Oregon Cycling Magazine

by Jim Ayama

One of the reasons why Eugene is such a great place to live (one reason of many) is the fact that it’s a true bicycle town. Besides the sheer number of bikes on the street, more than any other city of comparable size, there is an amazing variety of two-wheelers, from humble but cost-effective department store models to vintage classics to the latest high-tech sub-15-pound mega-buck carbon-fiber road rockets. My own favorite style (a non-style, really) is that of the custom hybrid, which you see on the streets of this town every day but may not notice: a total creation of its owner, the custom bike is a reflection of not only who you are, but how you think of and what you perceive a bicycle to be. They’re everywhere—the old-school mountain bike converted into bullet-proof city cruiser with fat slicks, fenders, shopping racks and tourist handlebars; the cool old French frame with shifters removed, a single speed freewheel and straight bars; BMX bikes tricked out with gazillion-spoke wheels and gonzo chrome everything; brand-new boutique or old road frames set up as a fixed-gear vision of simplicity, with one or no brakes, tan leather saddle, a moustache or straight or pursuit bar… Utility bikes, long-wheelbase choppers, “two-story” bikes, one-speed MTBs; all beautiful, every one unique.

I’d never thought of fixed-gear bicycles until several years ago when, while visiting my brother (who road-raced in the seventies), he suggested I take his old Schwinn Madison training bike out for a spin.

“Make sure you’re clipped into the pedals, and don’t forget, you can’t coast.” What? No coasting? Wow—habits of a lifetime of riding are hard to break; first of all, it was almost impossible to get my shoes into the clips when the damn pedals wouldn’t stop moving, and the usual reflex of not pedalling while cornering at speed tended to make it seem as if the bike wanted to throw you off! My brother lives in a town with a lot of hills, but soon the lack of lower gears to shift down to was more than compensated for, usually, by the much-increased efficiency of not having derailleur drag or chain bounce, not to mention not having that subtle slow-down every time you shift. Within an hour it started to feel right. Freedom! Power! Zen-like simplicity! I was hooked.

When I got back to Eugene, it was time to put my own fixed-gear bike together, but I didn’t know how to get started or who to talk to about my new addiction. Luckily, it turned out that Susan, Louie and Kerri at Blue Heron Bicycles were “fixie” lovers and experts, and were more than happy to answer my questions—I know I made a pest of myself for a while there. I took an unused Miyata road frame to them, and Louie un-dished the rear wheel, spun on a track cog, and set the spacers on the axle for a good chain-line. I took it home, added a front wheel, a regular road-type drop bar, and one lever and brake on the front. By midnight I was cruising the neighborhood on my very own fixed-gear bike.

Over the next couple of years, I changed a few things; almost every conceivable handlebar type went on that bike—straight bars, randonneurs, moustache up and moustache down, chopped-off and flipped drops, messenger bars, Raleigh tourist bars. One brake, two brakes, no brake. Different size front and rear cogs to see what various gear-inch ratios felt like. I tried a few saddles—thin, wide, plastic, leather, sprung, cut-out. All that time, though, I was on the lookout for a really cool-looking old frame to turn into my ultimate fixed-gear machine.

The retail store at The Center For Appropriate Transport (located in the same building as the home of Oregon Cycling) is a great place to find just the right part for whatever bike you’re working on, and I have more than one bicycle built completely with stuff I’ve found rummaging in their used parts bins. One day Alfred told me to go upstairs and look at an amazing looking bike hanging up there—it was called a “World Voyageur”; where the bright yellow paint was chipped you could see that the entire frame was chromed. As it was, the frame lugs were chrome, as were the bottom of the forks and fork crown, rear of the chain and seat stays, and rear dropouts. It was filthy, the chain and cogs were totally rusted, the saddle was covered in mold, the tires were in tatters. It was gorgeous. After spending an hour at the Center’s work area disassembling what I could of the bike (the stem was frozen to the fork with rust), I took the frame home. It took over a week of being placed upside down over an oil drain pan with a daily dose of WD-40 sprayed down into the headset along with a few good whacks with a rubber hammer for the stem to finally work free. After a thorough cleaning with Lemon Pledge (Wax Shine As You Dust!), it was time to re-assemble the bike with the components I’d spent the past week removing from the old trusty Miyata. However, there was a snag with the headset—it turned out that most bicycles made in Japan in the early 70’s used a different standard for the headsets (something called J.I.S. sizing), and there were none to be had in Eugene. The one on the World was of good quality, although the bearing races were pitted from being rusted for so long; two episodes of Star Trek, a few beers, and light oil on a Scotchbrite pad did the trick.

This time around I took the plunge and did the axle re-spacing myself, reusing the rear wheel that Louie had converted; a crank and pedals found at the Center were put on a Campy bottom bracket that was laying around the garage, along with a new chain. While doing this, I thought I’d do something a bit different with the basic style of the bike; I’d always loved the look of classic British touring cycles, and there was a set of white Blumel fenders and a Brooks saddle (Center stuff) I’d never gotten around to using. A trip to Blue Heron for a new Nitto tourist-type bar, and a couple of tan-sidewall tires from Paul’s bike shop, and the World Voyageur was set. I don’t know why, but midnight seems to be the time when these bike projects are completed; it was only raining lightly, and I don’t know what the law says about riding a newly assembled labor of love, a fixie at that, on a couple of microbrews, but I know what I call it, and that is “fun”!

I love the minimalist look of an all-out “fixie”: a pursuit bar with just a bit of tape, no lights, no fenders, maybe no cables at all, certainly nothing attached to the braze-ons. But the “World” is just the opposite—it’s a “stealth” fixed-gear bike; with its upswept handlebars, white fenders, lights, bell and saddlebag, it looks from a distance like an old three-speed tourer. The only thing that might give it away is the fact that I never coast, and that it has just one brake. I may add another brake to complete the look. Or I may not.

Jim Ayama has been at various times a forest firefighter, public works construction inspector, land surveyor, substance abuse counselor, musician, peace activist and Maytag repairman. No longer lonely, he is currently working on his first book of short stories, and has been cycling ever since he got a brand new J.C. Higgins cruiser for his 11th birthday.

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