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