Boneshaker Magazine / Issue #12

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gital. To , of course, it’s di al re t n’ is is th t Excep r, to feel real Boneshake a on s nd ha ur get yo ier, go de it in your pann hi d an it l el sm it and uff too, her great bike st ot e ak m e W . here them art prints. Check e cl cy bi ly al ci espe let your ears take out here. And to our journey, there’s your mind on a ries. new podcast se

©Robert Thompson

Modern life is in an endless hurry. Parcels delivered next day, same day, same afternoon, news rolling 24hrs a day, faster computers, faster cars, faster food. We’re galloping to the grave, putting ourselves under ever greater pressure to get everything done on the double.

But sometimes the best things come slow. Cycling reminds us that there’s more to each journey than its destination, that we get more from life if we don’t rush it.

This issue of Boneshaker’s been a long time coming; longer than we expected, certainly.

We’ve been trying things a little differently, involving more

designers in the process. One of the three-man Boneshaker team became a dad, decamped to a cabin by a river, spent more time chopping wood, keeping bees and swimming. Another has been nurturing his design practice, and the third has just been cycling, writing and daydreaming too much. But, after gathering stories about lake-jumping, building cargo bikes, racing with missing limbs and riding in search of the simple life, the issue’s come together at last. It’s been a wonderful journey.

We hope issue #12 is worth the wait. But we’re not sorry we’re late.

Team Boneshaker

Contents Creation Myths 4 The revolution will not be motorised 6 Lake jumping 14 Musicians on bikes 20 Rickshaw riders 26 Roads were not built for cars 32 Eat. Pedal. Sleep.

36 Piratas 38 Prepare to meet your maker 44 About Ladybower 48 Railbiking 50

contributors

Words...Mike White, Bill Marshall, Michael Rohde, Peter Hoffman, Joe Riley, Audrey Snyder, Bob Mellin, Rick Hunter, Dick Bentley, Carlton Reid, Jameson Kergozou, Paul Manson, Daria Bogdanska, Oriol Hernandez, David Corkle, Jet McDonald, Derek Cappus, Drew Glaser, Simon Armitage, Ali Campbell, Jimmy ell, Joy Netanya Thompson, Robert Thompson Drawings...Celyn Brazier, Jade They, Pete English, Lucy Letherland, Ilse Weisfelt, Eva Dolgyra, Uula Jero Photos... Brian Vernor, Peter Hoffman, Dick Bentley, Carlton Reid, Jameson Kergozou, Paulo Martelli, Justine Blore, Peter Cintalan, Drew Glaser, Chris Walker, Ali Campbell, Robert Thompson, Lorraine Ishak, Uula Jero, Alec Farmer, David John Aikenhead Design... Luke Francis, Chris Woodward, Never Know Defeat, Molly Cockroft, Jon Rich, Mel Skellon, Ali Campbell, John Coe

backpats and handclaps

Anny Mortada, Amy Tocknell, Andrew Riddington, Anna Horleston, Martin at Cycletricity, the big ol' River Wye and the becoming of Finn River Lucas, Phil & Tessa Taylor at Bespoked, Bristol Cycle Festival, Richie T & the L.A. Bike Cult, Richard Ballantine (R.I.P.), Ruth, Joana and Corinna at the V&A, Colin at Electric Pedals and James Perrott for his yoda-like business brain (www.jamesperrott.com). Our apologies to Brian Vernor (www.brianvernor.com) for failing to credit him for a handful of the photographs in issue 11's Tall Bike feature and his involvement in the making of the film Where Are You Go.

copyrights & disclaimers Boneshaker is a quarterly publication. The articles published reflect the opinions of their respective authors and are not necessarily those of the publishers and editorial team. Š2013 Boneshaker. At present, we are committed to remaining free from advertisements & advertorial. rinted by Taylor Bros Bristol on FSC Ž certified paper P made from sustainable sources, using vegetable based inks.

13-25 Wilder Street, Bristol BS2 8PY / www.taylorbros.uk.com Conceived by james lucas & john coe Compiled, edited and brought to life by jimmy ell, mike white, john coe & sadie campbell Art directed and published by john coe / www.coecreative.com Cover image by Celyn Brazier / www.celynbrazier.com (originally created for MacMillan Cancer Support / www.macmillan.org.uk) Inside front spread by Jade They / www.jadethey.com

Illustration Lucy Letherland / www.lucyletherland.com

“We can mock those hippies with impunity nowadays, jaded and oversold as we are.

But riders still crave the wild spaces.�

Words Paul Manson / teaandpedalgrease.tumblr.com

“Mountain biking, as it began, as our creation legend tells us, is nothing less than an escape attempt.”

Every culture has its stories: the eagle angrily tossing the emu’s egg into the sky to create the sun; the almighty god willing light to appear with his words; the humans dragged from the planet’s only lake. Around the world, children are told these myths, infused with them, with their ideas, their world views.

Whole systems of morality are soaked into these stories, seeping through the generations. Our creation myths are our very oldest tales, and we shouldn’t ignore them. Alas, mountain biking has, almost since its birth, ignored the genesis of its own (sub)culture.

The Marin County riders were hijacking old bicycles for freedom-communion with the natural beauty around them.

We can mock those hippies with impunity nowadays, jaded and oversold as we are. But riders still crave the wild spaces.

We use the technology to escape the world, to slip into higher singletrack consciousness. Despite the ever fancier technology we bolt to our bikes, riding has always been about that primitivist escape. This deep irony inherent in mountain biking is mostly ignored. The tech is fetishised and the savage spirit is an afterthought.

Now, among riders, the tale itself is pretty well known. The basic storyline of the birth of the mountain bike rolls out like this:

In a culture without stories, without the taproot sinking to our core, we risk losing that spirit. We forget the fabricator in the backyard shack with a lathe, the raw rider love film, the shovel monkey out in the woods in the winter. The multimillion-dollar mountain bike industry no doubt prefers that we’ve largely forgotten our DIY past, but the community of riders haven’t gained quite so much. We ride with logos everywhere but nothing to say, no way to speak. Mountain biking needs more from its culture than just another glossy hi-def corporate flick and a racer poster boy.

In the beginning there was a mountain. Mount Tamalpais, San Francisco, California. In the earthy depths of the 1970s, a few groups of welding-torch-wielding-drop-outs began to cobble together old pre-war cruisers and explore the mountain. They scooped up old newsboy bikes, ripped off all the baskets and bells, the mudguards and fake fuel tanks. They shoved in the fattest tyres they could get their hands on, and began to burn off coaster brake grease ripping down the dusty fire tracks of Tam. They scoped out new trails, got high in the back woods and grooved to the Grateful Dead in the NorCal hippy scene back in town. That was the beginning.

But something went wrong.

The rot started quickly, with a stopwatch or two, with Repack finish lines and macho cornering. Riders lapsed into competition. There was rapid evolution of bikes and skills; someone started a shop. Quickly, others ripped off the designs.

Backyard builders became whole corporations. Someone yanked off their jeans and woodsman shirt, and squeezed into lycra; another pulled on motocross pyjamas. The bar end was invented, and the Union Cycliste Internationale slipped their claws around it, and wrote a rule book. The riders, those hippies and radicals who had started a wholesale countercultural revolt on the regimented world of cycling, were more than defeated; they were incorporated.

Mountain biking, as it began, as our creation legend tells us, is nothing less than an escape attempt.

History is full of folk, radical and proud, who stood and declared that something was being lost with so-called ‘progress’. Mountain biking may be a smaller battleground, but it’s our battleground. It’s clear to me that mountain biking has lost a great deal since its beginnings, when the Mount Tam riders recognised the embryonic freedom machines they’d built. Where are the artists that we riders can all revere? Where are the poets who speak directly to the core of our riding experiences, the musicians who feed back into our culture what they feel from it in trailside joy?

Nowadays, creation stories may not sit so heavily on our global cultures as they once might have done.

They still weave their way through our collective subconscious, but at a deeper level, less clear and readily to hand. We can dismiss them as hang overs, cultural fossils irrelevant in our time. Or maybe mountain bikers could take greater heed of our own past. Maybe those creation myths might just point to a more beautiful trail.

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Words Jimmy Ell & Uula Jero Photos Uula Jero, Lorraine Ishak, Alec Farmer & David John Aikenhead Logo Illustrations Eva Dolgyra DIY diagrams Uula Jero 8

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BEING ABLE TO HAUL CARGO IS A PREREQUISITE FOR FLEXIBLE SELF SUFFICIENT TRANSPORTATION

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ith his braces and flat cap and a baby on his back, it’s not hard to spot Uula Jero in amongst the flurry of other cyclists as he pedals his way towards me.

Before he’s barely had a chance to come to a stop, I’ve had a huge hug and introductions to his two-year-old daughter Aarni and his partner Lorraine. We have never met before now but he is one of those people that make you feel effortlessly as if you have known them your whole life. Immediately gregarious, warm and open with an infectious excitement that imbues everything we talk about – from fatherhood to his native Finland and his passion for bike recycling and empowering people to up tools and get creating. I am meeting with him en route to London from Glasgow (where he currently resides), where he is about to embark on his next project – a collaboration with Dima Mabsoud to build the ‘Naked Wagon’, a towable trailer that will be pulled behind a sociable bicycle to allow artists to exhibit their work on the move. A sociable bicycle, for those that don't know, is one with two saddles mounted side by side.

Uula has been exploring the benefits of human-powered technology for the last eight years under the moniker of his enterprise ‘Tools for a Simple Life’. However, it wasn’t until the winter of 2005, when he stumbled upon a discarded bicycle frame in a skip outside a bicycle recycling centre close to the Helsinki School of Industrial Arts (where he was studying) that "the world of bicycles really revealed itself" to him. “Seeing this naked frame lying there was the moment when I understood its functionally de-tangled simplicity. Before then I had always enjoyed riding a bicycle but it had never revealed its true essence to me in such a visceral way.”

He returned to the bicycle recycling centre fully aware that he wanted to learn everything that was required to make it run again. The centre took him under their wing, allowing him to rummage through their oily bins of spare parts at every available opportunity and teaching him the essential knowledge and tricks of the trade of working with old bicycle technology, whilst also leaving him to his own devices, “Early on they directed me to the container of bottom bracket parts and I just started screwing bits in and out of the frame to see what would work. To my surprise, everything made more sense than I had previously thought. All that was really needed was the courage and motivation to explore the technology with my own hands,” Uula explains.

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It wasn’t long before he started making his 16km commute through the congested morning traffic to school in Helsinki on the bike he had put together himself. The liberating sensation of freedom and self-sufficiency was enormous. “I had once been a keen motorist, succumbing to that ecstasy of speed. But I did not know how flimsy the illusion was,” he tells me, “once I’d seen through it and got a bike, I no longer had to worry myself over the upkeep of a car and expensive specialist repairs; all that I needed now to keep my bicycle running reliably would fit in my backpack. For as long as my legs would carry, I would not be left standing puzzled on the side of the road.”

What followed thereafter was a sort of epiphany, a sudden waking up to a reality that he had previously perceived very differently, “The longer I studied industrial design, the more intimately all this modern technology revealed itself to me.

Perhaps naively, I had always considered that technology had a genuinely liberating function and human interest driving it, but it became obvious that, more often than not, it is simply serving the interests of market forces. Modern technology does not reveal to us what it means to simply be content, but instead offers temporary alleviation to our existential crisis.”

And so, in 2008, as his project for his BA thesis, Uula built a simple yurt that could be transported, along with all of his other material belongings, in a bicycle trailer. He put up the shelter in Cologne, Germany and moved in to explore the nature of subjective need. The paramount questions in his mind were: how can we regulate our consumption, and how much do we really need to be content? As a result of this experiment, it occurred to him that the right kind of technology could in fact teach us about ourselves. This technology, if it was sufficiently human in scale, and connected us to the physical limitations of ourselves and the natural environment, could steer society in a direction that was sustainable. “Like the bicycle, there are such technologies that encourage introspection and give a more modest physical reference point to consumption. This reference point is not what a motorised machine can achieve, but where we, as humans, can stop and say that a sufficient effort has been made.”

His daughter Aarni is growing restless and clambers over the table towards us, narrowly avoiding our cups of coffee, and jumps into Uula’s outstretched arms. His laughter fills the room. “The birth of my daughter in Scotland was actually

the beginning of the People’s Utility Bicycle Project. I was presented with the unexpected challenge of trying to meet the transportation needs of a family on a bicycle and I did not have the funds to purchase a factory-made utility bicycle. Browsing the internet for do-it-yourself instructions revealed that I’d need special facilities and tools to make one for myself. I thought that I could not be the only one in this situation and decided to do something about it.”

And so, stuck in Glasgow with a box of simple tools and the limitations of a normal flat in which to work, Uula set about scavenging common material waste around the city and carrying it back to both his friend Alec’s living room and his own. They started working by extending the function of scrap bicycles that they already had kicking around, following the idea of some time-tested typeforms. It was from these successful prototypes that simple illustrated instructions were created and made available to be downloaded, printed, photocopied and spread around to anyone interested in having a go themselves.

process. “Definitely. It’s all about having fun. Being brave and light-hearted when experimenting with new and mysterious things. When working with discarded material one really has got nothing to lose. Getting it right is a real triumph.”

The bikes Uula builds are quite something to behold. The ‘box bike’, ‘doubler’ and ‘barrel bike’ are all creations of his that take inspiration from industrial tricycles developed first in the 1870s, ‘Long John’ designs starting from the 1940s and the various social cargo bicycles that emerged around these, such as the sociable snow plough in the 1940s. “They are all developed as appropriate technology that can be manufactured energyfrugally; with simple tools and techniques, using mainly the waste of society as a resource.”

Another important part of Uula’s outlook is prioritizing low-energy manufacturing and demonstrating wherever possible how the waste of our society can be used efficiently and viably via non-destructive recycling.

Abandoned shopping trolleys, old oil barrels, damaged highway signs, waste timber, discarded bicycles and car exhaust clamps have all featured heavily in his designs. “Rather than incessantly extracting new resources, a resource-based economy – as opposed to a profit-based one - develops by multiplying the benefit of already existing resources – by reusing and recycling to the greatest degree possible.”

IT’S ALL ABOUT HAVING FUN. BEING BRAVE AND LIGHT-HEARTED WHEN EXPERIMENTING WITH NEW AND MYSTERIOUS THINGS...

