which happened to be wherever I was sitting with pen and paper. I wrote everything down. In three places. When invoices were created, they were made in duplicate, and then the notes they contained were transcribed into spiral pads so that, should one pile go missing or up in flames, there were backups. I was the CEO of the Checks & Balances Society of Myself.

Pictured below are some of the transactions from my first few months of business. There’s a $20 charge to Mike Hogan for a Super Record headset. A $35 paint job for Ted Pená. Six sets of Dubois lugs at $3.50 per to God only knows who! And on the 16th of February, my first ever RS frame sale at $185 to Manuel Garza for his dad, Jaimé. That was special. The Garzas owned the Mexican factory that made Benotto bicycles.

[e-RICHIE]

When I started Richard Sachs Cycles I had a built in clientele from having already been part of the racing scene in New England. Many frames were going to folks I lined up against. Others went to people who ordered them from the network of shops I sold through. I don’t remember struggling much when I opened. As a new business owner, I was happy with the way my goods were received. The hurdles were more about cash flow, management, and planning.

As the seasons passed, I began to think about where I fit into the bigger picture. Making the frames was the easiest part of the equation. Presenting them to the public was a puzzle I’d be working on for a long time. Heck, I still work on it.

At the core, I’m in the personal service slash luxury goods market. Forget that these are “bicycles”. They’re objects made for people whose decision making comes from the heart more than from the head. While I maintain that the work has to please me first, and in some cases please me alone, it will live a life with those who queue up and pay me. My goal is to make the experience enjoyable and memorable for all.

Depending on the season, the day, and even my mood, I’ve approached the bench as a servant, a coach, a psychologist, a BFF, and also as a tailor, a gunsmith, a luthier, and a chef, a watch maker, as Bijan and as Jil Sander too. It’s a life of fantasy and every day changes things. Back in 1980, the fantasies came faster than I could process them. I’m pretty sure this fellow heard back from me. But I never heard back from him. He must have found a table in another café. Or maybe another opinion.

[e-RICHIE]

Lugs lengths aren’t measured in the traditional sense. But they vary enough for folks to love the ones they do. I’ve only loved one type, the short point lug. In the summer of ’75 (cue Bryan Adams…) as I was tooling up for my own dance, the only partner I was willing to hold close was made in France by Nervex. There seems to be some ambiguity about the actual name of the manufacturer. When I was a client, the wire transfers went to Établissement Aime DuBois. My frames were going to be presented with their Ref. 32 lugs or they’d never be presented. That’s how determined I was to start my brand, my way.

I’d managed to negotiate a few dozen sets from Lee Katz. His Turin Bicycle Co-op in Chicago had a division that supplied materials to the trade. By the time my bicycles were displayed at the International Cycle Show the following February, I was completely fluent in French, at least as far as lugs were concerned. Fortunately for me, a Monique Pegg visited my booth, asked about my work, and where I sourced parts. Ms. Pegg worked for M. Yvars in Paris. She explained that her firm represented Nervex and could supply the pieces I wanted, and without interruption.

Aligning with Monique Pegg was one of the first coups (that’s French for take that, bro’…) in my early years. Here I was, kinda’ sorta’ new, and with a pipeline to Europe. As the letter mentions, my initial purchase was for 250 sets of lugs. When that first batch arrived, I felt like King Shit. And to be honest, I felt similarly with each repeat order until 1982 at which time I finally took a mistress, the beautiful Samson cast parts designed by Tetsura Harada.

[e-RICHIE]

When I was a teenager and making weekly visits to Kopp’s Cycles, I fantasized about growing up to be just like Fred.

7.19.15 | RICHARD SACHS CYCLES








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[e-RICHIE]

Going to Italy in 1979 would open my eyes to another world (read: how shit really gets done) and also – possibly – be the end of my first phase as a framebuilder. I’d refer to it as The End of the Innocence but I no longer do anything Don Henley since the 2013 Eagles film came out. That dude trashed his past and his inner circle as far as I’m concerned.

