Richard Sachs Cycles

[robin3mj]

Oh Yes He Is

I have always been a clothes horse. As the Kinks would sing, a dedicated follower of fashion. From early on as a young boy, recalling those weekly trips to Schlesinger’s on Bergenline Avenue at 57th Street, I’ve been intense about what I wear. Maybe not intense, perhaps preoccupied, or focused, or more aware than a man of my gender should be. I have a uniform. And the hash-marks that define “uniform” are just wide enough to allow me some variations on a theme. The theme. My theme.

Long ago I fixated on the silk striped tie. But – now pay attention – not just any silk striped tie. It had to be an example that wasn’t the ubiquitous Old School slash club or organization type that many would associate with this style. With rare exception, I chose versions made in Italy and whose stripes descend from the heart rather that the more typical way – the way one might see at Brooks Brothers or its ilk. (Some interesting colors, a decent pattern to be found if you look long enough, but all of it going in the wrong direction.)

Here are some of my ties, many of which are from the late 1970s and still in heavy rotation. Among them are Borsalinos, Zegnas, a Mario Ceste, a Schiavi, one Marinella, and even a tie from J. Press, a maker who rarely shows stripes oriented this way.

I believe, I have always believed, that paying attention to apparel lines has helped me as a bicycle maker. Design. Color. Trends. Attention to detail. And of course, elegance. These know no boundaries. Watching how one segment works informs another, as long as you keep the shutter open and the lens clear.

Next up – footwear.

Reps make the framebuilder, and Repps make the man.

[e-RICHIE]

Confessions Of A Shooter

I could look at my work all day.

Often, I do.

Ever since I began shooting with pal Brad Hogan’s (RIP) Sony Mavica back in maybe 2001 when he loaned it to me so I could be doing more important shit like taking pictures of my vintage stash so I could list it on eBay – and this, in the Dial-Up era – ever since I’ve been getting closer and closer to the material.

When I think of all the cameras I’ve owned since, and the tens of thousands of images I’ve studied, only to delete nearly all of them except those that are stored on Flickr, I’m reminded of Close Encounters of the Third Kind and the fixation on mashed potato sculptures some characters had. That’s me. Seeing different things in different versions of the same frame components angled ever so slightly over to one side or another compared to the previous 200 I just shot and looked at.

[e-RICHIE]

Frame Wait

I decided in the late 1970s that I wanted (coveted, drooled over, admired, had to have one, had to be like him, must - stop me, please...) a Nagasawa after seeing these used a component holders at Suntour booths at all the trade shows I had been at. In 2003 I was given the opportunity to order a special version/edition that's made once a year. It arrived in late 2004 or maybe early 2005. I didn't hang a part on it until maybe 2009. Today the 17th of January, I cracked open a box of NOS Campagnolo 1037a pedals, some chromed Campagnolo toe clips, a pair of Binda Extra straps, and threaded these onto the cranks. The bicycle still needs a chain and freewheel before it's assembled completely. Will I ever even ride it? The internet may or may not exist when that question is answered.

I'm reminded of that clip I saved from an article in The New Yorker, these words printed on paper in the middle 1990s, if that:

"Then the company fell silent and watched him staring intently at the painting, sensing what was going through his mind, that at his age every painting could be his last, and that he in fact during lunch had mentioned a Japanese wise man, Makino, who at the age of 96 was writing a book on vegetables, which he deliberately left unfinished, as a way of staying alive."

[e-RICHIE]

It’s Still Real

This is my comment, my counterpoint, to the puff piece circulating about steel’s return to pro racing. Before I start and then end this quickly, let me state that I’m not nostalgic, nor am I part of the energy flow that’s trying to reverse engineer technological trends, manufacturing advances, or markets – especially markets. The material, steel, had its time, and it lasted long. But that ship started sailing in the 1980s and by Y2K it had sunk. Yeah. There are pockets of makers who stayed. Some, but few really, came later. But the legions of trained men on whose shoulders the steel and handmade “thing” was carried for generations – they are dead. Their sons didn’t want to fill the empty shoes. Their brands, if they even continued, rolled into the present in order to profit. In one tsunami of a zeitgeist change, different (and better, and more efficient, and cheaper…) ways of doing the same thing replaced what was. Bicycle frames were once made. Now, like almost everything else, they’re manufactured. The future happened.

Outliers exist. Mavericks and rebels and naysayers exist. What doesn’t exist is the workforce and mindset needed to make this week’s news story come true. The corner we stand on is small, and really needs no defending.

Steel never died. Fine bicycle making never died. People will still go to the bench daily and make things to the best of their abilities. And the men and women who pin on numbers for a living will be across the street where they’ve existed for many, many years now. And so will the zealots whose purchases are tied to last Sunday’s race results.