“Being able to haul cargo is a prerequisite for flexible selfsufficient transportation. There is the requirement to go about daily life – shopping, moving young children, transporting material to work and equipment to hobbies. Many trades are also reliant on transporting goods, tools and equipment, and some entrepreneurs are once again becoming aware of the possibilities of trade that can take place on a bicycle.”

Fundamental to Uula’s project is promoting awareness of how simply bicycle technology can be used to empower us to be self-sufficient in local transportation, and to a greater degree, to begin to replace the function of motorised vehicles in this way. Easy-to-follow, open-source instructions that will hopefully encourage and motivate even the most reluctant of ‘do-it-yourselfers’ are available online and kept deliberately simple. Having fun making stuff is an important part of the

Reusing and upcycling older technology is often easier than working with new versions of the same thing because the older technology is less complex and has been built with simple repair and maintenance tasks in mind. Such was the culture, when society was living more frugally. In the absence of cheap products, it made sense to mend things and sustain commodities as long as possible. They can now offer a better alternative to modern mass produced commodities.

We talk about how most people have limited access to workshop space, something he has already taken into account. “A great deal of the building of these bikes was deliberately done in my 11

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living room and other domestic settings in order to influence the direction of development towards simple solutions. When working in a workshop environment, it is easy to resort to the use of specialist tools and to take for granted many things such as good worktops and vises.” However, it was only a matter of time before Uula got the ultimatum from Lorraine to move the workshop out of their living room. He now rents workshop space and has since built up his tool supply to make the fabricating process more efficient, but the home-made origins still remain an important part of the process.

I talk to Uula about my recent trip to Copenhagen and of seeing people of all ages cycling around a whole manner of stuff, including musical equipment, tools, children and dogs, and sometimes a fantastic mix of all of the above. I explain how it lights up my eyes in the same way that seeing people enjoying themselves on a tandem or tallbike does. It is infectious, no doubt about it. Having seen it most in Berlin, Amsterdam and Copenhagen, cargo-cycling really does feel like an indication of a progressive urban centre and something that we should all be aspiring towards. Uula mentions that he has also drawn a lot of inspiration from these cities.

“Theirs is a success that owes much to the government’s efforts to encourage cycling and take it seriously as a viable form of transportation despite the growing trend in motorised mobility since the 1950s. The key to the success in cities like Copenhagen is that cycling has been prioritised over cars in policy and city planning. Tightened regulations also favour bicycles over cars in traffic, forcing the motorists to take responsibility relative to the risk they pose. In order for cycling to be recognised and taken seriously amidst motorised traffic, it needs to reach a critical mass. The safety of cycling increases as motorists get used to the presence of bicycles, and space is allocated for bicycle lanes.”

Aside from Uula’s own creations, he has inspired a whole flurry of cargo-bike building by other people; William Greensmith’s entirely wooden cargo bicycle (based on Robert Battersby’s wooden bicycle), the Trakke Mobile (for Trakke Messenger bags) and the aforementioned Naked Wagon project. He was also recently commissioned to build some bikes for an Indian takeaway kitchen in order for them to deliver tiffin boxes around Glasgow. It appears to be somewhat infectious. “Yes it does rather!

I think that when people have seen what it’s possible to build with no formally acquired skills, they feel empowered to create what they require for their own needs. I enjoy it enormously to see people independently discovering building cargo bicycles in their various forms. My friend Jussi Peltokangas has been doing amazing development in Helsinki on the Barrel Bike. He is also a part of the proactive group running an open and free DIY bicycle workshop called Pyöräpaja Ry over there. Currently it is operating only on donations, but constructing and selling cargo

bicycles in the premises has been discussed as a way to generate income as part of improving the workshop’s self-sufficiency and hence securing its existence.”

I mention to Uula that I first became aware of him by way of what must surely be his most bizarre creation to date – the Amphibious Bicycle (pictured opposite, bottom right). Although not strictly a cargo bike, it is worth mentioning. “Bicycle touring down the northern coast of Norway, en route to Scotland, I grew frustrated spending so many days climbing mountains around fjords. This was when the idea of the amphibious bicycle was conceived.

Perhaps propelled by the same instinct as the first creature to crawl out of the primordial waters, there must be countless times that a cyclist has arrived at the shores of a sea or a lake, wishing to grow fins at the end of their drivetrain. Playing with the boundaries of our exploration of the environment, this project pays homage to the art of moving on land and waterways. The amphibious bicycle was also my first step to discover the world of velomobiles, that I have an endless fascination for – it seemed appropriate to start it in such a lighthearted manner.”

What strikes me most about Uula is his approach to all of this. Rather than locking himself away and keeping his plans and discoveries to himself, only to sell them back to people for a profit, he embraces the open-source approach to development, with the paramount aim of sharing knowledge.

“This is to enable user freedom and to encourage outside collaboration in pooling of skills and ideas”, he says, “open source technology encourages its users to explore it more intimately.

The amount of information available enables users to master the tool they are using, and in return contribute to the community in developing the technology. In fact, anyone at any skill level can give a valuable insight to make it more accessible and functional. I’ve heard a saying before that ‘everything is simpler than it looks, but it is those who add the mystery that make the extra buck.’”

“Open design is more than just a new way to create products. As a process, and as a culture, open design also changes relationships among the people who make, use and look after things. Unlike proprietary or branded products, open solutions tend to be easy to maintain and repair locally. They are the opposite of the short-lived, use-and-discard, two-wash-two-wear model of mainstream consumer products.” (Van Abel et al.)

We talk further about the revival of handicraft in a deskilled modern society and of how technology that promotes user independence and self-sufficiency is entirely opposite to that which is offered to the modern consumer. “Interfaces no longer encourage the user to engage with the internal workings of machines. The function is not externalised, but rather hidden 13

The predicament is that utilitarian cycling is gaining popularity from the bottom-up, and before the means visibly appear on the streets, it will not be taken seriously...

behind plastic covers and LCD screens, that give an impression of ‘user friendliness’, but generally do not grant comprehensive information about maintenance. Users are dependent on a network of services, and abandoned if they don’t upgrade when the tools they use become obsolete.” Despite the nefarious efforts of some manufacturers and the advent of idiotic fripperies like electronic gear-shifters, most bicycles quietly challenge the spread of planned obsolescence; their form keeps their function legible.

“Speed is the form of ecstasy the technical revolution has bestowed on man. As opposed to a motorcyclist, the runner is always present in his body, forever required to think about his blisters, his exhaustion; when he runs he feels his weight, his age, more conscious than ever of himself and of his time of life. This all changes when man delegates the faculty of speed to a machine: from there, his own body is outside the process, and he gives over to a speed that is non-corporeal, nonmaterial, pure speed, speed itself, ecstasy speed.”

(Milan Kundera, Slowness, 1995) Similarly, motor vehicles make over-consumption all too easy.

“It is more difficult to be frugal, and easier to overindulge, in a motorised vehicle. Humans can regulate their efforts when they become exhausted, but machines are never-tiring, always excited entities that will continue to produce without sensitivity to the same physical limitations. Machines will simply run until there is nothing left in their tanks,” Uula says.

I mention that, as I see it, even when people are made aware of the potential of cargo bikes, a major obstacle is the high purchase price, which is prohibitive for many. “Absolutely,” he says, “for a converting motorist, acquiring a cargo bicycle is not a relatively large investment, averaging around two and a half thousand Euros. For a company swapping a small van for a bicycle, a cargo bike represents not a cost but a huge saving. But for a poor household without a car, the cost is a very large obstacle. Cargo bicycles are, for the most part, currently produced in places 14

where the demand and sophistication of cycling culture are already high. But elsewhere it is harder to acquire one. In many cases it requires costly shipping from overseas. The predicament is that utilitarian cycling is gaining popularity from the bottomup, and before the means visibly appear on the streets, it will not be taken seriously. Therefore, being able to provide an affordable cargo bicycle service locally is an important step in making it accessible, and thereby increasing its presence on our streets.

Most cargo bicycles today are industrially produced from new resources, and their technical sophistication level is high. Because of the high amounts of embodied energy, such a practice cannot be considered as sustainable as low-energy manufacturing and reusing technology. Commercial cargo bicycle solutions were produced in large quantities before motorisation became popular, and it is partially due to the specialist nature of the technology that they fell into decline. Technical solutions ought to be simple and reliable. Sometimes appropriate technology is better than high sophistication. Transparent, simple solutions can be adapted to local needs and the components and materials can be tailored so that they efficiently utilise local resources.”

Uula’s keen to encourage ‘build your own cargo bicycle’ courses, and together with his friend William Greensmith he has started a 'Quick 'n' Dirty' DIY bicycle trailer workshop, after they discovered that a fit-for-purpose solution could be made very simply out of pallet wood and a slice of car tyre for a hitch.

“It seems to be an ideal solution for workshops, where people with few practical skills can put one together in as little as one five-hour session, to expand the utilitarian use of their bicycles.”

“Utilitarian use of the bicycle holds great potential for an energy-poor future. The benefits of bicycles in present day energy-poor societies can be seen in 'developing' countries.

They empower people to access what is scarce. The necessities of food and water, or employment, social opportunities and education are considerably easier to reach with a bicycle. As people in 'developing' countries currently struggle to gain access to such luxuries, heaps of bicycles lie unused and unappreciated elsewhere. What needs to be rekindled is the use of bicycles everywhere as a utilitarian tool.”

The People’s Utility Bicycle Project has been running for two years now, staying afloat financially by developing simple utility bicycles from waste, by taking commissions and organising workshops. “The quality of my work and the technical solutions are improving constantly – I love hands-on learning and problem solving. I am also developing a hawkish eye for scavenging useful material! I can only assume that it is a never-ending process.”

Not long after watching Uula ride away with his braces, flat cap, and Aarni on his back, I found myself freewheeling through the city with my own newborn son nestled in the back of a cargo bike borrowed from a friend. It felt like the way forward...

THE PAST OF UTILITARIAN CYCLING The benefit of utility bicycles was acknowledged in the dawn of the safety bicycle. In fact, the industrial tricycle was developed in England as early as the 1870s (the safety bicycle became popular in the 1880s). It was the choice of tradesmen; providing mobility to grocers, druggists, bakers and various other professions. These tricycles, along with some later utility bicycles, were copied, modified and produced by various factories in different corners of the world. Utilitarian bicycles were a hit, until the disruptive technology of internal combustion engines became available to the common man. The apparent advantages were simply too tempting, fuel was cheap and made it effortless to carry larger loads over longer distances. The popularity of delivery bicycles was struck a fatal blow, and the utility bicycle manufacturers moved onto other types of production. The bicycles were left rotting without adequate service and support. The boom of motorisation lead quickly to excess and it became a symbol of convenience in the western world. Even the lightest duty applications adopted the new technology, despite the fact that motorised traffic moves more slowly than bicycles in many cities.

Simultaneously, awareness of the potential of humanpowered applications began to decline.

Popularity of adult cycling had a minor comeback in the periods of post-war energy poverty, as well as during the 1970s oil crisis, but with the rapid recovery and manipulation of oil prices, the popularity was never capitalised upon. Thanks to these short spells of crisis, and the visionaries who continued working with the promise of utilitarian cycling, the knowledge and development have been sustained in a semi-dormant state. Despite the current rise in fuel prices, the scarcity and cost of utility bicycles have slowed their rise as a viable alternative form of transportation. In places where it is more established, though, the benefit of cycle-powered haulage has proven itself a viable alternative, even in supporting the logistics of mass-produced goods. Research indicates that a quarter of all deliveries in urban areas could be replaced by cargo bicycles.

In many cities, the role of the bicycle is being expanded to include certain types of freight haulage. Although bicycles may never displace trucks for carrying really heavy freight, the small loads and frequent stops required of some urban deliveries – flowers and pizzas spring to mind – actually favour the use of a bike. This was the experience of the largest industrial bakery in Bogotá, which replaced 200 delivery trucks with 800 tricycles as far back as the mid1990s – a move that substantially lowered the cost of deliveries to its 22,000 daily customers. Similarly, a Pepsi distributor in San Salvador found that a bicycle and trailer could deliver 900 cases of cola per month – as many as the previous delivery vehicle, a five-ton truck, but at a fraction of the expense. UPS recently began reintroducing bicycles into its vehicle portfolio. Reintroducing? Yup – when the firm was established, way back in 1907, its young staff used bicycles. It’s true what they say: what goes around comes around. www.toolsforasimplelife.org www.nakedwagon.com

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PHOTOGRAPHY BY DREW GLASER WORDS DEREK CAPPUS & DREW GLASER

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VIEW FROM THE BIKE “From busting big skids down gravel roads to riding to friends’ houses around town, riding bikes has always been a passion of mine, ever since I was a kid. Another hobby I have is exploring back roads and trails, which is where the pictures you see here come into play.

“I was checking out Google Earth around a lake near town. I had heard that across the lake, near the top of the mountain next to it, there were trails. Not knowing where to begin looking I figured I would go with what looked like a small lake or pond. I zoomed in fairly close, close enough to see the old gravel roads that led down from the lake. Following them backwards and eventually meeting up with the highway, I wrote down the directions, called my girlfriend and began to explore.

“After the very bumpy, washed out, overgrown road started nearing the top of the mountain, there it was. A beautiful little lake, complete with a view of another nearby mountain top, a cool little island in the middle and to top it all off, an awesome lake jump! The jump immediately looked familiar. It was from a movie I had seen with ‘The Claw’, aka Darren Berrecloth, a professional free-rider for Specialized.

“Having found the lake and jump, I was eager to test it out with my bike. Me and a buddy went up to groom the run in and do a little fixing up to the jump itself. On the first roll in I was a little nervous, but after a couple times hitting it my nerves had settled and I felt pretty good. Trying backflips was #1 on my to-do list, and after about three or four tries I had them pretty much dialled. I’ve been using my good hardtail – it’s a Dartmoor 26Player, a nice light little bike. I’ve been giving it regular oil afterwards and everything seems to be in tip-top shape despite all those mighty high-divin’ lake dunkings.

“Ever since then I’ve been heading up there several times a week to get a few hours in, trying new tricks, having a good time.

Lake landings are pretty much pain free – it’s cool how fast you can improve and evolve your tricks when the fear of getting hurt isn’t there, although I have had a few pretty gnarly bails to my face.”

by Derek Cappus

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VIEW FROM THE CAMERA “It works well for me as a photographer having a good buddy – a cousin in fact – who not only rides well but is always stoked to search for new areas to build, ride and shoot. So one weekend, Derek gives me a dingle to see if I was going to be in town. He told me that he had found something that would be fun to shoot. He never disappoints when it comes to situations like that, so without hesitation I was in.

