Rob Kristoff Writing: About a Bike

"Imagine all our years together like a blackbird that won't sing. Imagine: throwing it to the

wind—but it falls from broken wings..."-77's, "Don't This Way"

For years, I've been torn between appreciating vintage mountain bikes and keeping up with new technology. (I got my first MTB in 1993 and had ridden others' bikes while working in a bike shop around 87-88)

A few years ago, I got my hands on one of the bikes I dreamed of back around the turn of the millenium, a made-in-Canada Spot singlespeed. Not only did I know where it was made, I knew the builder who made it: Mike Truelove. But even more important than that, from the first ride the day I put it together, this bike has felt... magical. Different than the steel bikes I had before it. Part of that is high-quality Dedacciai steel tubing (that's likely a little thinner than you'd get in a bike that was made for mass market, and has to be stout enough for every possible user). And of course, part has to be that it's handbuilt— by a person, not a robot.

Anyway, time moves on. I thought I'd found a bike to replace this when I bought a used Kona Unit 29er. It was a great bike... until it broke. But I did notice when I went back to my old standby that it was lighter and faster than the Kona.

Since then, I've haunted all the online places you look for things to buy. Truth be told, I nearly drove myself insane trying to figure out how to spend relatively little money; get a bike as special as the Spot, and incorporate modern features (I can't handle hearing one more person—who I've just beaten up the last hill—saying "Whoa. V-brakes. Classic."), in the right size, and in a color I didn't hate. It's like an algebra equation where the numbers are constantly changing.

So when I discovered that we had a custom bicycle builder less than 10 miles from my house (how am I just now learning about this?), I was intrigued. And when I looked at the website for Roulez Cycles, I knew I'd found my answer. (the Octopus t-shirts are reason enough to click the link).

So after a brief and totally understandable delay due to a worldwide pandemic—and quite a few emails between Jay and I—I dropped off my frame at the Lydia Pinkham Labs to have a disc brake mount added, its original cantilever brake posts removed, and— while I was at it—a 3rd water-bottle mount added.

Lydia, as far as I can understand it, was the inventor and manufacturer of some vegetable-based cure-all in the 1800s. Well, if her company took up the entire building that LPL does today, it must have been a very popular salve. It can only be described as a sprawling old building. 3 floors and creaky wooden hallways in every direction. And filled with artists, artisans, craftspeople, and who knows what else (I know I saw upholsterers, a couple yoga studios...). And finally, at the very end of one hall, my destination.

It was just the way you'd hope this sort of experience would be. I happened to get there when Jay had stepped out the day I dropped off the frame. It felt like a movie scene. "Hello? Hello?" And I'm looking around the workshop at all these bikes in various states of completion. My happy place!

These photos are of the day I picked it back up (and a few of it reassembled). For more of its journey, look up #theblackbirdbike on Instagram.