I rolled along for most of the decade and made a metric shitload of frames. Business was good. But I’d taken my training and experience in London as far as I could. I had this nagging feeling that I lacked the tools (he points to head with forefinger) to do much more. I also watched the playing field get smaller by the season. Folks were moving back into their mom’s basement, or working part time, or veering into modern dance. At least two of those things actually happened.

Once abroad, I realized how my approach would have to change in order to continue once back on American soil. The moment that crystallized it was a shop tour at Bike Machinery. The firm made many of the fixtures and measuring devices for the FWDs (Framebuilders With Depth) in Europe. My self-esteem wouldn’t return until I had some of what they were having.

When The International Cycle Show closed in 1986, I broke down my booth and walked over to meet Signor Seghezzi in his. We’d agreed to a cash deal that allowed me take my new 700 pound love interest down the elevator to the garage of the New York Coliseum and home to Chester. My contraptions, V-blocks, bungee cords, and spring clamps gave way to the Hydra I use to this very day.

[e-RICHIE]

In 1985 I began using tubing made in Mississippi (the one in America). A man named Steve Bussman was barnstorming the east coast showing framebuilders material made by True Temper, the company he worked for. The story goes; they found a butting machine in the one of their plants, most likely a cast-off from the golf shaft division. Someone mentioned that bicycle tubes are butted. And the engineers were off to the races trying to eke more profits from the unused tool.

From day one, I thought the RC tube set was very good. It checked all the boxes for quality finish and linearity, and the Made in USA tangent was a positive. I became a full time user immediately. And with some persuasion on my part, I convinced the suits at the home office in Memphis that my racing team could be their perfect marketing tool. With no background in the industry or sport, True Temper needed help making inroads. We became their first brand ambassadors.

As time passed, the firm added to the menu. It bought its way into the upper echelon of the sport by way of its liaison with the 7-Eleven Team , and also spent heavily to become a corporate partner with the USAC. Then salesmen came and left, the company was sold several times (from Allegheny International to Emhart Corporation and then to Black & Decker) and the good vibe I had from that initial hookup with Bussman faded. By 1990 I was done with the doublespeak and corporate culture as moving target.

I went to the well to help make these American made pipes a household name. For three seasons, my team bled for True Temper and the results were indisputable. But nothing replaces the personal touch. By the end it was nowhere to be found.

[e-RICHIE]

.

I’ve received a lot of inquiries over the years. And I’d wager all but ten were answered.

7.22.15 | RICHARD SACHS CYCLES

[e-RICHIE]

We’re here to make the most of the chances we’re given. The smart ones realize early how blessed they are, and build on it. There are others who’ve had the luck, the open doors, and options, yet are slower to realize how enabled they’ve been. The roads we travel are paved by fate, friends, family, mentors, and teachers. We’re the beneficiaries of those whose lives touch us as we grow. I’ve had luck at every turn.

The Dyslins, Nick and Lisa, are lifelong friends. They placed me on this path before we even met. In a 1972 letter from Ernie Witcomb telling me that I could come to London and work at his family shop, he mentions asking a Nick Dyslin about me and I was given a good reference. Odd, that. Though grateful for the opportunity, I wouldn’t meet anyone with that name for another 12 months.

After my time abroad, and while lingering in New Jersey waiting for whatever was next, I took the train to Connecticut for a job interview at Witcomb USA. Nick (who I’d finally meet) hired me. He and Lisa took me into their house and into their lives, and I stayed – and stayed for a very long time. It wouldn’t be untrue to say we’re from different generations, yet I felt both a peer as well as someone who was being guided by two genuinely loving people who’d take an interest in my life. The best explanation is that I simply can’t explain it. They were friends and they were family, and when I needed direction, they mentored and taught me too.

This picture, taken at the local track, is from 1974. Nick is simultaneously supporting me while encouraging me forward. It tells the whole story, end to end. The whole story.

