After Conrad's passing, his wife ran the shop for a while and then sold it
to one of Conrad's employees. The shop remains in its original location on
Tudor Place which is near the United Nations Building. Somewhere in my
achieves, I kept an article written by Bicycle Habitat. A throwback shop
currently located on Lafayette St. The article was written in a "where are
the old bike shops now" format and provided interesting reading" If I can
find it, I will scan it and post it.
Mike Schmidt
Stirling, NJ
> The star of the show at Stuyvesant's was the Atala? Stuyvesant was known
I thought for selling quite a few Cinelli bikes.
>
> And I guess this article predates Conrads? I was in NYC in the late 70's
and Conrad's was quite the boutique (and its still their under different
ownership I believe).
>
> Mike Kone in Boulder CO
>
> -------------- Original message --------------
>
> > http://www.bikereader.com/
> >
> > or here:
> > This comes to us by way of Jim Langley's website. He found it in On the
Wheel
> > magazine. Reportedly it had its first appearance in New York Magazine in
the
> > early 70s, which will explain the prices in the bike shops.
> >
> > Bikeman
> > by Owen Edwards
> >
> > BEHOLD THUNDERTHIGHS! Slicing noiseless through the frigid park,
uncluttered,
> > kinetic, shoulders low and chin jutting (or vice versa), held off the
> > unforgiving pavement by a hand-tooled chrome coat hanger with the merest
hint of
> > wheels, he seeks satori in the slightly gritty wind.
> >
> > It's Bikeman, soft-hat hero, champion of clean air, quietude and
motorless
> > machismo. And his time has arrived. He is Homo sapiens at peace with the
> > machine. Pollution-free transportation is his, in its purest form:
superbike,
> > bella machina, hobby horse of the gods, the perfect evocation of Italian
finesse
> > a few pounds heavier than a Gucci moccasin, eleven gears more than a
Ferrari, as
> > starkly beautiful as a Giacometti torso. See what it does to him! Under
a little
> > housepainter hat stenciled with mythic names, his eyes are slits of
distilled
> > concentration. His hands, in little gloves with holes that drive women
mad, rest
> > cat-like on the handlebars, ready to spring forward in a trice to the
brakes.
> > His legs? Veritable pistons. The discipline of the samurai pales. The
machine
> > cost Bikeman more than $300, and any fool can see it has made him
different.
> >
> > The superbike is to bikes as Captain Marvel is to Billy Batson. It is
the one
> > great leap for someone who has tooled around the park on a three-speed
English
> > bike but wants more. The superbike is a lot more.
> >
> > To the man or woman outside the magic circle trying to get in, a first
trip
> > around the city's bike shops may be confusing. At a glance all bikes
with
> > turned-down handlebars look pretty much alike. But there are certain
general
> > characteristics that elevate a bike to super status. First, a superbike
seldom
> > costs less than $200 (and sometimes more than $400). It has ten or more
gears.
> > It should weigh less than 25 pounds soaking wet, give or take a little.
And
> > above all, it should command knee-jerk respect (if not envy) among the
> > cognoscenti.
> >
> > The prospective buyer should be aware that bicycles, like other
machines, are
> > collections of parts, and all bike manufacturers are mainly assemblers
who build
> > only the frame. There are a limited number of top name parts that go
into the
> > best bikes. The result is that superbikes tend to resemble each other
closely,
> > often varying only in frame and name. The buyer should study
specifications of
> > various makes to decide what combination of parts turns him on the most.
The
> > same names recur -- it doesn't take long to get into it. That prices can
range
> > from just under $200 to twice that and over is indicative of the
numinosity of
> > names. Of course some bikes are expensive because their owners want them
to be
> > expensive, but as one salesman frankly admits, "odd names help." And no
matter
> > how much people pay for their superbikes, in conversation they
invariably tack
> > on a little more.
> >
> > Bikeman does not poor-mouth. The superbikes available in the city are
made by
> > Peugeot, Schwinn, Raleigh, Frejus, Legnano, Atala, Lejeune and Gitane.
Most of
> > these manufacturers make a full range of bicycles, from mini-Fonda
choppers to
> > relatively inexpensive ten-speeds, but the superbikes are the
thoroughbreds of
> > each company's line. Except for the Schwinn Paramount, which is
assembled in the
> > U.S. from European parts, all the superbikes are built in Europe. As
with pasta,
> > shoes and hysteria, the Italians are unquestioned leaders in the field.
> >
> > At Stuyvesant Bicycle and Toy Inc., 178 First Avenue at 11th Street, the
star is
> > the Atala "Record." The other star is Sal Corso, who owns the place with
his
> > brother. Sal likes to talk about bikes maybe half as much as he likes
selling
> > them, which is still a lot, so Stuyvesant is as good a place as any for
the
> > buyer to start his education. The "Record" frame is made of
double-butted
> > Columbus Steel, which, along with Reynolds 531 double-butted steel, is
what
> > superbikes are always made of. The prospective bikeman will lose
precious time
> > trying to determine why these two types of tubing are the best and would
do well
> > to take the matter on faith. On the subject of transmissions (called
derailleurs
> > by the knowing) Sal says, "Campagnolo Record is the magic name," and
magically
> > enough, a quick look reveals the Atala has just that transmission. So,
it
> > happens, do all but two of the superbikes. There are ten speeds. If your
best
> > friend has ten speeds and you were to approach Sal with a checkbook and
ask for
> > fifteen speeds, you would probably get fifteen, but Sal is an honorable
man and
> > he will tell you that die extra five gears are nonsense, as if that had
anything
> > to do with you and your friend. The tires on the Atala are Pirelli
> > Specialissimos, which I mention purely for the feel of it on the tongue.
