Why I do this

The telltale squeaky, creaky sound of a poorly maintained bicycle is to me what the plaintive meow of an ill-fed kitten is to a cat-lover. It strikes a chord in me and I yearn to reach out and help. But most of the time I don’t, not because I’m too busy or because I’m apathetic, but merely because it would be socially unacceptable. Very few people welcome unsolicited advice and even fewer would be pleased to find a stranger tinkering with their chained-up bikes. So instead, I brood.

I get this same feeling whenever I see someone riding a bike too small for him, or someone perched precariously on a ludicrously angled bike seat, screeching to stop at a red light. Ditto for those bikes with upside-down drop bars that effectively raise the handlebars but make the brake levers almost unusable. Or commuters sporting the infamous skunk stripe down their backs because they lack fenders. Or commuters suffering over potholes and fixing needless flats because they ride skinny tires at obscene pressures. Or college students who resemble hunchbacks on wheels, laden down with their monstrous backpacks. Or folks laboring up hills on bikes that have been changed overnight from 10-speeds to 2-speeds by a broken rear derailleur. In the face of all this I brood.

I tell myself that not everybody cares as much as I do about his bike. Some people are perfectly content to ride their junkers around town since they never spend more than 10 or 15 minutes at a time on them. But wouldn’t they be happier on a smoothly functioning, comfortable bike, even if only for those 15 minutes a day? And wouldn’t they, in fact, be encouraged to ride their bikes even more (and drive their cars less) if they didn’t get a stiff neck or a sore butt after 20 minutes in the saddle?

As a professional pauper, I’m perfectly aware that many folks don’t have wads of cash to burn on new bikes. I’m also aware that durable, new bikes below $400 are practically non-existent. So what’s an average Jane or Joe to do? Even in big, bike-friendly metro areas like the SF Bay, used bike stores are few and far in between and the pickings are slim. Even most co-ops have realized that they need to focus on selling new bikes if they want to stick around.

I try to provide another option. As a hobbyist, I don’t have much in the way of operating costs and I don’t expect to make much money. These are the only reasons I’m able to provide restored, ready-to-ride bikes at a reasonable cost. In a place like this, with a high demand for used bikes, I still pay way more than I would elsewhere for my bikes and that puts a limit on how cheaply I can re-sell them after restoration. But I charge almost nothing for my labor—really, it usually works out to something pathetic like $2/hour—and I try to buy my replacement parts cheaply, so in the end I can afford to sell a good used bike for less than a bike shop can.

You might reasonably ask, “Why the hell would you do this if you’re not making any money (and you’re an admitted pauper, not some idle, trust-fund baby)?” The answer is as pathetic as it is true: I’m an addict. Really, I can’t help it. When I’m immersed in a project, I feel good. When I sell a great bike to someone who’s going to ride the piss out of it, I feel even better. And when this is done, I find myself itching like a fiend to move on to the next project. It’s a vicious cycle and I can’t seem to escape it. Fortunately, this is one addiction that you can benefit from. Whether you’re a bike noob looking for an efficient means of transport on the cheap, or a cycling fanatic who wants to try out touring or randonneuring without breaking the bank, my sickness can probably aid you. Don’t feel bad. If you weren’t helping me get my fix, I’d be out on the streets begging for bent derailleurs and busted pedals.

My Process

In case you’re wondering why my bikes cost a bit more than the average Craigslist clunker, here’s a little bit about what I do with them.

Well, first, we should talk a little about how years of use and/or storage can affect a bike, i.e. what's typically in need of repair or replacement on a used bike. Just like cars, bikes benefit from routine maintenance; instead of oil changes, it's chain lubing, tire inflation, wheel truing, brake pad replacement, etc. However, for some reason I have yet to discover, most folks never bring their bikes in for tune-ups, at least not until something breaks. The result is a bike that ages prematurely, just like your aunt who smokes two packs a day. The drive train gets gritty and worn down, derailleurs and brakes get knocked out of alignment possibly causing further damage, and so on.

On the other hand, some folks almost never ride their bikes. Some may even hang their bikes in a nice dry, cool spot in the garage for years. This is a best-case scenario. But even in this case, the sidewalls of tires can dry out and crack, the grease surrounding all the bearings on the bike can dry out, handlebar tape can tear, and rust may even set in, in some climates.

In my experience, about 2% of private sellers will address these issues before passing on their used bikes to new owners. Bottom line, nearly all used bikes on Craigslist need work. Heck even most of the used bikes sold by reputable shops still need a lot of work to get them into prime working order. (I know because I've had recent buyers bring their bike-shop-bought used bikes to me for work.)

Here's where I come in. I do something that makes no financial sense whatsoever (but a lot of common sense).