[e-RICHIE]

Last Wave

In 2004 I added a page to my site called NEXT WAVE. It was a list of frame makers whose work made my radar. I wasn’t beating the bushes for names. The Internet, the one I was involved in, delivered candidates to me. These were the times of Listservs, forums, and backrooms where like-minded folk chatted about common interests. In my case, it was the niche.

The idea, my inner agenda, was to use my page to present 10-14 entities in whose work I believed. Most were upstarts. Some had been mildly established. I kept the playing field even by adding people whose businesses, with few exceptions, were a decade old or less. I’m not easily impressed, so to make the list, one’s presence had to speak to me intensely.

New links were ultimately replaced by even newer ones, and the page became a destination. I never told people they were included. They found out by click-throughs or other similar web-y methods. Most were grateful because the page became a resource for those looking for something special. Inclusion was helpful to many, of that I’m sure.

The concept has roots in this article about Peggy Guggenheim, art patron. Without making a comparison, I wanted to support, play advocate, mentor, and promote those who might be the future of bicycle making. What she did for many artists, I wanted to do for those in my wake.

Some thirteen years and at least sixty brands later, I’ve decided to move on. The page will vaporize soon. In the meantime, support your favorite frame maker.

[e-RICHIE]

Getting Wood

We all have game-changers. Those paths that appear from nowhere and say (as if paths could speak…), “Leave the path you’re on and follow me from this point forward.” I’ve been visited more than a few times. Lucky for me, I never asked why, I just followed.

By 1980 I was almost a decade into my newfound trade (recall, I didn’t want to be a bicycle maker, I simply became one – eventually) and losing interest on a monthly basis. But I was too invested at this point, and also too far removed from academia to believe that maybe – just maybe – I could cash out and go back to a campus. The industry was changing fast and, despite having accumulated some good years and a decent following, I didn’t fit.

It was about this time that I was simultaneously shutting down the fantasy that I could endure bicycles for the “rest of my life” while also widening the net I was catching inspiration points in. Bicycles no longer got me wet and sticky and, if I was gonna eek out more from my work, I had to be free to leave when new paths appeared.

In 1982 I bought a copy of George Nakashima’s The Soul of a Tree and devoured it. How he described the stance that a woodworker takes, the respect he has for his tools, his interest in the craft’s lineage and intense study one must commit to in order to become better, and more well versed on all levels – all of this spoke volumes to me. In my short time as a maker of things, I’d never experienced this dedication from anyone I met in the niche.

That was 35 years ago. I. Never. Looked. Back.

[e-RICHIE]

On And Off Road

It can seem, at times at least, like an endless cycle of getting close, then getting there, and then ultimately feeling lost on a road you don’t recognize. By 1991, when this article came out, I was a year shy of coming to the bench for two decades. And when yet another journalist wanted to talk about life as a maker, he’s already scrutinized my background and knew about the path I walked. Try doing that without Google.

A typical interview: two of us sitting in my studio while I scan for body English, trying to decide if this guy really thinks I’m interesting, or if it was just another assignment created to fill newsprint. The better writers had their pads full of research material (not a Google in sight), asked good questions that allowed a broad spectrum of replies, and didn’t, as in never EVER, treat my work as some sort of high priced toy for the cognoscenti and the rich. Those who were aware that I was making tools for the event, beautiful ones at that, gave the best article.

After a while, one realizes that the same questions are asked over and over again. Except for the rare times they aren’t. I live for the rare times.

140 frames a year in the 1970s? And 80-90 when this story ran?!

Oh. My. Fucking. God.

[e-RICHIE]

Dulling An Edge

I arrived in Chester as a nineteen year old and fast became a village creature. The village was the one block stretch where humanity congregated. There was Robbie’s Store, the Chester Bank, a locally owned pharmacy, two package stores, Hawk’s Grocery, The Pattaconk, a hardware store, Betty’s Pants Outlet, and Janet Sachs (no relation) Real Estate. There were about eight businesses and as many empty shops. And when I left in 2009, the shops had become shoppes, there was a vibrant arts, retail, and dining scene, and the edgy hamlet I found as a teenager was now a destination. Big Yellow Taxi.

Over 37 years, I had four spaces, each within 100 feet of one another. The first was a windowless barn I rented from the Archambault’s. After two years, I moved to Kim Senay’s out building at Spring and Main. A decade later I moved to the basement at One Main. And in 1996 I purchased Nine North Main where this image was taken.