The
> > "Record" goes for $250.
> >
> > Stuyvesant also carries the Raleigh MK II Professional, a limited
edition
> > (whatever that means) English bike with a Reynolds frame and mostly
Campagnolo
> > parts that lists for $319, enough to stiffen the most flaccid upper lip.
Sal's
> > paternal concernÑ"People should listen to the salesman -- is thrown in
free, and
> > you can get good advice whether you buy a bike or not. Sal claims that
he sold
> > 6,000 ten-speeds last year. Others in the business say that Sal is
> > hallucinating, but then, people who sell bikes in the city genially
contend that
> > their competitors are liars, thieves, trash-pushers and crazy.
> >
> > The atmosphere at Gene's 77th Street Discount Bikes (300 East) is, how
shall I
> > say it, spontaneous, which may be good or bad, depending on your mood.
Gene's is
> > the home of the Peugeot PX 10E, Gallic answer to all those dazzling
Italian
> > syllables and probably the best-known and largest selling ten-speed
superbike on
> > the lists. It is also the most demotically priced, at around $190. The
PX 10 has
> > a frame of Reynolds 531 and is unique in having not a single Campagnolo
part. A
> > question of honor, one supposes. The Simplex derailleur system is made
partly of
> > plastic (DuPont Delrin, to be exact), a fact that elicits terrible thin
smiles
> > from bikemen astride all-metal Italian devices. The word is that the
Simplex is
> > dependable but less smooth than the Campy. The PX 10 is ten-speed, and
on the
> > subject of gears one of the Peugeot salesman observed acidly: "Most of
the
> > people who ask about fifteen speeds are under fifteen."
> >
> > While the Peugeot doesn't have the same impact on conspicuous consumers
as the
> > sexier machines from the south, it has a good reputation and can give
you legs
> > like Nureyev.
> >
> > Hanging gracefully from the ceiling at Gene's is an alluring number
called the
> > Lejeune -- a track model, very clean, no gears, no brakes, just eighteen
pounds
> > of absolute, unrelenting purism. Pristine, tempting. By nature, though,
Bikeman
> > is a dilettante, and the track bike smacks of product endorsements and
dirt
> > under the nails. "People who buy Lejeune track bikes are the kind who
get hot
> > about where a front fork bends," a salesman says, expecting to be
understood.
> > But as luck would have it, the Lejeune also comes with a ten-speed
transmission
> > and brakes and a thunderously impressive $395 price tag.
> >
> > Tucked off in the fluorescent shadows is the Gitane "Tour de France,"
another
> > French bonbon very similar to the Peugeot (though less well known) with
much the
> > same equipment, Simplex gears, and an identical $190 price.
> >
> > For those souls who get nosebleeds north of Union Square, Gene's
operates 14th
> > Street Discount Bikes (351 East), with the same stock and possibly the
same
> > long-haired salesmen.
> >
> > The acknowledged guru of the superbike scene in the area Is Thomas
Avenia, 131
> > East 119th Street. True to the mystical tradition, Avenia keeps a small
shop,
> > out of the way, marked only by a modest sign that says "Bicycles" -- six
locks
> > on the grill and four on the door. Avenia is a small man with
perpetually
> > astonished eyebrows who reads Bartlett's Familiar Quotations, slides off
the
> > subject of bikes to put forward elaborate political theories without
pausing for
> > breath, and sells two of the big names, Frejus and Legnano. The Frejus
can be
> > had with either Reynolds or Columbus steel. Just to make that decision
implies
> > power and knowledge beyond the ordinary man. Most of the key parts are
made by
> > Campy. The brakes are Universal center-pull (all superbike brakes are
> > center-pull type, with stopping pressure applied equally to both sides
of the
> > wheel rim). The Legnano Company is now owned by Frejus, and the bikes
are
> > basically the same, except that maybe Legnano sounds a little dirtier.
Both cost
> > about $250.
> >
> > If you figure that each additional gear is a step up the
socio-acquisitive
> > ladder, Avenia can be a wet blanket. Surrounded by gleaming ten- and
> > fifteen-speed machinery, he enthuses for the simple regimen. Plead for
many
> > gears and he insists that you are better off with none. None! If you are
strong
> > enough to persist he will start bursting bubbles, telling you that a
> > fifteen-speed has the same high and low as a three-speed Raleigh, and
explaining
> > with a straight face his theory for putting 140 gears on a bike. Like
other
> > maturing artists, he is concerned with peeling away the non-essential
and he
> > refuses to understand that there are reasons for a lot of gears that
have
> > nothing to do with riding the bike. Avenia is a hard taskmaster for
Bikeman, who
> > has certain nontechnical needs and may admire a man who rides to Port
Washington
> > on a one-speed Frejus without wanting to be him.