“Saturday, we drove around all morning asking friends for a bike-rack we could use for the day, but none of them seemed to work. So we ended up using the one Derek had originally, which held only one bike. At the base of our climb, we met a local fella that rides too. He had a friend with him, two greasy little dogs (one that was balding), and his girlfriend. The plan was to take Derek’s ’94 Jeep YJ up to this spot. So in the end we had a jeep with four seats plus a bike rack that held only one bike – but five humans, two dogs, two bikes, a shovel and a rake plus a load of other trail-building tools, a couple of backpacks, wetsuits and food!

“We ended up having to tie a rope onto the frame of a bike and someone had to get towed along on it, bouncing along behind the jeep. It was a pretty rough, narrow path, basically an off-roaders’ trail. The branches of the trees were scratching the paint on Derek’s ‘adventuremobile’ like nails on a chalkboard.

We made it to our destination with everyone intact (even the balding dog that wanted to sit on the front seat with me, but that wasn’t going to happen).

“So there we were, beside this small lake at the top of a mountain: quiet, secluded and beautiful. You could hear birds singing; see the snow glistening on the surrounding mountains.

But the most interesting thing for us was this amazing wooden jump constructed beside the lake. While some people head to Whistler to enjoy their heated air dome stunts and foam-pit landings, Derek enjoys putting on his wetsuit and feeling the rush of a crash landing in a chilly lake.

He’s just that kind of guy.”

by Drew Glaser

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Illustrations

Illustration Ilse/ Weisfelt Ilse Weisfelt www.ilseweisfelt.com www.ilseweisfelt.com 22

“The maker’s weird is to be a wanderer: the poets of mankind go through many countries, speak their needs, say their thanks.

–––– Always they meet with someone, in the south lands or the north, who understands their art, an open handed man...”

FROM THE “WORD-HOARD” OF WIDSITH, MEDIEVAL MINSTREL

Musicians are roamers. Minstrels and Roma have always travelled by foot, horse and cart and it's always been a surprise to me that the next step wasn't a hop onto the bicycle. But the affordable bike arrived not long before the combustion engine poked its nose into the byways, and with the advent of mass media and global culture musicians were packed into vans like so much mouldy produce.

It's only more recently that musicians have been getting back on their bikes and enjoying the ride to the gig almost much as the gig itself. If music is noise in motion, then cycling echoes that same pleasure through travel, with rhythms, ups and downs and lyrical adventures.

The medieval minstrel equated joy with movement and music, where the poems and carols of courtiers were literally heard and seen as a kind of joy in motion. Musicians and artists have always been alive to the moment and cycling provides that self-same raucous ‘presence’ in the world. “We don't live for tomorrow,” says the Macedonian gypsy Naat Veliov “we live for today. And it shows in our playing – we put everything in the heart and the soul. To make music is our happiness and we love to share our happiness.”

Historically, travelling minstrels weren't just players, they were all-round circus entertainers and you'd more likely find them at a village

festival, the ‘Ale Minstrel’, than a courtly parlour. And now, as then, you can still find a particular kind of wayward musician enjoying the upended rules of a good festival, and travelling with their songs over yonder hills.

I gathered together some musicians who travel on bikes and chatted to them about their experiences of riding and playing music. You can catch up with their songs on the Boneshaker bandcamp site. Not all the tunes are odes to joy, more a vivid relish for life that mirrors the ups and downs of a good cycling trip.

The first chap I met was Pip Taylor, a mischievous, curly-headed fellow who cycled from the UK to Damascus in Syria just after Bestival, the Isle of Wight musical mash up, in summer 2007.

“I had a tiny ¾ size travel guitar that I took along to all the festivals. I became slightly minstrelised by them, learning loads of songs. I started to write down all the songs I knew and then carried that list around and asked people what they wanted to hear. On tour, being on my own, this was very much an icebreaker. I didn't just want to be a guy on a bike, I wanted to give something. It's very easy to be just a pair of eyes, not really engaging with anything. I was sensitive to the idea that as a tourist you're just consuming, just gobbling up the scenery, not giving anything back.

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All photos on this spread © Justine Blore, taken on the Magical Bicycle Tour in 2010 and 2011

“I cycled across France, taking the ferry to Corsica and Sardinia and then riding across Italy and Greece, staying with people, taking rests, falling in and out of love with cycling, before pedalling all the way from Turkey to Syria and Damascus.

“I don't know any songs that aren’t in English, and by the time I got to Italy I could have been singing anything.

Because I don't play particularly well, I rely on knowing the lyrics to keep people interested, so it didn't really work. But by the time I got to Turkey the music was so different it became fun again. People just listened to me and thought 'Oh my god what kind of rhythm is that?' I got invited to a couple of jam sessions and compared to them I felt like I was playing a nursery rhyme, country ‘n’ western style, in four:four.

It seemed so simple and pedestrian, whereas their music was so fluid and mysterious, the notes were all bent.

“Syria was even weirder. On the way down to Damascus people would see the guitar and I’d get dragged off the 24

bike – quite forcefully sometimes – into their houses to play music. And then they'd get out these strange drums and bowed instruments...

“When I got to Damascus I was housesitting in the Christian quarter and ended up on the roof most of the day, learning songs. That's where I wrote ‘Nothing Really Matters’. I’d had the refrain in my head for months, then started making up lyrics to make myself laugh. I was worried about my motives for doing the trip; there was a bit of love involved, a bit of regret, a bit of heartbreak. I was worried I was taking all of that with me and amplifying it because I was on my own. There was a bit of therapy involved.”

a girl in Rome, totally, stupidly, and I spent two weeks writing her a song in my head. I had nothing else to do with my brain. It's really calming being able to choose what you think about.

You have the freedom of the outsider when you're cycling like that. You're an observer. You go feral. Everyone's settled in these places you're cycling through, they’ve all got their routines but you've left that behind, even if only temporarily, and that's hugely appealing for me. After three or four days of rough camping and sleeping in your clothes you get into that frame of mind quite quickly...”

As you cycle alone, the song-in-the-head becomes a conversation with yourself.

Many of the songs I've written in my head while cycling (some of them detailed in Boneshaker 11) have a reflective feel that maybe comes from riding for so far and for so long...

Pip taps into one of the connections between a certain kind of revelry and bike touring here - a bit like the way that a decent music festival is time out, an inversion of the rules of society.

And it seems to me that when you're cycling like this you're escaping the same static rules, passing through other people's lives...

“I wrote five or six songs on that journey and all of them started out as humming in my head. I fell in love with

The Brotherhood of Lizard's frontman Martin Newell is a reveller in different style. He bypassed the pop highway by

embarking on the first ‘green bike tour’ through England in 1989/90. If you Google ‘Brotherhood of Lizards’ there's an amusing clip of Martin and his bandmate Nell cycling with all their gear through rainy 1980s East Anglia and playing market towns, record shops and radio stations, looking every inch wayward minstrels. Martin had a wave of purple hair then. He's got less hair of a different colour now but there's the same guttural passion about music, cycling and life.

Interviewing Martin is a bit like interviewing a bicycle. One push and he's off...

“The boss of our record company said 'there isn't any chance you're going to go touring are you?' But that was one of the reasons I bust up with my last band, that tour-van treadmill.

So I said, with a manic gleam in my eye, 'On bicycles!'

“I looked at a radio map of the South of England and found that most of the radio stations were only about 30 miles apart – if we strapped our guitars to our backs and packed minimal gear we could do a busking tour. Cycle 30 miles, hit the town, do interviews with the local papers and radio, busk in the street, maybe do a gig and then move onto the next one.

'That would generate some publicity,' I said.

“They said 'what do you need?' and I said 'Two decent bikes.'

Between them they cost about £400, whereas I'd worked out that hotels for a month with a transit van, roadies and all the kit would cost a lot more, so bicycle economics immediately appealed to the record company.

“By the end of the tour we'd done about five or six television appearances and the world knew who we were. At one point Dave Stewart [of multi-platinum-selling duo Eurythmics] rang up the boss of the record company and said 'are those two lunatics on bikes anything to do with you?'

“We did two tours in the end and both were about a thousand miles in total. I was very sorry when it was over – it was one of the most memorable experiences of my life. Built a bit of character into me. I came back absolutely fearless.”

This lack of fear is a vanquishing of a kind of stage fright for the world, and the musician and the cyclist both experience this as they weave around the mainstream and wake up to a more emotional and direct experience of travel. For Martin it was about bypassing the listing hulks of the traditional music industry whereas for a younger group of musicians it's about understanding the joys of localism, pedalling off the information superhighway and enjoying live gigs in unexpected places...

‘The Magical Bike Tour’ – named after the Beatles ‘Magical Mystery Tour’ – are a group of like-minded musicians who

" He's got less hair of a different colour now but there's the same guttural passion about music, cycling and life."

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about covering big distances; it's about getting to the next pub.”

Musicians have always been roamers but when the tour bus appeared I wonder if some of the lifestyle of roaming was lost, with people just arriving in places...

“Well travelling like this could be a way of life,” says Dino, “all you need is sustenance. As long as people give you somewhere to stay that's all you need.

You won't be making any profit but you don't need it; you're not paying for a house, you're not paying for petrol. In one place we stayed in a theatre, just slept on the stage. I'd love to take this tour further – a couple of months of solid touring around Europe, thousands of bicycle miles… it is possible.”

Kate, meanwhile, floats another proposition: “I'd love to tour by boat. My sister has a narrowboat that she has just turned into a floating youth hostel. It can sleep12 people so maybe it could carry a couple of bands and be the venue as well...”

“We want to cycle and we want to play music; to put the two together is brilliant, so the idea is to take all our gear with us and combine a cycling holiday with gigs....We all take tonnes of stuff; everybody's got a trailer. The first year we had a few problems, especially with the double bass. It tumbled from its trailer going round a corner and the headstock got smashed off. The lead guitarist won't play unless it's through his valve amp, so he takes the valves out after each gig and puts them in a nest of cotton wool so they don't get rattled.”

The idea of a floating venue makes me think of the idea of ‘Slow Music’. We've got Slow Food and Slow Travel. Why not Slow Music? Songs arrive so fast nowadays, in the click of a button. I like the idea of music arriving really slowly; puttering down a canal, or rolling along a road on a well-tuned bike, the musician and the rider again finding different weaving paths through the gridlock of society, bumping over the kerb into a more wayward festival of the imagination. But Slow Music doesn't have to mean the music itself is downtempo. Take the work of Puncture Kit, aka David Osborne, who featured in the very first issue of Boneshaker.

Dave converted a single speed bike so it could both carry his drums and be the frame for his drumkit and then he started busking in the streets of London.

He's come a long way since then and he too has been pedalling between festivals.

Despite the tonnes of stuff, Dino says they “try to make everything as light as possible and only do 20 miles a day, so we're not too knackered when we get to the venue....That first year, four people were physically sick as I misjudged the distances. I learnt my lesson. The drum kits, stands and cymbals can be split between people but the double bass trailer is always that bit more heavy.

Once you've done one double-bass hill all your muscles are worn out, so I check the OS map more carefully now. It's not

“When I was last in Boneshaker I'd only be doing Puncture Kit for about a year and I had a pretty crappy bike with toy drums on. I just did it for a joke really, down in Brick Lane. Since then I've been focusing on learning how to really play and I've got a stronger bike and a better kit. I moved from London to Brighton and got to do the drumming on some electronic music that we ended playing live at a festival in Malawi called ‘Lake of the Stars’. I stuck around in Malawi for nearly a year afterwards, riding out to

have been touring rural England and Wales by bike for the last three summers.

Regular riders are Dino, a saxophonist, and Jesse Vernon, member of folkish bands This is the Kit and Morningstar. I met them and Jesse’s long-term collaborator, Kate Stables, also of This is the Kit. Jesse explains some of the inspirations for the Tour:

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communities and schools on the bike and doing workshops. A lot of places I went they'd never even seen a drum kit before.

It's not the fact that the kit’s carried on a bike that surprises them – over there they carry trees on their backs while they're riding a bike...

After Malawi I came back and recorded an album, called ‘The Bicycle Drummer’, though the music totally wasn't influenced by cycling – I'd like to be known much more as a drummer.

But it means everything to me that I've got a bike drum kit. It's enabled me to get where I am now. I played the Glastonbury Festival, first as a roving sideshow – then in front of 3000 people in the Dance Village. Since then I've worked as a drummer for London Contemporary Dance School, played at the London Olympics road cycling race and at the Brit Awards after-party... And of course I go everywhere by bike anyway; it's just the best way of getting around.”

All the musicians I spoke to have their own take on bikes and music but the same impulses that power their love of cycling are alive in their music; a sense of freedom, independence and lust for life and a desire to weave around the ruts that mire the combustion engine in its maze of concrete. I remember a round-the-world cyclist shouting at me over a few beers in India: “You've got to get off the rails, man. Get off the rails.”

And you can hop those rails on a bike or on a musical riff, spinning a whirligig through what the poet William Blake would have called, “the circus of the imagination”. Music and wandering will always go together and a wandering musician on a bike will always arrive at a festival bristling with stories, with a sun-kissed face and oil and earth under their fingernails, low on calories but overflowing with the sustenance of life.

Buy them a drink, they've earned it.

Here's Havelock the Dane from 1275: “ Herketh to me, gode men, Wives, maidens, and alle men, Of a tale that ich you wile telle.

At the beginning of ure tale, Fill me a cuppe of full good ale.” ______________________________ www.jetsingssongs.com www.myspace.com/themagicalbiketour www.martinnewell.co.uk www.puncturekit.co.uk

Tracks on www.boneshakermag.bandcamp.com P I P T AY L O R – ‘ N O T H I N G R E A L LY M A T T E R S ’ M A R T I N N E W E L L – ‘ S A T U R D AY G A M E S ’ J E S S E V E R N O N – ‘ S U N I N YO U R E Y E S ’ THIS IS THE KIT –‘WITH HER WHEELS AGAIN’ P U N C T U R E K I T - ‘ S PA N N E R I N T H E H AT ’

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– Words and pictures by Jameson Kergozou India has an estimated eight million cycle rickshaws creaking and clattering around its dusty streets as cargo movers, couriers and taxis. They’re one of the oldest forms of wheeled transport but they are also beginning to be recognised as part of a better future for inner-city travel; a quiet, reliable and non-polluting way to get around. Over the last ten years we have started to see more cycle rickshaws in European cities – even London’s traffic-choked Oxford Street has a few brave grey rickshaws hustling amid the black cabs and bus farts.

