My first road bike was a serious junker. It was department store garbage. But I didn’t know that yet. Its performance was so far superior to the old paperboy bike I’d been riding, that I thought it was incredible. It was a ten speed bike, with downtube, friction shifters, on 27 X 1 ¼ tires. It was so much lighter, smoother, and faster, than the old Schwinn. I was amazed. I could actually climb a hill on it. I had just fallen in love all over again!
I entered my first race on it that bike. I didn’t finish last, and that was something. I entered another race. The bike broke. A kindly official gave me some advice. The bike was awful, but he said I had some talent, and I would do much better on a better bike.
I investigated the cost of a “better bike,” and was shocked to my shoes. I tried another race on my clunker, and managed to stay with the pack for some 30 miles before a major mechanical took me out of the race. Okay. I got the message. But I just could not afford one of those shiny wonder-bikes. I started doing some serious research.
Historical Digression: In the post WWII years the expression “Made in Japan,” actually became synonymous with low cost and low quality. There was a brief period in history when the Japanese struggled to enter the bicycle market with higher quality goods. They did it at very low cost. At the very leading edge of this, it was possible to buy good equipment, from Japan, for not much money. That time passed. I was in the right place and time.
Back to the story: My research led me to buy mail order (this was long before the internet), from a Japanese company. The only drawback was, “you have to assemble it yourself.” I felt I was up to the challenge. How hard could it be? I sent the order in.
My first surprise was the size of the box. It didn’t look big enough to hold a bicycle. It was heavy enough though. And on the side of the box, along with a lot of Japanese characters, where the words, “Ship Up This Side Bicycle Fragile.” Do I need to mention that the box was upside down? And somewhat battered.
At home, I opened the crate and started unpacking. And unpacking. And more unpacking. Once all the cardboard and paper were removed I had… Two rims. Two hubs. Two tires. Two inner tubes. A fork. A frame. A seatpost. A saddle. Three bundles of spokes. And dozens of small paper envelope packages, of various sizes. The envelopes were numbered. They contained, screws, ball bearings, spoke nipples, springs, and other, less recognizable parts. Not one single part was attached to another! Oh yes! There was also an “Instruction Paper.”
That last item was printed on rice paper. It was printed on both sides, in fine print, with small, nearly incomprehensible mechanical drawings.
I started to read the instructions. I found the beginning by find the title,
MitiYama Race Bicylcing Instruction Paper
Sizing 6150-24.16mminch
Make Instruction
The first thing I encountered, below that was the extremely helpful admonition, “To assemble Japanese bicycle require great paece of mind.”
Great Paece of Mind…
After that was a list of tools that would be required to do the job. Some of them had illustrations beside them. Out of that list I had, a ball peen hammer, a phillips screw driver, a common screw driver, and a pair of pliers. I didn’t even know what most of the others were.
There was, a bicycle shop in the nearby college town. I loaded up and went there. The head mechanic quoted me a price to turn this pile of parts into a working bicycle. My stomach got that “over the top of the roller coaster feeling.” The quote, added to what I’d already paid for the thing, amounted to close to the purchase price of one of those fancy European bikes. I told him I couldn’t even come close to that.
It must have been a slow day at the shop. The mechanic asked to take a look at what I had, and did some unpacking. Then he said, “Tell you what. I’ll press the headset races into the frame and onto the fork for you. I’ll also sell you a spoke wrench. The work and the wrench will only cost you about five dollars. If you’re smart and patient, you can get around all the rest.”
Then he added an astonishing statement. “If you can get this into shape for me to tune it, I’ll give you a part time job.” That sounded like a deal to me, and we shook on it.
For the next week and a half I barely slept. If I wasn’t working, eating, or at school, I was working on the bicycle. There were a lot of false starts, and a lot of mistakes. I got it done. It wasn’t rideable, but it was assembled.
I took my results back to the bike shop. My new friend, the mechanic, was as good as his word. He put me to work sweeping the floor, carrying out trash, sorting old parts, doing odd jobs. The work I did for the first week, about fifteen hours, paid for getting the bike ride-worthy.
The next couple of months, I was basically “paid” in tools, parts, and clothing. But I was becoming a “bike mechanic.”
I also raced on the Japanese bicycle. With “great paece of mind.” It took me places. It always had a few odd quirks. It didn’t like 1-3 gear combination, or the 2-2, and on one ever figured out why. It developed an interesting wobble while descending at speed. It was soon demoted to becoming my “car,” while I raced on a very pricey Italian bike. I sold it. For not very much money. I wish I still had the thing.
The Great and Weird Road Dragon Bike Contest
Contest Question #11) Do the Novice Road Ride loop backwards, starting at Bicycles Unlimited. After exactly 9.39 miles turn right. Go 0.6 miles and turn left. Go 2.03 miles and turn right. Go 1.55 miles and turn left. Go 0.85 miles and turn right. Go 0.27 miles and reverse course. Go 0.12 miles and stop. What have you just learned?
{Monday: More info on contest prizes.}
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