> >
> > Twenty-five pounds and $350 worth of American dream machinery, the
Schwinn
> > Paramount resides at Angelo's Bicycle Service, 462 Columbus Avenue
(between 82nd
> > and 83rd Streets). The Paramount is a class piece of work in every
sense, with
> > Campagnolo parts throughout, a Reynolds 531 frame, Weinmann center-pull
brakes,
> > and, in true Detroit style, a gaggle of options at extra cost. Most of
the magic
> > has been wrung out of the Schwinn name by years of association with the
> > company's lesser marques, but there is strength of character in the man
who can
> > turn away from the siren song of foreign accents and buy American. Maybe
leaving
> > the price tag on would help.
> >
> > Happily for faithful Bikeman, after the initial purchase there is a
lifetime
> > involvement in accessories. Tires for superbikes are a worthy field of
study for
> > any serious doctoral candidate. There are two basic types of bike fires:
the
> > standard rubber tire with tube (called clinchers) that adorns prosaic
models,
> > and tubulars, or sew-ups, (which are, in fact, sewn up under the rim)
found on
> > most superbikes. Tubulars are light, weighing as little as four ounces,
and are
> > made of everything from cotton to silk. They have fantastic names like
Viper,
> > Supalatti and Imperforabile. The Complete Book of Bicycling, a helpful
guide
> > written by Eugene Sloane and published by Trident (and known in the
trade as
> > "the ten-dollar book"), presents a partial list of 28 different tires,
and hints
> > darkly of dozens more. Sew-ups can be pumped up unmercifully without
blowing,
> > they are quickly changed, and they fold easily so that extras can be
clipped
> > under the seat (a touch that only intensifies Bikeman's obsession). The
trouble
> > with fabric sew-ups is that they are easily damaged on city streets, so
the best
> > course is to avoid silks (despite the temptation) and use gum rubber.
Extra
> > tires generally start at $4.50.
> >
> > There are other accessories that aid the body and the ego about equally.
To go
> > with the gloves with little holes there are shoes with little holes. And
for
> > winter, ones without little holes. The shoes have steel shanks to
protect
> > Bikeman's feet against the steel grips of the pedals, and cleats to make
him
> > more a part of his machine. The fact that you can do nothing but bicycle
in
> > cycling shoes can only be viewed as a plus. Most of the stores mentioned
carry
> > shoes priced from $10 to $25, cleats included.
> >
> > Certainly the most essential accessory for the urban bikeman is
something,
> > anything, to keep the superbike from disappearing. Bikes are easier to
fence
> > than color TVs, and the rule of thumb has long been: don't chain your
bike to
> > anything you don't want stolen. New York is probably the chain proving
ground of
> > the world. The plastic-covered combination lock trinkets that many bike
shops
> > sell may be all right for less serious-minded cities, but here they are
parted
> > with a chuckle. Bike shop owners get used to seeing the same faces over
and over
> > again, each time deeper red, as customers' bikes are ripped off. Gene's
77th
> > counters the tradition with what looks like the largest chain anywhere
not
> > attached to an anchor. It is made of some devilish stuff called
cam-alloy and
> > produced by Campbell Co. With a one-pound Wally lock, the protection
weighs
> > about six pounds and costs $20, and despite the obvious effect on
Bikeman's
> > lightness of soul, it seems to defy everything short of acetylene
torches. So
> > you're about half-safe.
> >
> > Bikeman, in one of his myriad incarnations, is a friend of mine. He is
over 30,
> > fashionably hirsute, works downtown and lives in his own Park Slope
brownstone.
> > Until recently he was a mortal being who thought not infrequently of his
wife,
> > his children and his plumbing disasters. Now all that is forgotten. He
has
> > fifteen speeds! On his face is the look of a man forever meditating on
his first
> > encounter with sex. Unbearably exotic names issue casually from his
mouth. If
> > left alone for any length of time he starts kneading his thighs
dreamily.
> >
> > I met my friend Bikeman in Prospect Park last week. With a tight mouth
he
> > allowed me to straddle his spotless Legnano. The air was brittle, the
road as
> > salty as an anchovy. I felt lost with all those gears, in over my head.
But
> > after ten wobbly feet nothing mattered. Two Peugeots passed in the other
> > direction. My ears burned with the instant esteem of my peers. The
machine
> > worked beneath me without a whimper. There were some people walking,
people with
> > dollar-sign coats and perfectly matched teeth, motor-driven Hasselblads
and Old
> > English sheep dogs, people I would have been forced to envy if I too had
been
> > walking. But now I was different from them, elevated far beyond. I was
Bikeman,
> > and I could bask in the ultraviolet glow of their envy for as long as I
could
> > stay aboard that shimmering silver bit of ecstasy and ignore my friend's
shrill
> > pleas to come back.
> >
> > © Owen Edwards
> >
> >
> >
> >
> >
> > Angel Garcia
> > Long Valley, NJ