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A rickshaw can change the fortunes of a whole family overnight

In India, cycle rickshaws aren’t just in city centres; they are everywhere.

The Initiative for Transportation and Development Programmes (ITDP) India estimates that 70 million motorised trips are saved, thanks to the cycle rickshaw, every day.

They are also often the quickest way in India to get down narrow, crowded streets, weaving in-between a chaotic combination of people, animals and traffic whilst cars and other vehicles get stuck. They are the only means of transport for many of the country’s poor, those who can’t afford the bus, let alone a taxi or a car.

Indian rickshaws are a lot more primitive than their European counterparts; one gear, little in the way of brake pads and a lack of suspension make riding over potholed roads a real test on the spine, but this slight discomfort is worth it when you are zipping through busy bazaars, down narrow streets and along gridlocked roads taking in the beautiful smells and colours of India.

A study in 2007 by the ITDP India discovered that in a survey of 1100 cycle rickshaw drivers in Delhi, 54% were landless labourers and over 30% small/ marginal farmers who had migrated to the city in search of work and food during lean growing seasons.

Migrant workers will typically rent a rickshaw from a rickshaw landlord.

Buying a new one can cost around £100 whereas the cost of renting one for the day varies from 30 to 60p. This may not sound like much, but it’s around 30% of the average daily earnings of a rickshaw driver.

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Owning your own rickshaw can be a way out of poverty, making the driver self-sufficient as he keeps all of the money from fares and has the option of renting it out at night or whenever he’s not using it. Many charities are keen to supply rickshaws to poor communities because of the independence they can bring. A rickshaw can change the fortunes of a whole family overnight.

In 2006, the authorities in Delhi blamed the cycle rickshaw for causing congestion in and around Chandni Chowk, the heart of the old city, beside the ancient Red Fort.

This led to an all-out ban in the area being passed by the Municipal Corporation of Delhi and a limiting of the number of rickshaw licences to 100,000, outlawing the other estimated 900,00 cycle rickshaws in Delhi. Those found without the requisite papers would have their cycle rickshaws seized and, if unable to pay a penalty, crushed into scrap metal.

If you have been to India you will know how bad congestion can get in its cities, which leads to a barrage of car horns and roiling smog. This is where the cycle rickshaw comes into its own, weaving in-between the cars, buses and carts.

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The Delhi rickshaw ban was affecting the lives of some of the most vulnerable people in India – those lacking in both skills and literacy. It hit not only the driver but also his family, rickshaw repairmen, and those too poor to ride the bus. The ITDP claim that 2% of India’s population rely on the trade for their daily bread. The Municipal Corporation of Delhi’s decision was seen as an attack on the right to livelihood of the poor and an act of favouritism towards the middle and upper classes, giving them the right of the road, as no limit was made on cars whatsoever.

This decision also laid a precedent; plans were mooted to ban rickshaws in other parts of Delhi and in other cities. Mumbai and Bangalore suggested banning cycle rickshaws altogether. This lead to several groups including the ITDP to campaign against the ban by organising peaceful demonstrations, organising cycle rallies through Delhi, putting pressure on Indian MPs and challenging the cycle rickshaw ban in the High Court of Delhi.

I hopped on and was quickly swerving down busy streets

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In 2010, the Delhi High Court ruled that the Municipal Corporation of Delhi’s rickshaw ban was unconstitutional, rejecting the suggestion that cycle rickshaws were the cause of congestion. The ruling had importance not just for the population of Delhi, but also to the people of Mumbai, Bangalore and other cities that had banned cycle rickshaws, completely overruling the precedent and creating a new one.

It was in Chandni Chowk that I took my maiden voyage on a rickshaw. Having spent the morning of my

first day in India as one of the many tourists at the Red Fort, I decided to head back to my hostel. I spent the next two hours walking through the narrow winding roads of Chandni Chowk – which from a bird’s eye view probably resembled a hedge maze – only to find myself back at the Red Fort. I decided to give it another shot, trying to get through the other side by tracing the mental breadcrumbs I had made with certain shops, but after another hour I had become a little distraught and was starting to wilt in the heat. No travel guide map was going to help. It was at this point I heard a voice behind me: “Rickshaw?”

I hopped on and was quickly swerving down busy streets, watching the city whirl around me. I was on my way back to my hostel. If it wasn’t for that fleet, faded old cycle rickshaw I might still be wandering the streets of Chandni Chowk to this day….

–

www.jamesonkergzou.co.uk kergozou.tumblr.com

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Roads were not built for cars

Words Mike White Illustration Pete English

I can hear the car’s engine snarling impatiently behind me.

When it eventually lunges past, inches from my white-knuckled handlebars, the driver shouts “Oi! I pay road tax!”

Except of course he doesn’t. It remains a popular war cry in the UK, where many people still think the roads are paid for by a tax on motorists. But British roads are paid for from general and local taxation: everyone pays for them, including cyclists. ‘Road Tax’ was phased out from 1937.

For Carlton Reid, a cycling advocate and writer – lynchpin of industry site bikebiz.com and industry levy initiative Bike Hub – it was a cry heard one time too many. So he set up the website ipayroadtax.com to put the record straight. While he was researching this, he found that whole swathes of history had been rewritten so as to overlook the huge importance of bicycles and the people who ride them.

The story is much bigger than some non-existent tax.

Carlton’s research snowballed and he’s now gathered over two years’ worth of curveball miscellanea into a book: Roads Were Not Built for Cars. After a phenomenally successful Kickstarter campaign (target smashed in 20 hours) the book is imminently to be released as a free download and published as a print edition.

Boneshaker doesn’t really do book reviews (bar a brief eulogy to Richard’s Bicycle Book in issue #5) but we can’t resist a sprawling goldmine of surprises like Carlton’s current project.

We phoned him up to get the story.

“I’m not a historian, but I’ve always liked history,” he says. “I was researching the 1920s Road Fund, and reading around that history I found a huge collection of interconnected stories, with all these references to the arch motorists of the time – the ones who were pushing for motorways everywhere, the concreting of the whole of Britain, and I thought ‘these really are terrible people’. Then you read their stories, and they’ve all come from a cycling background. Most of the key people who were instrumental in getting roads administration in place were actually the same people who 20 years before were arch cyclists, pushing for exactly the same things, but for a different organisation.”

Company took out full-page adverts saying it was motorists who founded the Good Roads Movement, but that’s absolute bollocks.

It was a complete whitewash, a re-writing of history. Henry Ford was a cyclist. His first car was the quadricycle – with many bicycle parts. The first Benz Motor Wagen had bicycle DNA. Rolls Royce and Aston Martin were both co-founded by cyclists.

“The original makers knew these creations were basically motorised bicycles. But this huge history was photoshopped out: the timeline now goes carts, carriages, a few steam wagons maybe and then…. cars. They completely miss out 30 years of crucially important technological development – bicycles.

“Bicycles are the missing link; far more influential than people nowadays can ever imagine. Cyclists had huge political influence in the late-Victorian era. Their huge importance has been pretty much wiped out of the folk memory, and I want to bring some of that back. I want to show that motorists are very much the Johnny-comelatelys of highway history. Roads were not built for cars.”

Carlton’s metaphorical spectacles are far from rose-tinted though. His is a worldview drawn sharply into focus by the depth of its scope. At times he displays the grim resolve of the experienced cycling advocate. At others he turns many pro-cycling preconceptions on their heads.

A case in point is the town of Stevenage, in the south of England.

This was a ‘new town’, designed and built in the 1960s. Its layout was conceived by an enlightened cyclist called Eric Claxton. “It’s one to turn many cyclists’ ideas upside down”, says Carlton. “A British town with a fully connected separated cycle infrastructure. You could drop it into the Netherlands and it wouldn’t look out of place.”

There was a parallel story emerging in America. It was a bunch of cyclists who created the Good Roads Movement, the US Department for Transportation, and by extrapolation the US Interstate Highway network. All this was inspired by the dear old Cyclists’ Touring Club.

Stevenage had: “Wide, smooth cycleways adjacent to main roads but separated from cars and pedestrians. Perpetually-lit, airy, safe underpasses beneath roundabouts. Direct, convenient and attractive cycle routes designed not by car-centric town planners but by a transport engineer who cycled to work every day. Priority given to cyclists at intersections. Schools, workplaces, shops: all linked by protected cycleways. Recreational bike paths to nature areas. Colour-coded sign-posting. Plentiful cycle parking in the town centre and at the rail station. An urban cycle network lionised at global conferences and the subject of lectures, books and magazine articles.

“There was a long period after the railways came during which roads were completely neglected; many would have been lost had it not been for cyclists. We ruled the roads, lobbied for them and paid for them,” Carlton continues. “Then that worldview is written out of history. You don’t find it after 1930. In fact, Ford Motor

“In the first edition of his 1970s million-copy classic Richard’s Bicycle Book, Richard Ballantine enthused that “Stevenage…is a transportation dreamworld, a kind of magical Walt Disney fantasy in which everything flows with perfect smoothness and problems evaporate.” The 1992 edition of the book was still in awe: “you 35

can cycle or walk anywhere you wish in Stevenage and never encounter a motor vehicle…What is the worth of never, ever, having an obstruction or aggravation in travelling? What price a mother’s peace of mind, knowing that her children can walk or cycle anywhere and never encounter a motor vehicle?”

REG: Cyclists have bled us white, the bastards. They don’t pay road tax, they run red lights. And what have they ever given us in return?

But despite this dream-come-true network of safe cycle paths, cycling in Stevenage has only a 2.7% modal share. “So when people say 'if only we had separate infrastructure, we’d get more people on bikes', it’s attractive but it’s not a panacea,” says Carlton. “Brits don’t ride bikes for reasons other than infrastructure, cultural as well as physical. Infrastructure plays a part, but it probably isn’t even the biggest part. Other things come into play – people really don’t like getting wet. People don’t like keeping fit. And, importantly, cars can be very convenient. We’re in danger of saying to government en masse ‘give us bike paths, all we want is bike paths’ but if all you have is bike paths, and you haven’t restrained cars and put in place loads of other interconnected measures as well, then Stevenage suggests that the best bike paths in the world will not get Brits on their bikes.”

XERXES: Pneumatic tyres.

The key issue for Stevenage was that Eric Claxton’s layout also allowed for easy motoring, and, as Carlton ruefully points out, “most people are lazy. They’ll drive if they can.” To increase cycling and allow for all the benefits it brings – clean air, safer neighbourhoods, better health and so on – you have to ensure it’s the most convenient way to get about. Stevenage failed to do that; the roads were well designed too, allowing swift and easy driving. So most people still choose to drive, even though it costs them more, makes them fat and pollutes the very air they breathe.

There is optimism in Carlton’s writing too, however, and the kind of measured polemic that really gets Boneshaker’s sprockets whirring.

“When politicians and planners say cities have to accommodate cars as some sort of divine right and it will always be this way, they’re wrong. Cars can be designed out of the picture. Will constricting cars throttle the economy? Hardly. In London, motorists are in the minority yet take up an inordinate amount of space. Covent Garden – thankfully – offers poor access to cars yet is thriving economically. In 1993, in an article about roads for The Geographical, author Oliver Tickell wrote: “If access by road is the key to economic prosperity then Birmingham should be the wealthiest city in Britain. It is not.

“Horses used to dominate our cities. They don’t now. Later trams dominated our cities. They don’t now. Cars now dominate our cities. In the future, they might not. The ‘might’ is down to planners and politicians and whether they can see beyond the myopia of the motorised majority.

“Car use is in terminal decline in the developed world. There isn’t going to be the kind of motor traffic in 30 years’ time that we’re seeing now. That kind of thinking is slowly but surely dying off. It’ll take a new generation of urban planners – guys who were brought up in the 1960s are now at the top of their field and in five or ten years’ time, when the new raft of roads people come in, all this stupidity may stop. Hopefully, before too long, roads will be built for people again.”

The book is so full of interesting stuff that it’s nigh-on impossible to do justice to its breadth with a few humble magazine pages. But a few in particular tickled us – like the Monty Python-riff about the Motorist’s Front of Judea: 36

XERXES: Pneumatic tyres.

REG: What?

REG: Oh. Yeah, yeah. They did give us that. Uh, that’s true. Yeah.

COMMANDO #3: And ball bearings.

REG: Yeah. All right. I’ll grant you pneumatic tyres and ball bearings are two things that the cyclists have done.

MATTHIAS: And the roads.

REG: Well, yeah. Obviously the roads. I mean, the roads go without saying, don’t they?

But apart from pneumatic tyres, ball bearings, and the roads…

COMMANDO: Lightweight steel tubing.

XERXES: Chain driven differential gears.

COMMANDOS: Huh? Heh? Huh… COMMANDO #2: Dust-free highways.

Tractors. Automobile advertising.

COMMANDOS: Ohh… REG: Yeah, yeah. All right. Fair enough.

COMMANDO #1: And central Government administration of roads.

COMMANDOS: Oh, yes. Yeah…

FRANCIS: Cars and planes.

REG: Cars and planes?

FRANCIS: Yeah, America’s first car was built by the Duryea brothers: they were bicycle builders first. And powered flight, Reg, that was developed by the Wright Brothers: they owned a bike shop and built bikes.

REG: All right, but apart from the pneumatic tyre, ball bearings, differential gears, roads, motoring, car ads, and aviation, what have cyclists ever done for us?

Much of what’s great about the Roads Were Not Built for Cars project is in the incidental stuff, the trivia and detail, the funny little archaisms of cycling’s towering past.

Opposite is a line-drawing of the world’s “first header”, a forward fall from a bicycle. It’s also a line-drawing of the probable creator of the world’s first pedal-operated bicycle. The rider is Frenchman Pierre Lallement. The location is Birmingham, close to New Haven, Connecticut. Lallement is said to have first attached cranks and pedals to a Draisienne ‘dandy horse’ in 1863 and rode this 70lb wooden velocipede on the cobbled streets of Paris. In 1865 he emigrated to America, taking the novel contraption with him. With a co-investor he patented his velocipede.

A year later, in Paris, blacksmith Pierre Michaux started selling similar looking velocipedes. Most history books (especially French ones) say it’s Michaux, and his son, Ernest, who 'invented' the pedalpowered bicycle. It’s sometimes reported, with no proof, they did so as early as March 1861. However, in an article in Outing magazine of 1883, Charles E. Pratt, co-founder of the League of American Wheelman, credited Lallement as the true father of the bicycle and predicted, wrongly, that Lallement would be “remembered as long as the bipedaliferous wheel continues to revolve.”

