I loved my old Valentino equipped Atala, Fred. What disturbs me somewhat is now that so many of us are middle aged, it is hard to recapture the thrill that a ride through our Central Park or any other equivilant ride, once provided. On a day when every shift was smooth, the rhythm was perfect and I was dropping a casual rider every ten seconds and a pro looking rider every five minutes, there was no greater thrill. I can now afford to buy a PX-10 every month and have a stable of fine collectables in the garage. Spending 500 bucks for a suspension improvement to my car means little, and yet my humble old Atala means more to me than any possession I have since aquired. Somehow the fruits of a middle class, middle aged life don't compare to the thrills of a "racer", any "racer", in the hands of a fiery teenager. I realize that we list members look for happiness and fullfillment as best we can, but if the hardware is here now, but the poetry of youthfull adventure is distant, we will not have what we really want. I loved my old Valentino because I brought it to life with hours of my own sweat and blood. I would have prefered a Campy Nuevo Record but a Huret Alvitt was in the cards for me then, so I am forever tied somehow to more humble mechanisms. I don't really believe that Simplex entry level was all garbage, but it is sour grapes, that in 1972 a dope addict took my Peugeot at gun point in Central Park. I don't want to believe that the UO8, I was forced to leave behind, was half the bike that the Atala turned out to be. If we can all see our "opinions" as shadows of our past experience, we will all be better virtual friends and list members. The worst classic crap that has captured our hearts becomes a nostalgic taste of bicycle heaven. This is why I love lugs, and downtube shifters and curvy sexy forks, and can't fathom welded frames with frankenstein stems. Maybe those older bikes had more love placed in them at the factory, but the important love is the love that we fill them with today. It is the love I have for my own past. I am glad to hear about Stuyvesant of old New York, that house of yesterday's dreams. Garth