The NoMaChé (a Manhattan-y name I invented for our lane) location was also where we lived. Zoned commercially, the first floor, once a lamp shade store, became the perfect landing spot for this lifelong renter. The apartment was upstairs through a side entrance. Deb had created a lovely courtyard hidden from all pedestrian traffic. It was a paradise, and we called it Cuba.

My studio in NoMaChé had a front room dedicated to the articles, mementos, and ephemera from my life until that point. I ultimately smothered myself with myself. When I moved to Franklin County, and again back in Deep River this past summer, the goal was to walk away from all reminders of who I was and be a maker with no past. The walls have remained bare ever since.

[e-RICHIE]

Gifts

I get these emails with headers that read, You’ve Got Cash. I love it. Love them. They’re PayPal notifications that someone, somewhere, ordered something from my site. I don’t want to gloat too much about this, so I’ll leave it – the love – here for now.

A fellow who made a purchase on January 2nd wrote to say that his tracking label wasn’t advancing on usps.com. Could I help? From my perch, the sixteen digit numbers are the domain of the postal system. I get their purpose, but there’s not much I can do when the page itself doesn’t update. I can sympathize. I’m a decent sympathizer.

He’d hoped to take the RS item on an upcoming trip abroad. I offered to send a follow-up parcel and told him that maybe it would arrive in time and then we could deal with the rest when he returned. Resolution.

Both mailers were there when he got home. He was about to send the second one back. I let him know that in this one I included a gift to lighten any load from the shipping gaffe. We discussed where to go with this. Does he pay a second time keeping both, send back the first, or…

I don’t want to gloss over the part where he said that he brought me something from his travels as a way to say thanks. While we were trading emails I wrote that we needn’t burden ourselves with the small details of the miscue. I told him to please keep both items and my gift. And that I’d accept his and he’d accept mine, and we’d have a cultural exchange of sorts. Perfect.

Perfect indeed.

[e-RICHIE]

Give + Take

I said these words in the graphic around the turn of the century. By 2002 they went out into the ether.

The time at the bench, the repetition, the changes, the sameness, the materials, the tools, the racing, the riding. I’ve written so much about these, most of it starting in the middle ’90s. It took an even twenty years before I found myself as a maker. And that’s when I realized I had something to give away. In many respects, I didn’t care if anyone took it. I’m glad some did.

[e-RICHIE]

The Rural Life Sorta’

I save clippings. Almost always have. I don’t remember my life without some sort of pile, folder, or stacks of Itoya portfolios filled with articles taken from newsprint and periodicals. Too many saved to even take a WAG and write a number. Thousands. MANY THOUSANDS.

There are obits. Profiles about makers. Reports on retail trends. An op-ed piece or two. For a wee bit I was on a Verlyn Klinkenborg tear (no pun intended) and have lots of his essays. There are print ads that speak to me. Sometimes I’ll just rip out a fashion page showing a model. One of my favorites remains a NYT article about Larry Bird and how, while still on top of his game, he was planning his departure. Larry Legend.

At some point in the 1990s I was looking back at the compilation and wondered. I rarely put anything I do under a life microscope. I just go with it. All of it. But I spent a second or twenty looking at the stories in these texts written by others and wanted a soundbite I could use to tell myself why. Why do I do this – save these?

The only answer, not the only first answer to make sense – but the only one that came to me was that the stories were all about life well lived. Some were about people and things no longer here, and others shined a light on those still doing good things. I’m sure (and don’t tell anybody this if you’re reading now) that in all of these texts, the lot of them, I was looking for myself. Not myself in the present. But in the future.

[e-RICHIE]

[e-RICHIE]

The Carving Station

To shape something, to create a series of radii, and half-rounds, and edges, and tapers, and dimensions that transition from six zip-codes through four time zones and at least as many arrondissements, you need a sense.

It's about knowing what came before. It's about studying, and then borrowing. It's about adding yourself to a mix that's already full. More than anything it's about repetition, routine, and relentlessness. And some Grobet 6" 00 barrette files according to my opinion. The newer the better.

All This By Hand.

[e-RICHIE]

Apocalypse now.
Serenity later.

All This By Hand

[e-RICHIE]

Straight Talk

I’ve yet to read, listen in on, or take part in conversations having to do with accuracy for which a translation service wasn’t needed. You find ten makers talking about what they do and you’ll hear fourteen voices.

I came to this realization early on and have done my ever loving best to just nod my head when alignment, precision, and tolerances are mentioned. And I continue to look for measurements in the abstract.

[e-RICHIE]

The Spree

Despite having been abroad and with the experiences that come with working in a small production shop for almost a year, I consider myself a maker with no real pedigree. The time in London was beyond enjoyable, and I did learn some. But I didn’t leave with many tools or a skill set. What I really had was a once in a lifetime opportunity to stand at the side of others who came up in a family business and who let me watch as they worked. To that end, I am more self taught than not.