Pratt knew Lallement. He knew Lallement because they worked in the same place. Down on his luck (he never made much money from his invention, having sold the patent for a pittance) Lallement worked as a mechanic for the Pope Manufacturing Company, maker of the Columbia bicycle, America’s leading brand of bicycle from the 1880s through to the early years of the 20th century. Pratt was the patent attorney for the Pope Manufacturing Company, a firm created by Colonel Albert A Pope, the US importer, and then copier, of English high wheel bicycles. Pope was a portly fellow – Pratt called him Colonel Bounce – and an astute businessman. Pope spent many years buying bicycle patents, and then defending them monopoly-fashion, causing rival manufacturers to pay him royalties for all machines sold in the US. Pratt was therefore a busy patent lawyer. But he was also a writer, an occupation funded

by Colonel Pope because Pratt’s writing helped popularise the riding of bicycles. Pratt penned many articles that brought new blood into bicycling, wrote songs about cycling, and was keen on the recent history of this new sport.

As a wheelman, and as a patent lawyer, and as one of the first bicycle historians, Pratt was no doubt keen to tell the story of a patent he was very familiar with: US patent 59915. This had been granted on November 20, 1866, and filed in New Haven, Connecticut. It had been filed by Lallement and an American businessman. It was the world’s first public record for a low-mount two-wheeler that “after a little practice,” said the patent, can be ridden “at an incredible velocity with the greatest of ease.”

It was this velocity that caused the “first header.” Here’s Pratt’s 1883 description of Lallement’s 1865 ride, the first longdistance bicycle ride on US soil, on one of the world’s first bicycles: There lives in Brooklyn, New York, Pierre Lallement…a plain, intelligent mechanic, of about middle age, speaking our language little and brokenly, working industriously at the trade he learned in youth.

He is of rather less than medium stature, dark complexion, and sincere countenance, of quiet demeanor, but quick in thought and action. He designed, and put together, and rode the first bicycle.

of water under the culvert at the foot of the long hill…first reached at the north of Birmingham. Lallement had no brake, and he could not back-pedal. Exhilaration at his easy and rapid approach turned to consternation as his speed quickened to an uncontrollable rush down the slope, and he saw that a jogging span of horses, holding back a wagon and two men, occupied the roadway before him, unconscious of his advance.

He yelled to the men, in foreign accent. They gave one look behind at the hurrying monster almost upon them, and whipped their horses to a run.

It was too late for Lallement. His wheel, deflected to avoid a collision, struck the edge of the culvert, and careened. The positions of rider and vehicle were suddenly reversed, and the rider still wears the scar of that too impulsive embrace of mother earth.

Our hero of the first “header” gathered himself and his bicycle together, rode on to the main street in Ansonia, stopped at the tavern, and, tilting his machine against a hitching-post, went in. There he found the two men, relating between drinks how they had seen the dark Devil, with human head and a body half like a snake, and half like a bird, just hovering above the ground which he seemed no way to touch, chase them down the hill, and, just as he was about to board their wagon, disappear in the water by the roadside. The bar-keeper was smilingly incredulous, as, with the earnestness of amazement, they assured him it was true.

“I vas ze diable,” exclaimed Lallement, advancing, and endeavoring with scant English and much gesture to explain. But they would not believe him until he had produced and again bestridden the mysterious machine.

“If Lallement is accepted as the originator of the bicycle, he was the first cyclist, the first cycle commuter, the first fixie rider, the first to survive a bicycle faceplant, the first to seek ‘financial aid’ by riding a bike, the first to come a cropper from a bike-to-vehicle incident, the first cafe rider, the first cycle chic adherent (he rode in a suit); the first roadie, the first mountain biker (the roads of the area were rough and unmade), the first “scorcher”, and the first to eschew a helmet when riding a bike.”

This is mere excerpt from just one of the dozens of fascinating, meticulously researched entries in Carlton Reid’s cornucopian creation.

Lallement came to the United States of America by way of Havre, London and Liverpool…arriving in July 1865.

He had brought with him the two wheels, a new forged wrought-iron perch, and cranks partly done, from Paris. He completed his work with them in the fall of 1865, completed and finished up his ‘veloce’ and was able to ride it some that fall for exhibition, and to and from the shop where he worked.

Soon he essayed a longer road ride, and one that he thought would test the qualities of the machine for road use, and convince the sceptics from whom he had been trying to obtain financial aid.

This first bicycle spin proved both interesting and amusing. The route lay through a part of the main street in Ansonia, over a long bridge, and the main country road south, to the thriving manufacturing village of Birmingham (which nestles about a hill, with a fine green near the centre and the main street, and overlooks charming villages) and back again – a distance of about four and a half miles.

We’ve dipped in and out of it serendipitously, and found out about the latest trends in technical cycle wear, 1880s style; about how author and futurist H. G. Wells predicted the European Union, tarmac roads, wind farms, tanks, motorways, sexual liberation and the internet; about the US President apprehended for speeding by two bicycle cops – it was Roosevelt, and he’d actually founded the police bicycle unit that later busted him. Would that we had space here to unfurl more of the book’s unlikely asides. We don’t, and fortunately we don’t have to, as Carlton is making the whole lot available to everyone, for free.

There had been rains, making rills in the gutters, and a considerable rush

www.roadswerenotbuiltforcars.com 37

Words by Joy Netanya Thompson & Robert Thompson

Words by Joy Netanya Thompson & Robert Thompson

T

he goal of the trip was to achieve ‘simple’. My longtime friends and touring mates Brian and Kyle and I would be on our bikes for 6 days and 515 miles; our days reduced to: eat, pedal, sleep, repeat. As much as I like to believe I live a simple life, between work, marriage and my myriad diverting interests, life feels anything but simple. Since I married less than two years ago, I’ve wrestled with my old bachelor definition of simple – a mattress on the floor of a bare apartment, most of my income and time going toward cycling and traveling – and tried to find a new one that fits with my marriage, my social and family obligations and all the shit that comes with being an adult. While I attempt to swim against the current of busyness that defines my home city of Los Angeles, I continue to find myself caught in its whirling eddies. This weeklong ride was an opportunity to reconnect with, and maybe re-imagine, simplicity – a chance to rest in a lull, my oar across my knees.

By the second day of the tour, I was removed enough from my life back home to fully surrender to the forces that would push and pull us from Redding—an old logging town close to the Oregon border—to San Francisco. Approaching a sign reading ‘Berry Summit’, I mentally prepared for the 2,000 foot, 9-mile ascent, calculating just how much effort to expend, unsure of how long the climb would last and painfully aware of the heavy panniers hanging off my bike, bulging with all I would need for the week. Eventually I pedaled myself into an almost meditative state, and putting aside my calculations I let myself go, riding with all I had, up to the crest of the hill where the vista opened up to include mountains and valleys, green as a dream. When I reached the top I was empty. The best part of a climb like that is it siphons every last drop of anxiety from each cell of your body.

I took deep and violent breaths, gasping for something to fill me again, and what filled me was life—life new and fresh and reviving. I once heard that to inspire can be defined as “to breathe into”, and I knew at that moment the reality of being breathed into, and thus finding inspiration. It was a cleansing, up on Berry Summit, a cleansing of the temple of my body and my mind, making it ready again for what I would encounter in the days to come.

It was like seeing a star that had fallen from the sky, something that you always expect to stay ‘up there’.

We made the requisite jokes about the old question of the tree falling in the forest, took some photos, and then we were riding again. But I couldn’t shake the image of that old redwood giving up its ghost, and I felt it was a privilege to see it, and a rarity, like seeing Halley’s comet or the aurora borealis. It was a simple event that heightened my senses and had me sitting up and paying attention, unwilling to miss any other moments like it.

My senses were still piqued a few days later when, cycling along the desolate Northern California coast, I spotted a man on a bike headed our way, clearly on a tour in the opposite direction.

He looked to be in his mid-sixties, with the rugged yet softened sea glass type of look that many older, crunchy Northern Californians have. Over his cycling jersey he wore a simple, knobby wool sweater like they wore in the 'olden days' of cycling.

Kyle and Brian pedaled on, but I wheeled around and pulled over on the other side of the road to wait for him. When he reached me and stopped, we talked about the weather and the wind, as cyclists do. My group had been carried on the grace of a tailwind all morning, which means he’d been battling a headwind in his face for who knows how long. But instead of complaining, the man said, “If you get tired of cycling, just turn around and ride my direction for a mile and you’ll be thankful for where you’re headed.” Now that he was close, I noticed his beard was misshapen, his face leathered, his eyes gentle. He carried very little on his bike, though from our conversation I gathered he was on a much longer tour than I.

“ A S I TRIED TO DEFINE SIMPLICITY ON THE TOUR, IT KEPT SHOWING ITSELF TO ME IN DIFFERENT FORMS”

Halfway through the trip Brian, Kyle and I were pedaling through the Avenue of the Giants, a stretch of highway cutting through a vast tract of ancient redwoods. Navigating my way around potholes and poorly maintained asphalt, I suddenly heard a cacophony of noise behind me and I whipped around, expecting to find Brian mid-crash, skidding to a stop. But no—it was one of the formidable redwoods tipping at an unnatural angle, snapping away from its roots and falling through other trees’ branches until it hit the earth with a solid thud and lay there, its north side facing up and moss-covered, looking for all the world like it had been there since a few days after the dawn of time. We silently gathered around the tree, awed and a little bit afraid, as though it were a beached whale heaving on the sand. We reached out to touch it with tentative fingers. No cars passed; there were no other witnesses to the felling of something ancient and, it felt, sacred.

I was humbled by this man, by the simplicity he exuded—the same simplicity I was so actively seeking, all while riding my bike packed with three different types of jacket; each morning I tried to figure out which was perfect for the day’s weather, and I was constantly worried about leaving one of the pricey jackets at a campsite or rest stop. This stranger—calm and content in his old woolen sweater, steadfast and sure in the face of an antagonizing headwind—moved me.

I like to think that I am a simple person, and want my wife and I to live simple lives. But as I tried to define simplicity on the tour, it kept showing itself to me in different forms. I met many people going about lives that were simpler than mine, and yet often required much more work. On my bicycle I passed by ranchers, and farmers, and towns so small and isolated I cannot even imagine how the economy runs. My trip up Berry Summit, along the Lost Coast, through the Avenue of the Giants, and down Highway 1 into the heart of San Francisco inspired me to continue searching for what it means to live a simple life.

Even though I haven’t quite grasped it, I’m pedaling in the right direction. Perhaps high summits and emptied lungs, falling trees in quiet forests, and steadfast, leather-faced old men are the ways to simplicity—perhaps they are simplicity. All I know for sure is, on my bike I’m more likely to meet them all.

39

WHEN I RIDE, I RIDE TO WIN. I LIKE

Juan Jose ‘Juanjo’ Mendez started cycle racing when he was 14, but in 1992 a motorbike accident brought his career to a sudden stop. “I was pronounced clinically dead. I was in a coma for twenty days. When I woke up, I didn’t realise I was missing an arm and a leg. I only realised when I sat up. After a period of despair, I decided I had to accept it, period. I told myself to get on with my life.” His dark eyes shine as his face creases into an easy smile.

It was two years before he was able to ride again. In the 17 years since then he has become an international cycling champion, a Paralympic hero and the leader of a cycle club called Piratas - the Pirates.

We’re no different to other cycling teams; the only thing that might set us apart is the good energy between us. We’re always joking around,” says Juanjo. But the Piratas take their riding seriously. “Motivation is most important thing,” says Juanjo, 40

“more than anything. We train every day. Many people who have seen us riding have decided to try it themselves and now some of them are here riding with us. I hope we can motivate more people to get out of the house and onto their bikes.”

Bernat acts as a coach for Juanjo.

“I have known Juanjo since I was a boy. When I was 13 he taught me how to ride a bicycle. We’ve been together all our lives. We were friends before the accident. We just wanted to ride again like anyone else, just for fun at the weekends.

We never imagined we could reach a cycling competition, because of his disability. I’ve been telling Juanjo for the last four or five years, you’ve reached the top. At your age, with maximum disability, you’re not going to get any faster. But year after year, he proves me wrong. He just keeps getting faster.” Juanjo now has six Olympic medals to his name.

Elisa is another member of Piratas crew. She returned to cycling only

recently, after having lost a leg in a traffic accident several years ago.

One day, she was in her car waiting at a red light, sat there feeling sorry for herself, when Juanjo – one arm, one leg – raced past her. Elisa said to the friend sat beside her: “If I ever feel sorry for myself again, remind me of this moment”. Within a few weeks she had tracked down Juanjo and the Piratas and got back on two wheels. Like most of the team she races without any prosthesis. After just nine months of training she was came within a tenth of a second of winning bronze at the Spanish Cycling Championships in 2012.

The Piratas ride hard – Jaunjo will do 100km or more each day.

He might need help putting his streamlined helmet on – it’s hard to adjust the strap with only one hand. But see him leaning into the first corner as he races round the velodrome, wheels a blur above the inside line, torso low to the bars, and he’s in his element.

PHOTOGRAPHY Paulo Martelli / www.paolomartelli.com ADAPTED FROM AN INTERVIEW BY Daria Bogdanska & Oriol Hernandez TRANSLATION David Corkle

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"I’VE BEEN TELLING JUANJO FOR THE LAST F O U R O R F I V E Y E A R S , YO U ’ V E R E AC H E D T H E T O P. AT Y O U R A G E , W I T H M A X I M U M D I S A B I L I T Y, Y O U ’ R E N O T G O I N G T O G E T A N Y FA S T E R . B U T Y E A R A F T E R Y E A R ,

He proves me wrong.

H E J U S T K E E P S G E T T I N G FA S T E R . ”

"WE’RE NO DIFFERENT TO OTHER C Y C L I N G T E A M S ; T H E O N LY T H I N G T H AT M I G H T S E T U S A P A R T I S

the good energy

B E T W E E N U S . W E ’ R E A LWAY S JOKING AROUND."

JUANJO AND THE PIRATAS ARE THE SUBJECT OF A GENUINELY INSPIRING DOCUMENTARY CALLED ‘IMPARABLES’ (UNSTOPPABLES). CHECK IT OUT HERE: WWW.UNSTOPPABLESDOCUMENTARY.COM

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PREPARE TO MEET YOUR MAKER

It’s a weird feeling knowing that you are going to meet your maker. Extremely weird when you specifically know that at the end of today’s 70 mile ride... you will meet your maker.

the frame still had to wait. It hung in my cupboard in Glasgow for two years more while I also assumed that I couldn’t afford to finish it off.

