I heartily enjoyed the story posted two days ago (check the archives), about a man's prodigal return to his mentor and his mentor's bike after the demise of its owner. I have often thought that the heart of my fascination with classic bikes has as much to do with my past as the history and intrinsic value of the bikes involved. Think of how the bikes have changed with the times that produced them. I think about bikes that have the Camelot-downfall spirit that was built in just after 1963. When I was first aware that I might have to jump through fire to escape the draft of the late 60's, I looked at the PX-10's as a comforting space coming from the land that had the wisdom to get out of South East Asia, while the getting was still good. When the protesters chanted "Adieu!" to DeGaule, that endeared me to the people and their fine cycle culture.
When the war ended for the U.S., the bike boom began. Suddenly, young men that I saw in Central Park were no longer riding their ten speeds while feeling the cold chill of the draft on their backs, but were riding as part of a new found freedom dance. The bikes of the early to mid 70's looked and felt like new found freedom.
The bikes of the late 70's and early 80's spoke of the promise fulfilled of cycling as part of the eco revolution, spurred by the power of the dollar against the weakened yen. Bicycling magazine had a cover article with the face off between the best of Japan and Italy. I bought Japanese largely because I naively felt that a Zen consciousness would somehow transform all our lives, as we began to live our lives with "less is more", the fine line beauty of "Shibui", and harmony with nature. Boy, has the new century proved me wrong!
Here is where the Classic Rendezvous time cut off comes into play, and what a cutoff it is. The new emerging world, after 1983 has heralded the extruded bicycle, bereft of any human hand in it's essential construction. I don't just dislike the present state of affairs in bicycle manufacture, I dislike the times that produces it. When I think back to the bikes I most like, I remember the people who rode them, I remember what they were thinking, and what I was dreaming.
Garth Libre in Miami Shores Florida. (land of limitless growth, as we gobble up the last gasp of the Everglades)