Basically, I treat every bike I work on as if it were my own pet project. I aim to get every bike riding smooth as silk and looking fantastic. To do so I put in a ridiculous amount of mechanical and cosmetic detail work. (Let me be clear: I don't want to imply that my bikes are lavish, pull-out-all-the-stops restorations, because those bikes typically cost thousands of dollars. I stop short of full wet repaints with professionally printed decals and new-old-stock Campagnolo parts because that stuff is for collectors, not for people who actually ride their bikes.) Suffice it to say that I spend hours and hours working on things that you'll probably never take note of, per se. If you were to walk in on me plucking spokes like harp strings to optimize their tension for a 5% stronger wheel or snipping the end of a piece of cable housing with nail clippers to get a perfectly clean, frictionless opening, you'd instantly know what I mean. I pay neurotic attention to detail, and you stand to benefit by buying a bike from me.

Now, if you want more details...

When I get a bike, the first thing I do is clean it. I’m very thorough (read: compulsive) here. I wash the wheels (and tires if I plan to reuse them) with soapy water (taking care not to spray water into the bearings of course); I scrub the frame clean with a super-mild abrasive that also polishes it up a bit; I overhaul the rear derailleur, cleaning the individual pieces before reassembling; if I plan to reuse the freewheel I use my patented “flossing technique” to clean the cogs; I disassemble the crankset and degrease the chainrings; all moving parts, from derailleurs to shifters to brakes, get lubed; all naked aluminum gets polished; all rusty steel gets deoxidized and often given a protective coat too… well, you get the idea.

Then, I overhaul the bearings: bottom bracket, headset, hubs. If the bottom bracket is worn out, I replace it with a modern sealed unit. Otherwise, I use high-quality grease and I freepack the bearings for minimal friction. If the cone nuts are pitted, I replace them with equivalent ones. This process of overhauling is something that bike shops only really do on premium tune-ups and they charge and arm and a leg for it.

I put everything back together, replacing consumables like the chain, brake pads, and tires with new, high-quality stuff. Joints get oiled, derailleur hangers get aligned,  I make sure that shifting and braking are smooth on the stand. Then it's time for a bit of wheel work. After lubing the spoke nipple-rim interface, I true and round the wheels, then I even out the spoke tension, then true and round them again. I verify wheel dish, and if I've added gears in the back and respaced the axle accordingly, then I re-dish the wheel to ensure accurate tracking.

Then I go for a short test ride to make sure that everything feels right on the road.

I should note that this whole process is punctuated by frequent and extended breaks during which I quietly sip my tea or coffee and stare at the bike. I take measurements to gauge the geometry of the frame, to figure out what it’s best suited for, what size tires and/or fenders it can accommodate, and so forth. I think about what color bar wrap would look best, and which style of handlebars and which gearing ratios and shifter type would be best suited for the purpose that I have in mind. Slowly, a vision of the bike that it will be forms in my head.

When it’s complete, I try to take an extended test ride or two. Sometimes I decide I don’t like the cockpit or the gearing or whatever and I go back to the drawing board. When I’m satisfied, I clean and polish everything. Then I take pictures and off to Craigslist she goes. While the bike is up for sale I continue to ride it. I tell myself that it’s because I want to work out any tiny kinks and make absolutely sure that everything is up to my standards, but more likely it’s because I enjoy riding the bikes that I’ve restored. It’s one of the best perks of this hobby.

Univega Gran Rally

I recently finished my third Univega Gran Rally resto, which has renewed my enthusiasm for Unis. While there are plenty of unremarkable Viva Sports and Nuovo Sports out there, the higher end Unis are really worth admiring. My second road bike ever was a 1980 Gran Premio (second in the line-up, I believe) and at the time I really didn't appreciate it enough, but since then I've had many a warm nostalgia session over the Millennium Falcon, as it was known.

'80s era Univegas represent some of the best values out there in Vintagebikeland. Many of them were made by the renowned steel-frame innovators at Miyata, and yet they usually sell for about 2/3 the price of comparable Miyatas. The 1981 Gran Rally was one of Univega's top models (equivalent to a contemporaneous Miyata 912) and came fully equipped with Shimano's elegant 600 "Arabesque" gruppo, second only to Dura Ace at the time. The lugged and brazed frame uses double-butted Tange Champion chromoly, with forged Shimano dropouts. Geometry is aggressive.

The bars and brake levers are the only non-original parts on the this puppy. I thought they'd be a welcome mod to an urban rider:

This '86 Gran Rally came with the later Shimano 600EX groupset and swanky gold rims:

It also saw the addition of some really lovely long-point lugs with painted cutouts... 

...just like the Millennium Falcon!