The story begins a few years back, back across the surging expanse of the Atlantic, where a cold grey light gleams off the now silent tools in Eric Estlund’s frame-building workshop in Springfield, Oregon. His keen eyes shine through brass-framed spectacles, his enormous beard dark around his jaw. He’s just finished building a lean, nail-polish-red, road-going frame to ship several thousand miles east to my brother in the Bronx, NYC.

I will always remember the day I decided to do something about it. The itch got too great, so I biked across Glasgow to The Bike Station with that alluring red frame across my shoulders. My instincts were right – I couldn’t afford to finish it off. Despondent, I slung the frame over my back and headed home again, where I flicked on the computer and did what I frequently do when I know I’ve got no money – I checked my bank account. You know, just in case some cash had magically appeared. This is the spooky bit... some actually had. Almost the exact amount of money I needed. A beneficiary payment had been made by an Edinburgh solicitor on behalf of my Granny’s estate that morning, giving me the funds to complete the bike that I am now about to ride down the country to meet its maker.

Eric Estlund would be in the UK in five days’ time, bringing his wares to Bespoked Bristol, the handmade bike show.

That frame will languish, unridden, in that Bronx apartment for months while Andrew weighs up the cost of building it up against the cost of buying a horse. Yup, a horse. He’ll plump for the horse, though he’ll never actually buy one. Leastways, he hasn’t yet. I guess it’s more difficult to store a horse in your apartment.

Anyway, 3,000 miles across the ocean in Scotland, my 40th birthday arrived, and with it, a mighty box, postmarked from the USA. Inside, that same slim frame, glowing with potential. But 46

I set out from home with all I need stuffed into my backpack, excitement turning to trepidation... 5 days of me, my bike and

380 miles of open road. It sounds like some kind of opener for a two-wheeled Kerouac novel, but this is April in Scotland, so any romance flies right out the door, whipped away by a cruel wind, blown back into my eyes as sleet. The scale of the challenge hits me... hard.

Glasgow sprawls, merging into peripheral towns and without ever feeling like I’ve left the city, I have travelled 25 miles. Most of it feels uphill. Add a headwind and by 35 miles I’m ready to pack it in, almost willing a pothole to unsaddle me, giving me an excuse to limp home gallant, but ultimately a failure. It feels odd pulling into Abingdon Services on a bike, which seems like a tarmaced oasis to me right now. A few strange looks from motorists – in all fairness, why would anyone in their right mind be on a bike, with no gears, here in the middle of nowhere? I’m thinking much the same thing.

Motorways take the sense of place out of travel, shifting the emphasis onto how quickly you can get from A to B. Riding along minor roads restores the relationship between different places and the topography in between. My eyes drink in the unwelcoming scenery, while the grumbling ache in my legs

reflects the undulating road that flirts with the motorway, sometimes allowing it to get quite close before sidling off into the distance, taking me through communities and settlements that have been changed irrevocably, some for better, but many for worse. Crumbling houses that once were roadside inns, forced to become truck stops, then forced to call time forever when the big road came. Small farms that have become absorbed by bigger farms, leaving workers’ cottages derelict as new machines took the place of manual labour. Traversing sprawling moorland at 1,000 feet over Beattock Summit, I cross into Dumfriesshire.

Struck by the bleakness of the landscape, I feel isolated. With the last 20 miles of the day, my legs feel lighter, the road has less of the up and more of the down and I’m haring along thinking of the simple possibilities of a hot dinner, a warm bath and a comfy bed in Lochmaben. The sense of achievement marred by the fact that I am still in Scotland – no major milestones passed.

Back on the road the next morning, with a sniff of warmth in the air, I look forward to the day’s ride ahead. This is the day I have built up in my head as the toughest, with the climb to Shap looming like a great shadow.

47

I SET OUT FROM HOME WITH ALL I NEED STUFFED INTO MY BACKPACK, EXCITEMENT TURNING TO TREPIDATION...

48

The first 20 miles or so to Gretna – a tiny village in the south of Scotland famous for runaway weddings – pass easily. Sun and the scent of fresh cut grass fuel my optimism with the first inkling that winter is finally losing its miserable grip and that the hopefulness of spring may be allowed to flourish. Leaving the great mecca of marriage, striking out for Carlisle, I feel lighter than before.

This internal discourse carries me through Carlisle and on to Penrith. By late afternoon I could lie down and sleep in the street.

Quickly dismissing the option of staying there and making up the extra miles over the next few days, I strike out again. Scheduled stops are planned; accommodation is organised and I simply have to be in Bristol on Friday evening. I have an appointment with my maker. Shap is calling.

That feeling doesn’t last so long. With the day made up of twothirds climb, the previous day’s thoughts of “Can I do this?” give way to “Why am I doing this?” Naturally I know why. Logic reminds me that I am raising money for Weathered Cyclist – my own venture set up to provide funds for bike-based charity and community projects. “But why cycle to Bristol on a single speed?” the ‘whingical’ part of my brain would counter. Of course the 900 miles I had committed to in April could have been done on contrived, easy routes but where’s the adventure in that?

A word of warning to those foolhardy souls hoping to tackle a similar adventure – never confuse Shap village with Shap Summit. Shap is a pretty village in Cumbria with many local amenities. Shap Summit isn’t.

The village sits at around 800ft above sea level, while the summit, recorded at almost 1,400ft, waits patiently for me, brooding, daring me to come ahead. Where the road peaks, a memorial stone commemorates those who died building it. It’s easy to

understand why. Stopping briefly to watch the pale evening sun cast dramatic shadows from the mountains of the Lake District, I stretch my aching legs and back, then push on.

Cycling optimists say that for every uphill there is a downhill. I would have paid good money for the downhills that follow all the way to Kendal. I fly down into the Lake District, knowing I have conquered the hardest part of the route. Elated, I smile as I ride into Kendal, smile as I check in to my hostel for the night and smile as I eat one of the best tasting curries I have ever had. I probably fall asleep smiling.

My grinful evening continues into the following morning, as I smile into my porridge. With flatter rides ahead and Warrington as my end-of-day target I beat a steady path out of Cumbria into Lancashire. The weather matches the terrain – easier, brighter – and, now in short sleeves and summer gloves, I detour along the canal path into Lancaster. With the sea-air whiff of Morecambe to my right, picturesque houses backing onto the canal to my left, boats idling away and barges puttering along, things seem in the right place.

Back on the road, away from the security of the canal, trucks roar past, sometimes inches away from my head, almost unseating me with tailwind alone. Fright becomes anger becomes relief so frequently that the mellow morning mood is all but forgotten with constant and noisy reminders that life is a light that could go out at any time.

sleep back at my digs, it occurs to me that this was the first full conversation I had had for 4 days.

I wake. The sound of heavy rain on the roof can’t dampen my spirits as I set off early, pedalling through the rain, leaving Shropshire behind... knowing that I am soon to meet my maker.

Just out of Hereford the rain clears and the road tilts downhill, which means only one thing... uphill to come. Sometimes the optimists get it the wrong way round. Dipping in and out of Wales, I hit the village of Llancloudy and a hill that seems massive to my tired eyes and legs. Every sinew complains and I am ready to cry as my memory of the elevation chart suggests that there is a bigger rise to come. Once over the top, I hurtle down towards the town of Monmouth, dreading the greater climb ahead.

That climb never comes. Along the Wye Valley, following the river, the road rises steadily but comfortably through picturesque villages and magnificent woodland – the smell of rain on leaf as tentative sunlight glitters on the river and we roll along together towards Chepstow, which means only one thing... 17 miles to go!

WHERE THE ROAD PEAKS, A MEMORIAL STONE COMMEMORATES THOSE WHO DIED BUILDING IT. IT’S EASY TO UNDERSTAND WHY.

I pass through places with names that I have only ever seen before on railway timetables. Preston, where gathering clouds seem to echo the mood of the town, motivates me to keep moving through the rain’s weak attempts, out the other side and on towards Wigan, slowly merging into Warrington.

When I get there, Warrington is eerily quiet, seemingly shut, apart from the Chinese buffet place where I do indeed have All I Can Eat. Desperate for calories I pack in as much as I can manage before retreating to my B&B to crash out. In the morning I lie not wanting to lift my head from the pillow, my body feels like concrete, every muscle aches. I force myself to get out on the road. Waves of cold sweat and lethargy wash over me all the way out of Cheshire, into Shropshire, to Whitchurch where I finally stop to eat again. The symptoms lift and I focus on signs for the A49 rather than the train station. I had planned a breather in Shrewsbury, but the miles are melting away so I keep going, desperate to reach Ludlow and rest.

Food has become an obsession. My body craves constant calories.

I eat as I ride – fruit, cereal bars, whatever I have in my backpack, always planning my next meal. The steak that is my reward in Ludlow is accompanied by chat with Rita at the next table, about journeys; the weather and my Maltese birthplace. As I nod off to

As I cross the Severn Bridge, the sun joins this one man peloton and I am on top of the world, whooping as I go.

Twelve miles left, the daily countdown is on. “Bristol 7 miles... I can do 7 miles... Bristol 5... I can do 5... Bristol 2... I’m going to do 2”.

Certain things will stick with me forever. The confused, heady smell of dust, pine and diesel as timber trucks thunder past; the sinister sizzling as I pass under power lines; unknown bird song; comforting sounds of agriculture; smells, sights and tastes; hearing accents change as I pass through the country. For the first time in my life I felt a close affinity with road numbers. I loved the A49 like a reassuring friend while the A466 was more like a spurning lover, treating me with gentle affection then contempt. Many times in the journey I felt alone, but I was never lonely.

I arrive in Bristol, finally ready to meet my maker. It’s time.

Striding purposefully into a vast room bustling with people, noise and bikes, I see brass-rimmed glasses twinkling over a huge, dark beard. I walk up and look him in the eye.

“Eric?”

“Hey man, you made it!”

Ali cycled from Glasgow to Bristol to meet Eric Estlund of Winter Bicycles, the creator of many beautiful bikes, and indeed ‘his maker’.

Ali’s journey was part of the April Fool 900, a fundraising effort to launch and to raise money for Weathered Cyclist.

Photos by Chris Walker & Ali Campbell www.weatheredcyclist.org 49

Illustration

by Eva Dolgyra www.evadolgyra.co.uk

by Simon Armitage

ABOUT LADYBOWER No cinefilm or snapshot could be trusted with this: the hatchback is a backyard of severable parts, a curiosity shop of brackets, cogs, jockey wheels and sprockets, the at ease components which fall in under monkey wrench and allen key. Apparel is everything and today is no exception: skintight lycra knickerbockers, trade vests, helmets, fingerless mittens plus every affordable appendage, every optional et cetera that will button on or batten down about our person as we catwalk the twenty-odd yards from the portaloo back to the aforesaid Citroën to wheel out, and step up, and push off around the gaggle of dumbstruck hikers.

Mountain bikes! Great horse bikes! Great chargers, unknackerable, unstoppable, damn near unbuyable push-irons with a gear for every occasion.

After the preamble of tarmac, the small talking avenues we sidetrack a footpath and are keen this time for the rolled-out chestnut paling of yesterday’s ride, the cleated bone-shaking walkway which end-stopped after a furlong pitching us headlong, leaving us axle-high in a black peat soup from which we hauled out, slogged back and sprang like blesboks into the startled car park. But here the going is firm with traction to spare, here bridleways are the watchwords and we talk as if they were elk trails or ley lines or were underwritten by a network of waterways which our handlebars might instinctively divine.

On the downslopes we sit tight, drop the seats, descend at full tilt knowing full well the bikers’ adage of ‘what goes down must lift again’ – the zero average, the exact cancellation of climbing versus falling, the upshot of which is to rise from the saddle and graft, to peruse into gardens like cows over cattle truck tailgates or, in this garb, basketballers: six-, seven-footers lolloping against the incline.

Where you carve through bog water two water wings rise up either side of the rear wheel, carry you safe to the other side and in mulch or clay those toppings bear out your component tracks, mark your direction verbatim.

In tow I wobble, the apprentice funambulist trick-cycling that high wire, a relative dyslexic where tracking, and pursuit, and tread-reading are concerned.

Undergrowth nods forward, chimes for a moment in our spokes, sticks its neck out and gets strimmed. Bent sticks rear up like snakes and are broken. One pot-hole cups the wheel and upends me.

Quickly the home straight, the landing lights of cat’s-eyes and too soon it is over, one last long kinematic free-wheel into the road’s elbow, the whiplash up and out along the apron of the lake and a copybook quietness to glide into.

In the Citroën we are overtaken: that numbness of skin, limbs unreliable like funny bones and the journey goes without saying.

It’s clear now, the excess worked up and ridden out. The animal in us exercised.

www.simonarmitage.co.uk

BY KIND PERMISSION OF THE AUTHOR AND FABER & FABER LTD. TAKEN FROM SIMON’S SUPERB COLLECTION, ‘KID’, WHICH HAS BEEN A BONESHAKER FAVOURITE EVER SINCE IT WAS PUBLISHED IN 1992.

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These silent, half-forgotten ways would be ideal for cycling, if only there were a way of riding on rails...

Lead photo by Brian Vernor – www.brianvernor.com –

Anyone for

Introduction to Railbiking Since the global rise of the motor car and road-freight, much of the ‘developed’ world has become criss-crossed with abandoned railway lines. These silent, half-forgotten ways are home to wildlife, the occasional hiker, the gentle creep of undergrowth. But many of them provide long, empty, usually hill-free passage through the landscape. Ideal for cycling, if only there were a way of riding on rails.

Which, for those of a sufficiently ingenious and foolhardy bent, there is! A railbike is either a bicycle that has been modified to be able to ride on the rails of a railroad or a purpose-built specialized railbike. The most common design has a device attached to it so that the bike will not steer off the rail, while an outrigger is used to support the bike using the other rail. There are even railbike systems where the attachments fold up and work as a trailer so that it can also be used as a regular road bicycle to get to and from the rails.

The trick with using abandoned tracks is to remember that they are no longer maintained.

Things like overgrown vegetation and misaligned track can be challenging during a ride so the rail bike guides must work well enough to cope with them. Clearances need to be close to minimize derailments but have enough play to reduce friction from the guides. Four bikes in and only the one catastrophic derailment to date, I'm pretty happy with what I've come up with.