[Gattonero]

Thank you for sharing all this, there's a lot to learn here

[e-RICHIE]

The Witcomb USA period is a little known part of my history. It was a division of Sports East, Inc. and owned by Ed Allen. The firm handled activity brands including Trak Skis, Allen-A Apparel, and Gerry Outdoor Equipment. I don’t know how the seed was planted, but Sports East liaised with the Witcomb family in London to sell their products in North America. In 1972 there was a certain intangible attached to handmade frames and esoteric components. The Brits would supply custom frames ordered by Ed’s staff on behalf of shop owners who represented retail clients across America.

There wasn’t any real profit or volume in made-to-order frames. For the deal to make sense, a line of Witcomb designed (sic) bicycles manufactured in Wales was created as the centerpiece. These were price point units that were made en masse (that’s French for a fucking boatload at a time), and an item that the company could build upon.

The London frames never arrived on time, or weren’t to spec. The containers of Welsh made units always sucked and most were discounted just to get rid of them. Ultimately Ed gave up – but not without a fight.

Peter (Weigle, who also was there) and I were directed to start making frames and filling orders. That’s a story in itself and one I’ll tell someday. But after two years, I also gave up. I began planning my departure. In the course of setting up accounts and readying for the just the right time to leave, my cover was blown – by a man with whom I shared initials no less. WTF huh? I would have preferred to broach the subject of quitting myself, but somehow Ed already knew.

[trentschler]

Re today's atmobis post: It's not just that astounding mustache, it's the clogs, man!

[e-RICHIE]

"My story in a way is about throwing something really light up into the air and just letting the wind blow it and before you know it, 35 years pass and this really light thing has been blown all the way around and back again many, many, many times and because it’s so light it hasn’t really landed."

A couple of Presidents have come and gone since I uttered those words in Desmond Horsfield’s 2007 film, Imperfection is Perfection. The landscape hasn’t really changed much, except that we’re getting ready to find another leader soon. Will it be a man, or a woman, or a comb over? It’s too soon to tell. Forza Bernie Sanders atmo.

I continue to find ephemera long ago left in drawers, on closet shelves, and in boxes stored in the loft. There are also some gems right under my nose. The one constant in my trove is the complete randomness with which all the parts comprise a whole. I don’t know why I saved so much, but each time I touch something that’s been put away for a while, it becomes that moment again. It’s a rich feeling, and it centers me.

The memories and mementos I’ve stumbled across have given me time to reflect on the many experiences and different periods of my life. It’s been an exercise choosing one, waiting until late evening, looking at it through a present day lens, and writing about it. Tonight, finally, the words don’t come. They just don’t come. The facial hair period; what the fuck was I thinking, huh?

[Gattonero]

For a fraction I though it was Tom Ritchey, then I realized it's a different smile. And thicker moustache!
What about the clogs, by the way?

p.s.
that is a different RS logo on the bike, what year does it date to?

[e-RICHIE]

For a fraction I though it was Tom Ritchey, then I realized it's a different smile. And thicker moustache!
What about the clogs, by the way?

p.s.
that is a different RS logo on the bike, what year does it date to?

Those are Danish clogs made by Braggard, the chef supply company that had offices in NYC. I only wore Braggards atmo. The pic is from 1978. It's my personal bicycle with Super Record parts on it. Thanks.

[Tim Porter]

Jeez, talk about some gems right under your nose. . . .

[e-RICHIE]

Jeez, talk about some gems right under your nose. . . .

Alas someone who gets me atmo. Thanks!

[ron l edmiston]

-- a fellow that worked for me on the formula one circuit.., jon bisignano, wore braggard danish clogs..
quite a good driver himself and had a brother, jim bisignano, a very sought after motorsports artist..
their father owned a great italinan restaurant.., "babe's.."

when i brought jon in to corporate for briefing, all-hell was raised up my ass for his non-corporate / non-clone dress attire..

but, jon nailed all the corporate secy's and admin asst's..
he got more tail with those clogs than Sinatra..

my feet would never fit in..,

ronnie

[e-RICHIE]

I had a very good relationship with the Witcomb family. Five weeks after arriving in London and living at a hostel in, of all places, High Street Kensington, Barry invited me to stay with him and Janet in Dartford. For the rest of my time in England, I’d make the morning cycle to Tanner’s Hill in Deptford where the shop was. It was right next door to W.H. Wellbeloved Butchers. The Wellbeloveds started their business in 1829 and it’s still there. Witcomb Lightweight Cycles isn’t.