I channeled all of this into my own brand by 1975. Though there were questions along the way, the business grew and I always had work. But there was always this nagging, “This picture is not complete and I don’t know why…” thing looming. It came to a head after maybe seven years at the bench.

I began to think the niche I evolved past the point of my ability to keep pace. It seemed that bicycle making was less the result of a craftsman bleeding for his art and more a process that involved collaboration, more than a single pair of hands, and that a space with lots of big, heavy, expensive tools was de rigueur (French for you gotta have that shit bro‘). That last part was especially true when the film crew arrived.

By 1981 and completely lost in my own sea of charming little spring clamps, straight edges, and angle iron, I started spending heavily on tonnage from Bike Machinery and Marchetti + Lange, two Italian firms that made function specific devices for my trade.

Shopping is definitely good for the soul. For a brief moment I thought it just can’t get any better than this. That feeling eventually left me.

[e-RICHIE]

[e-RICHIE]

Play & Work

A trove of RS archives loaned late 2013 came home. I haven’t touched many of the contents in a long while. Those in this picture tell a story, and it’s one of shifting focus as well as adding dimension. The gist is that by 1990 I began to look at more than the work I was doing at the bench and threw myself into a redecorating mode. My bicycles had one or two specific looks dating back to early 1975 and it was time to play with colored pencils.

The cutouts shown are a tiny sample of what’s here. This cross-section speaks to the energy I spent doodling, learning about copy and stat machines, teaching myself how to safely use X-Acto knives, and also about design systems. There were many elements I was interested in but I had to think critically and narrow choices so that they’d all work together. None of these saw the light of day.

I did this type of work on and off for at least 15 years, making small edits to my branding. The constant resetting of the table consisted of such small changes at a single time that few, if any, noticed. And when I did replace one version with what would come next, I didn’t call attention to it. I just did it.

Everything fell into place by 2007 after which revisions had to do with ink color rather than logo use, shadows, font sizes, placement on bicycles, or incorporating same into soft-goods. And by 2012 I tossed the lot of it away, knocked on the door at House Industries, and asked for a complete makeover.

[e-RICHIE]

Richard Sachs Ink

Here’s a brochure from 1975. It was a three page folded unit, printed both sides. One of the panels was an order form. These were mailed in nice square-flapped envelopes to folks who answered my advertisements placed in the day’s periodicals.

The originals were made by Riverside Press, just across the tracks from the Essex Steam Train. The latter remains and is going strong while the former closed years ago. It was a true print house that had all the lead fonts, noisy machinery, and ink smells staining the air inside the shop walls. I recall bringing a hand-made rendering to Rob the proprietor and he in turn would suggest a layout, type sizes, and paper options. Together we chose the decorative wingdings that served as borders between distinct thoughts or elements in the piece.

I’d go on to produce many forms of branding collateral. As time passed and my tastes refined, the projects became more elegant and austere. Some contained more technical information than others depending on the era. Others were more about me than the bicycles depending on the era. But all of them, each postcard, self-mailer, tear sheet, and catalog, were as important to me as the work I did at the bench.

I rarely look at my studio work without considering how to present it. Both tasks please me, almost equally. No matter how much I sweat the details when there’s a tool in my hand or some material on the table, finding a nice box to put it all in is part of the job.

[e-RICHIE]

Why I Do This

The bicycle as a tool for the sport first got me wet and sticky while still a junior at The Peddie School. I read every niche magazine I could touch. I studied position and posture when I should have been working on academic assignments. I looked at where riders placed their gear and brake levers. At the cable paths too. I noticed how high the white socks came up on their ankles. And if their Dettos appeared well polished in the photographs.

My own racing has been at times forgettable, and every so often memorable. I’ve pinned on numbers since 1972. It took me until I was near thirty before I could actually race, rather than just ride around following wheels.

My best road years were the middle 1990s when my club merged with Stowe B.C. During our second season, I hit a stride. I turned myself inside out during the week so that whatever was thrown at me on the weekend was easy. Results came. Confidence was ever-present. And I feared nothing.

Unlike earlier periods in life when I’d look at signup sheets and worry about who’d be at my side in a given event, I was now at a place where none of it mattered. It had all come together. My attitude, “Someone has to win this, it might as well be me.” fueled every start. It’s a lesson that came from nowhere, but when it arrived, I took it into the rest of my life.

Say what you will about man’s need for competition. That he needs a challenge. Or validation. For me, the peloton is equal parts classroom, chess board, and research library. From racing, I learned to read situations, hone instincts, and hear my own voice.