Now folks, just like anything, there are potential risks involved here, so here are a few pointers: 1st / Do not use tracks that are used by trains.

If the top of the track is shiny, something has been using it and you will likely lose if you try to occupy the track at the same time as whatever it is.

2nd / Get permission to use the rail, and let someone know where to look for you if you go missing. Often the tracks go places where people may not. If you get hurt, you may be on your own, so take a friend so you can blame them if needed.

3rd / Take tools to keep your contraption working. I guarantee you that you will need them at some point, as well as stuff to keep you working too.

4th / Most importantly, have fun!

Words by Bill Marshall www.velospace.org/node/42235 53

A Brief History of Railbiking by Michael Rohde The beginnings of railbiking are shrouded in the fog of time and come from a non-digital world. The first pedal-powered rail vehicles were undoubtedly made almost as soon as bicycles and railroads existed in the early- to mid-1800s. Most likely the first were products of necessity; a way of getting from one spot on a line to another without having to have a locomotive, which were in short supply. In my mind’s eye I can just imagine the reaction to an early pedal-powered rail vehicle. A co-worker or spectator walked up to examine the contraption, considered for a moment and said something like, “You know, if you just…” This is, in fact, still the response of many who see a railbike for the first time and immediately 'know' exactly what would make a 'better' railbike design!

In the USA (and probably everywhere else), railbikes were initially used to provide transport for track examiners and other workers for relatively short distances. Railbikes were also used to provide telegraph-line inspectors and workers access to the lines that often followed the railway from city to town to village between which telegrams were sent. From these humble beginnings railbikes developed.

There are scores of patents in the US Patent Office for railbikes and related human-powered rail vehicles. The earliest known railbike patent was issued in 1869 (reissued in 1880) and consists of a three-wheeled vehicle with cranks attached directly to the axle of the drive wheel, like a child’s tricycle with flanged steel wheels.

An early account of a railbike in the news comes from the 1880s when George Sheffield was commuting home from work on his railbike one day and found a broken rail. He flagged down the scheduled freight train, avoiding a serious derailment. Sheffield ended up buying the Aspinwall/Perry patent and went into business manufacturing railbikes for use by anyone who would buy one. Other inventors and manufacturers also produced production models for use by telegraph workers. The Sears Catalog offered a railbike attachment for just over $5US. At the same time, tinkerers and inventors built many railbikes without ever getting a patent. Some different variations included arm-powered 'velocipedes', handcars, and many others. Telegraph workers in areas with sufficient prevailing winds were known to put up sails on their railbikes and travel for miles without pedalling. As bicycles began using pneumatic 54

tires and roller chain, these were also incorporated into railbikes. As with bicycles, railbike design went into decline with the advent of the internal combustion engine, although there were some who continued – and continue today – tinkering with them.

In the USA, railbike designers, makers and advocates in the ‘modern’ era (1970s and on) include William Gillum, who organized the American Railbike Association; Dick Smart, who designed and patented the 'Railcycle' in 1980, which uses a magnetic guide system; Bob Mellin, who organized Railbike International in 1996 and wrote and published the book, Railbike/Cycling On Abandoned Railroads, as well as many others.

There is more and more interest in railbiking as time goes on.

One of the major reasons that it has not taken off is concern from the railroad owners that railbiking will encourage trespassing on railway lines. There are arguments on both sides of this issue, but it is my belief that railbiking can be operated (even on active rail) through the development of specific regulations for safe operations, self-regulation by railbikers themselves and cooperation between railroad rights of way owners and railbike groups. Railroads understandably are concerned about liability issues, but there is no practical reason why such issues couldn’t be effectively addressed. I have conducted tour operations on ‘active’ rail with specific procedures for making sure communication is mandatory by all participants, both mechanized and human powered.

In any case, railbiking is already here and has been for probably 150 years. Organization of the activity would ease the concerns of railroads and other entities and provide safe conditions and fun for generations.

Michael Rohde has built or commissioned over 80 railbikes of various designs (including recumbent, front wheel drive and carbon fiber) and has run tours in the USA and Costa Rica, and scouting trips in Portugal, Canada, Madagascar, Mexico, Guatemala and Nicaragua. He continues to advocate for the development of railbiking as an environmentally friendly outdoor recreation that helps to preserve abandoned railway lines for future use. www.railbike.com (Patent drawings courtesy of the US Patent Office)

La Trochita by Peter Hoffman La Trochita is one of the longest surviving narrow gauge railroads in the world; 250 miles through some of the most desolate country in South America, with a striking backdrop of the Andes mountain range. La Trochita was shut down in 1996, except for two short sections which are kept open for tourists. Now, most of the line sits idle, the few stations along the route empty and deteriorating and the communities around them abandoned.

Early in 2009 I was invited by my Swedish friend, Arne Nilsson, to join an expedition to Patagonia to ride the entire 400km of La Trochita line on folding railbikes. Besides Arne and I, two other foolhardy adventurers took part, Richard Smart from Idaho and Morgan Gustavsson from Sweden.

After a short ride on the tourist train between Esquel and Nanhuel Pan, we set off on our bold sojourn – railbikes in place, outriggers piled with camping gear, dried food, gallons of water, tools and plenty of spare parts. No bike shops along La Trochita.

It was my 73rd birthday. The wind was howling down off the snow-crowned peaks of the Andes. It was all we could do not to get blown off the tracks. As we wound our way through the foothills, the gusts would attack us from one side and then the other, but nothing could defeat our spirit. The scenery was strikingly beautiful and we were on our way at last. The first day, minor mechanical problems caused a few derailments so we didn't reach the abandoned station at La Cancha until almost dark. For those of you not familiar with railbiking, speed on the tracks is not fast. Although 15mph+ is possible, we normally travel at about 6 to 8mph. With stops for adjustments, photos, snacks and nature calls, our average dropped considerably.

We planned to bed down each night at abandoned stations along the route – for a bunch of old geezers this was probably the hardest part of the trip. To ease the pain, we quickly established a ritual of a couple of stiff shots of whiskey at the end of each day’s ride. Every evening was a unique experience – sometimes we’d camp in the grass next to the abandoned stations. At Fitalancao, a storm closed in so we found shelter in an abandoned baggage car as the wind howled outside. At Mamuel Choique, we pitched our tents on a station platform; in Ojos de Agua we camped above the village and were visited by the local ranchers who gave us gifts of ancient arrowheads.

Most of the route of the Old Patagonia Express runs through wild, unoccupied country. We would travel for hours through endless vistas without any sign of habitation. It is a harsh landscape, much like the high desert of the American west. We

carried two satellite phones which were our only connection to the outside world. We were not entirely alone, however, in that vast empty landscape. Each day we encountered at least one ‘puestero’ on horseback roaming the countryside to tend his herd. They usually oversee ranches which might have as many as 20 puesteros and encompass huge tracts of land.

The puesteros were curious and friendly, and would ride their horses to the tracks or into our camps to find out what strange devices we were riding. None could understand our spoken word, and much entertaining sign language ensued.

In those abandoned railroad communities where there were still a few people living, the children fast became our friends.

They flocked to the tracks to examine our railbikes and begged us to allow them to ride them. It was in one such village -– a tiny place called Norquinco – that we acquired our team mascot: the dried carcass of a large armadillo. One of the village elders presented it to us in a gesture of friendship, and it rode on the back of Dick’s bike for the remainder of our trip.

The unobstructed views and the vastness of uninhabited space were awesome. La Trochita, however, does not have many spectacular features like those in the USA’s Pacific Northwest.

There were no towering, spindly wooden trestles, only one tunnel and a few small bridges. Those bridges however, were some of the most nerve-shattering experiences I have encountered whilst railbiking. Unlike bridges in the United States, these have no walkways or guardrails – nothing beyond the edge of the railroad between you and the rushing rivers below. And don't forget, the rails are less than two and a half feet apart, and the ties widely spaced to boot. If your bike derailed, or the wind caused you to overbalance, the result would be a disastrous fall. There is much truth in Roosevelt's statement, "We have nothing to fear but fear itself," and psychologically, these bridges were killers.

Several years ago, my wife Sandy gave me an autographed copy of Paul Theroux’s book, The Old Patagonia Express.

The narrative had little to do with the little narrow gauge but was mostly about Theroux's adventures in getting there, to "The railroad at the bottom of the world" as he described it. For me, it was a fantasy railroad in a fantasy land, the book more a novel than a work of non-fiction. Not in a million years would I ever have imagined I would someday be railbiking this romantically remote railroad through the wilds of Patagonia. Many have called our expedition the adventure of a lifetime. I can't argue with that.

Full Story and pictures can be found at www.latrochita.homestead.com 55

Parallel Cases

by Joe Riley and Audrey Snyder

T

he railroads of the United States are cut, tunnelled, carved and wrapped around the country’s vast and varied landscapes. These ribbons of steel were the first avenues that provided an unprecedented kind of connectivity, exploration and communication through speed; from east to west, city to city, town to town, disparate places became spatially and temporally linked in the American Landscape.

The connective arteries of the railroad made the American West a reality and created an inextricable link between the machine that was the railroad, the once remote landscape now opened to the world, and the people that it served. In the early days of the American West, a place did not exist until it had both a railroad and a newspaper.

This confluence of the pre-industrial world and the machine was supplanted during the second half of the 20th century by new forms of rapid transit. Automobiles and highways, planes and landing strips completed the obliteration of a landscape of travel and altered the modalities of communication inherent to railroad travel. The synesthetic experience of nature and space retained by railroad travel was lost in a web of highways and the thin air of the troposphere. As alternative modes

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of transportation came to dominate, the railroad became characterized by abandonment. Ribbons of steel became streaks of rust.

A concurrent history to the demise of the railroad is that of commercial printing, and its shift from handset type to mechanized linotype and eventually to digital printing.

A nearly forgotten – perhaps even abandoned – point of convergence for the histories of the railroad and printing lies in the tramp printers of the late 19th and early 20th centuries.

During the days of handset type, itinerant printers travelled the country by freight train, strapped with their composing sticks and bedrolls, looking for work at newspapers and publishing houses as typesetters. The tramp printer was a skilled craftsman whose travelling impetus was borne out of wanderlust and the age-old tradition of the journeyman. They travelled not only to fulfil a rambling personal desire, but also because their craft required the kind of experiential learning that may only be achieved through travel. These Shakespeare-quoting hobos followed the steel rivers of the country, facilitating the spread of the written word in their craft and spoken lore of their adventures.

The railroads had simultaneously acted as a conduit for travel and knowledge, a circumstance that allowed for a unique kind of artistic and cultural production.

In the summer of 2012 we travelled throughout Northern California and Oregon with a small printing press, a couple of cases of metal type, bicycles modified to run atop railroad tracks, and two parallel histories. This trip brought motion to a project that we had been tinkering with for a year and half prior: Parallel Cases – an investigation of the intertwining landscapes of abandoned railroads and commercial printing via the railbike and the figure of the tramp printer. We set out with the intention of occupying the space of the right-of-way and the character of the tramp printer to better understand abandonment and its relationship to the complex histories of the American West. We went to California for its legacy of industry, spirit and romanticism and its complex relationship

In Berkeley, CA we met with a group of letterpress printers at Philoxenia Press. We went there with our prints, anticipating talk of letterpress and tramp printers. The focus of the conversations was, instead, trains. These craftsmen were serious train buffs, and confirmed a suspicion we had held all along – printing and the railroads were inexorably linked. The printers fortified us with more knowledge on what lines to check out with the railbikes than any other book or map or story we had collected up until that point.

For that we are thoroughly grateful.

From the Bay Area we continued north, moving from line to line, and printing all the while. We typically spent a day completing reconnaissance of each line. The questions in our minds then were of a more practical bent: Where could we access the track with the railbikes? Where would we park the car? How do we keep from attracting too much attention? The following day would be spent

They travelled not only to fulfil a rambling personal desire, but also because their craft required the kind of experiential learning that may only be achieved through travel. between remote natural landscapes and prosperous metropolitan centers. We went in search of abandoned rails and lost printers and found their remnants to be fleeting, but their stories still coveted, recorded and closely guarded by numerous individuals and close-knit groups.

railbiking, slowly and carefully along. A pace we justified as being contemplative, but really came out of the fact that the faster you pushed the railbike along, the faster things started to go wrong.

The third day would be for printing – and swimming at every opportunity. The schedule was not unlike that of the tramp printer:

Whilst heading cross-country from New York to San Francisco, we made our first stop in Tehachapi, a famous railroading town in Southern California where we met with a former railbiker and current mountain-bike aficionado. He sold us a railbike he had built for himself nearly 20 years prior. We took that railbike for a test-run along a Union Pacific Railroad mainline... dodging two speeding freight trains on a railbike that hadn’t been ridden for over two decades. Had we known that the place we were to first meet this bike was also one of Union Pacific’s busiest thoroughfares, we might have said thanks but no thanks, but we were there, and we were travelling, and it was a perfectly heart-pumping beginning to an otherwise leisurely-paced journey.

“Two or three days work in each town was all that the tramp printer wanted or would expect… He was always on the move – going nowhere in particular – but moving nevertheless. He usually reached a town on an early-morning freight train, and left the same way, under the cover of darkness…” John Edward Hicks, Adventures of a Tramp Printer 1880-1890

We then moved to San Francisco and continued our plotting – and mapping – of bikeable railroads to explore. We looked for abandoned and unused lines and when we found them we went off to see the reality that the maps couldn’t show: abandoned railroads that were impassable due to overgrowth and neglect, lines that ran through privately owned and closely guarded lands, tracks that had disappeared completely with only a roadbed left to hold their place, and the odd concrete-encased track in a strip mall parking lot. Quite frequently we were slowed and even derailed by those same forces that break down the tracks. Just as operational railroads require constant maintenance and persistent beating-back of nature, so too did our railbikes require constant repairs and adjustments.

Our railbiking and printing were punctuated not only by struggles with the abandoned lines, but encounters with the many people we met along the way. We told some version of our story to everyone. Most of the time, the folks we met connected with what we were doing, and contributed in ways that awed and humbled us. Seemingly everyone we talked to would tell us about the railroads they knew and had travelled. Others offered a place to stay, donated technical help, bike parts and even metal type and printing materials. At other times we opted to play the role of the kooky artists, and the story we told was more along the lines of “oh we’re just bumbling about out here on these bike contraptions because we don’t really know where we are, and no, we’re not here to steal your weed crops, thank you very much.”