When this first adventure ended, I returned to Bayonne, thought about starting at Goddard College (finally), but found a path to another adventure working at Witcomb USA, the company created to import and market Witcomb branded bicycles and products in North America. The people there worked hard to imprint the Witcomb name into the psyche of the American bicycle consumer. Ultimately, fate as well as some bad subcontracting abroad saw the wheels grind to a halt. I don’t remember the original plan working well much past the concept stage. A year in, it wasn’t working at all.

The principals, who began with hope, positive attitudes, and great ideas, started to take sides against one another. It wasn’t a cool situation for an innocent teenager to be in. I lacked the maturity to know who to align with, the folks I worked for, or the lovely family in England that looked after me a year earlier.

During the implosion, and with the agenda at Witcomb USA having become a moving target, I wrote to the Witcombs about coming back to Deptford. I wanted to have fun again. The opportunity was there. I soon realized that I could never recreate what I once had, and was resigned to rolling with whatever came next in Connecticut.

[e-RICHIE]

I think of myself as a home schooled framebuilder. Despite the time spent at Witcomb Cycles in London, I wasn’t there to ready myself for a trade. And when I worked at Witcomb USA, the business model had nothing to do with making frames in East Haddam. Well, eventually it had something to do with it. Ed Allen, the owner, was at wit’s end and unhitched himself from the British family whose name he took for his eponymous (I love that word – eponymous) North American agency.

Once Ed cut the ties, he mandated that Peter and I turn the basement into a shop. Neither of us had held a torch or done much metal work since we left Deptford. We did our best to channel the experiences and processes we remembered from more than a year before. And Ed threw all sorts of money at the project to help us figure it out and start producing.

We had inspiration and technical help from several toolmakers, boat builders, and craftspeople in town. Peter and I also did a very good job spending that blank check Ed was giving us. We soon figured it out. The Witcomb USA frame was born. Life was good. Until it wasn’t. Almost two years and several hundred frames later, it became a chore for me. The love for the unknown and unplanned went missing. It became a routine. I had to leave.

When I started my business, I was enthusiastic but unprepared. Making a frame was easy. Making frames wasn’t. I persevered, and never knew I could fail – maybe that’s why I didn’t. I had a built in following from the local racing community. More importantly, I had the support of a network of dealers I sold through. These were my guardian angels.

[e-RICHIE]

I learned some about business in the 1980s, running mine that is. I had already stood around for nearly a decade, watching the landscape change, seeing my heroes get old, or embrace the MTB thing, or simply vaporize in place. While it was happening, I sensed a decline in interest in the type of work I was finally comfortable making. I was in that no man’s land of having no Plan B, having not planned at all.

By 1982 that I added a second model to my menu, and called it the – caution, some supreme Varsity Team level nomenclature coming – the Richard Sachs Standard Frame and Fork. In essence, it was a dumbed down, all-holds-barred, no frills, generic version of my Signature Frame. Made by me, but using some second rate braze-ons, Guinticiclo frame parts, and a minimal of handwork, this unit was everything my best work was as long as you had your eyes closed.

The Standard was an option for anyone interested in my work, but who might have had, er – issues with price. I’m too far past it all to remember what the Signature sold for, but at $450 the Richard Sachs Standard Frame and Fork was a steal. And as my little world started its first ever spiral downturn through the pipes and into the Connecticut River, the only answer I could come up with was to put the fucker on sale for $430. I mean, the things ya’ do, huh.

For the RS cognoscenti (that’s Latin for stalkers) out there, the Standard was reissued in the late 1980s and called the Strada Immaculata, still the badass-est bicycle name ever according to a poll conducted by www.coolbicyclenames.com .