Re: [CR]The NYC Bike Shop Scene in early 70s

(Example: Events:Cirque du Cyclisme:2007)

From: "Mike Schmidt" <mdschmidt@patmedia.net>
To: <hersefan@comcast.net>, "Angel Garcia" <veronaman@comcast.net>, <classicrendezvous@bikelist.org>
References: <013020050535.14348.41FC720A0004B6D40000380C2206998499020E000A9C9D0A08@comcast.net>
Subject: Re: [CR]The NYC Bike Shop Scene in early 70s
Date: Sun, 30 Jan 2005 08:09:11 -0500


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


----- Original Message -----
From: hersefan@comcast.net
To: Angel Garcia
Sent: Sunday, January 30, 2005 12:35 AM
Subject: Re: [CR]The NYC Bike Shop Scene in early 70s



> 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/contributors/misc/bikeman.html
> >
> > 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