We rendezvoused with an avid railcyclist at the Black Butte Center for Railroad Culture in Weed, California. He has been railbiking for over 40 years, and shared his numerous and seemingly endless stories of the railroads. Together we railbiked in the shadow of Mt. Shasta and explored the now-defunct McCLoud River Railroad. It was in places like these where railroad enthusiasts, historians, railbikers, freightriders and artists came together to present a clear picture of what the railroad is today: not only an industrial infrastructure, but also a complex and important culture which must not be forgotten.

The lore and romance of the railroad is sandwiched somewhere in between the technologically sublime and a destructive industrial history. When a railroad is left unused or abandoned, entropy sets in and the rails rust and warp as they are choked out by the natural environment. Without maintenance, without human accommodation – or interference – the rails begin to fade away, leaving behind only memories and evidential traces. The technology disappears but the romance remains, and intensifies through memory and folklore. The history of the West – as any history – is an amalgam of fact, fiction, commodity, innumerable characters and endless conflict. Because of its multiplicity, this history is not a chronological course of events with a structural order. Rather, it is a constellatory narrative of a fluctuating space that points to the experience and life of a history.

With our railbikes and printing press, we only began to peer at this vast and vagulous history and the culture that surrounds it. Indeed, there are still railroads to be abandoned and abandoned railroads to be explored. And there are many others out there to share this journey with. Certainly, our wanderlust is not yet sated and our education not yet complete. parallelcases.tumblr.com 57

Englishman inspires modern railbike efforts

by Bob Mellin This Popular Mechanics Magazine picture of Mr. Gillum in 1976 made him an overnight celebrity.

I

n 1975, William J. Gillum went prospecting in the mountains of Colorado, USA. He had carried his equipment up a steep mountainside and was resting near an abandoned railroad when a fellow prospector (also an Englishman, he later learned) came around the bend pushing a little homemade cart on the rails. The cart had three bicycle wheels, two on one rail and one on the other, and the wheels had flanges on their insides, just like train wheels. The whole thing folded in the middle and could be packed in the trunk of a car. The cart carried all of the Englishman’s equipment – he wasn’t even out of breath.

Upon seeing this Mr. Gillum felt many things, primarily envy.

He used his new railbike extensively over the next few months, seeking media coverage to help spread the word. His story first appeared in the December ’75 issue of Harper’s Weekly. In February 1976 Popular Mechanics included Gillum and his railbike as a news item in the ‘It’s New Now’ section. Over the next few months Gillum received over 2,000 inquiries from all over the world. Calls and letters came from engineers, cyclists, railroad enthusiasts, scientists, colleges and universities and even from General Motors’ design shop. Dozens of other inventors who had already built their own railbikes also contacted Mr. Gillum.

Being a self-styled inventor, William wondered, 'Why don’t I make one of these? And instead of pushing the cart, why not pedal it?' The idea for Gillum’s railbike was born.

William founded the American Railbike Association (ARA) and members received a booklet containing an overview of all of the research Gillum had done on railbikes. The news clippings, photographs, patent drawings and advice provided in his booklet got railbikers off to a good start. Mr. Gillum believed that “almost anyone can adapt an ordinary bicycle to run on abandoned railroad tracks. It requires some attention to detail but it is not that difficult.”

"I had never seen a railbike and thought I had come up with something new and unique," recalled Gillum. "But I’ve been through that before with other 'inventions'." So William began a patent search to see if his idea was really new. The search showed that cores of railbike patents had been issued during the late 1800s and early 1900s. "These old patents used every design feature I had cherished as 'original'", he said.

He nonetheless started work on his own version of a railbike.

His first efforts were to fit metal rims to the sides of the bicycle wheels. The rims straddled the rails and the flanges made them roll straight and true. The front wheel of the old English 3-speed bicycle was locked with a bolt through the stem so it would steer straight and not turn left or right. The first trial was a disaster.

Gillum explained that he failed to observe a basic principle of bicycle engineering – you keep a bicycle upright by steering the front wheel toward the direction you are falling!

His next design proved to be a winner. This three-wheeled outrigger design used 8-inch wheels with solid rubber tires which had wide grooves cut into them. Two of the wheels were fixed at an angle next to the front and rear bicycle wheels, so that they fit on the edges of the rail. The third wheel was mounted at the end of an outrigger, angled so that it rode on the inside edge of the other rail. Gillum used ¾-inch steel tubing with copper plumbing fittings and nuts and bolts – all things available at any hardware store.

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“The one big consideration is to provide a guiding system that assures the railbike will stay on the rails,” Gillum stated, “ even when the rails become more than the standard distance apart.”

He felt this was essential if the railbike was to have a touring capability.

William Gillum died in 1980. His wife Lyllian described him as a tireless tinkerer who enjoyed making things and loved sharing them with people. His one weakness was a somewhat naïve approach to business, but his railbike work has been an inspiration for many and has guided development over the years.

One of Mr. Gillum’s followers is Dr. Richard Smart, of Coeur d’Alene, Idaho, who based his design on William’s model.

Dr. Smart called his version a “railcycle” and got the term accepted as a new word in Webster’s Dictionary. The London Underground purchased several Smart Railcycles for use as track inspection vehicles. Mr. Gillum’s influence lives on.

Excerpt from "RAILBIKE – Cycling On Abandoned Railroads"

by Bob Mellin, printed by permission, copyright 2011, Balboa Publishing.

Crossing a washout Dr. Richard Smart's long-time railcycling companion Ken Wright on a 250-mile wilderness railcycle ride in 1987 near Bear Lake in Northern British Columbia. Ken was crossing a sagging stretch of rails over a gorge where the supporting bridge, and some of the ties, had washed away.

The Railrider

by Rick Hunter

T

he railrider tips his visor into the spinning dust, a blanket of barren wasteland spreads softly across the horizon. Two scrapes of iron emerge from the debris and blackened sand. The railrider spins his legs atop a contraption of wheels and poles, points of the machine connected briefly in space. He sits hunched, lurching his body towards the center of the earth, his tattered clothes strapped tightly around his arms and legs with scrap rope and strips of rubber inner tube, the wind flickering any loose ends of thread. His eyes covered with a visor of dark plexiglass, his head covered by a shredded hood of sewn patches. The rail machine rolls down the decrepit line, clattering on each joint of rail – the machine's guide plates bouncing, clicking and singing across the edges of rusted iron.

The light is fading from the sky and the Earth’s quietness is replaced by the buzz of an incoming ferocity. The railrider's pace increases, he spins his legs faster at every chance, he knows this basin of ash is the bottom of hell. The storm will flood these tracks with dust and silt. He needs to move faster on the rail towards the western mountains, away from the valley and the northbound storm. The three wheels of the rail machine scrub the tops of the sandy rails, their bald rubber tires bouncing slightly on each push of the rider's pedals, the wheels wobbling with missing spokes and loose bearings. The rider's gear hanging between the bicycle and the outrigger wheel of the rail attachment. he machine crabs its way forward with the bicycle tracking on one rail. The track hits the drain of this great basin and the rails start upward slightly towards the sloping walls of the bowl and into the clouded gaps of the mountains. The railrider presses onward, scrambling with his lightweight machine around disjointed lengths of rail and mounds of rubble. He is frantic; the machine is hard to ride unless the rail line is square, connected and true. Nothing lasts for long on this smoldering planet. The rider's eyes focus on the granite of the mountains, his heart pounding, pumping blood into his furious legs, his mind scared of the storm but excited by the prospect of the cold refuge of the high mountains.

He pushes himself out from his cloak of dust and wind-driven ash, with the storm's anger sliding north past him. He stands up with the wind pelting his back, unfurls his tarp and quickly latches it to the corners of his handlebars and to strips of rope.

A quick sheet flies open into the wind, he rotates the trailer around to the side, connecting another corner of the sail to the trailer wheel which has been rotated inline with the wheels of the bicycle. The contraption pushes forward. He runs along for a few strides and jumps on with a single foot.

The sail bulges with the constant wind. He rounds a bend of jagged rock with a river canyon emerging into a pinch of cliff and narrowing walls. An old rail line follows the slabs of hanging rock onto an edge of stone above the dead river. This canyon and rail bed are the pass and door into another world, into his next world. He pushes his rig up a small bank of dirt onto the rail grade and ballast. The iron bars of rail are still upright and parallel, the tops of the rails rusted and pitted with time and the intensity of an exploded past. His trailer comes around again, pivoting from the stem of his saddle, the trailer's wheel arcing across to the left rail, the bicycle's wheels on the right rail. He hops on again, downstream, along the edge of a stagnant river. The wind at his back funneling and wedging a constant momentum of possibility past him into the next opening and transition of hope and landscape. www.huntercycles.com Photography by Brian Vernor www.brianvernor.com

The heart of the storm is less than an hour away. The wind is intense, its speed gusting and pulsating the air with sand and grit. The rail line has deteriorated into a mess of steel scrap and dry earth. The rider lets his machine coast and fall off the last segment of rideable rail. The storm thunders like the waterfall of a black ocean behind him. He quickly detaches the outrigger wheel and connecting poles, swiveling the pieces on a hinge. The rail attachment is now a following trailer. He rolls his bike and trailer down off the rail bed, his footsteps and wheels pushing dust from the ground into the blasting air. There are no more rails to ride, the straight lines of formed iron are gone, his route now only defined by the angles and tilt of the ground. He pedals his bike through the soft mush of dirt across the expanse of a waterless oblivion. A large chunk of rock stands on end from the ground. This is his only spot to survive the storm. He wraps a tarp of cloth around his mid section, flipping the draped ends over his head and grabbing the corners together in front of his face. He drops to his knees and rolls himself over on top of any open spots of the tarp, pushing his body against the hard wall of the rock. The dust storm pours its havoc upon him and the land. Through the force of nature, time and space begin to be erased. Only the earth with its sky and ground hold the possibility of his reality and the determination of his future.

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Down to Bog River

by Dick Bentley

W

hen I was in grade school the old coal-fired steam trains ran pretty regular. My mother would get so mad when the soot soiled her whites hanging on the line. My brother and sisters and I would go out front and stand on the big rock near the track. As the daily train came by, we would all wave to the engineer and anyone else on board. Then we would run over to the crossing and look for our squashed pennies. One time I even rode the train to Utica, and on to New York City. My dad had to flag it down at the little station up the road from our house.

The years passed. Roads were better, more people had cars and the passenger service gradually dried up. Freight service went the same way a few years later, and the trains stopped running.

I loved my wilderness surroundings, and still do. However, I also had a love for designing and building all kinds of gadgets.

Those railroad tracks out front were just sitting there growing rusty and weedy. I couldn't let a resource like that go to waste and so I built my first railbike in the late 1950s. The only time I've ever had to abort a mission and pull my bike off the track was back on that first railbike. The New York Central still took a bit of interest in the line and I had to get out of the way of a highrailer full of suited railroad officials. They looked at me and I looked at them. They slowed down, and my heart sped up, but they never stopped.

I haven’t stopped either. To this day I continue to ride my railbike. The design has improved greatly over the intervening years. And I have been recruiting. My dad was an early convert. He would take rides, often by himself, down through the years all the way to the summer before he passed away at the age of 92. My wife, Sudjai has also stuck with me in this activity for the past 40 years – putting up with me for all that time I secretly suspect just for the railbiking!

Many years ago I published a railbike website to let the world learn more about railbiking. Considering the number of visitors over the years, and the great number of people around the globe who have bought my railbike plans, it appears to have been successful. It has been a great ride, both on the tracks and on the internet communicating with people from all over the Americas, Europe, Asia and Africa. A lot of plans have gone to Australia, and I have even sold plans in Tasmania – I didn’t even know they had a railroad down there!

On our 22nd wedding anniversary Sudjai and I thought it might be fun to take a railbike ride down the track to an isolated spot in the Adirondack Wilderness near where the railroad crosses the Bog River. I had gotten an early start on adding some structure to my bike to carry all the junk ‘important stuff’ that Sudjai thought would be useful to our overnight trip. Stuff like an ice chest (filled), all our camping equipment, a small inflatable boat (already inflated), a 4-poster canopy bed – well, maybe not the bed, but it was starting to seem that way. I figured this project would take an hour, perhaps two, tops, and we would be on our way.

Eight hours later we were on the tracks in front of the house, starting to load up. Friends and neighbors were crowding around under the pretext of lending assistance, probably wondering ‘what the hell?’, wishing us a heartfelt

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send-off on our brilliantly conceived anniversary adventure.

Good thing the daylight hours still give a bit of a margin at the beginning of August. Plenty of time I thought. I hadn't eaten supper yet, but that was supposed to be part of the festivities at our destination. Finally, to a rising cheer, we were off.

As I huffed along things began to grow dim. No, I wasn't overexerting myself; the sun had already dipped behind the trees. Not to worry. A bright moon rose behind. Here we were, pumping off into the night with a monstrous contraption never tested in daylight with bad curves and the washout between Mount Arab and Horseshoe Lake still ahead.

As we arrived at the washout, the flush of invention had worn off. I had sobered up enough to be prudent. We off-loaded everything except the inflatable boat, and hand carried all of it around the wash in the moonlight. I then rode the two bikes across. Without further mishap, we arrived at the Bog River.

Moonlight rippled off the water as I set up the tent and Sudjal prepared our supper. It had grown late, and we didn't build a fire. The evening held enough magic just as it was under the blazing moon.

At last we finished our iced drinks and crawled into the tent.

Inside seemed almost brighter than outside. The entire fabric glowed. We lay there soaking up the cooling air, listening to sounds of the nocturnal forest. The frogs were busy doing whatever frogs do, all the while making a great noise about it. Now and again, the slap of a beaver tail cracked the night.

Then came the sound of a tree crashing down in the woods across the river. I drifted off as Sudjai murmured something about hoping our food cache hanging off the bridge would be safe from bears.

After breakfast, Sudjai went swimming. Then we took a cruise in our tiny one-person inflatable, scrunched together in an intertwined position bordering on the indecent. Our idyll was interrupted by canoeists coming upriver. They looked strangely at our craft, at length realizing that was not the means by which we had arrived at this location.

Naturally, they had to investigate our real transport. Railbikes never fail to amaze and delight nearly everyone. By this time, more canoes had arrived. There followed explanations, demonstrations and trial rides before we finally broke camp and headed home. We arrived triumphant to no welcoming crowds, no ticker tape parade. It didn't matter. We had had a great adventure and you could not have pried the grins off our faces with a crowbar. rrbike.freeservers.com

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@boneshakermag / @MikeBoneshaker

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