Richard Sachs Cycles

[Gattonero]

There is a nice fella down there in your orbit who can build a smart machine for you if you ask nicely and then kick him in the chestnuts. His machine will allow you to expand your saddle time beyond your five hour window, and not have to put a foot down. The only downside will be an indiscriminate, and uncontrollable urge to speak French. You will begin to cross-pollinate with other like minded individuals who wear French berets on a Saturday in October and discuss such esoteric topics like low trail, riding through rainstorms for five days straight as you marvel at the water cascading from beneath your Honjo fenders. You will become fascinated by generators, wires and lights, scrum with neophytes over front loads versus rear loads, and you will engage in these discussions with a straight face. I've seen this happen to others. It has happened to me.

The world needs more of this.

[happycampyer]

Theirs not to reason Weigle...

[e-RICHIE]

Few things are as evocative of my old hood (Bayonne, NJ) as the neighborhood candy store. The most I’d ever walk to find one was a block. Back then, they had soda and ice cream fountains, marble countertops with swivel stools, at least one often two pinball machines, a telephone booth (Google it...), and sold newspapers, some magazines, cigarettes, and those airplane kits made from balsa wood. Oh and you could also play the numbers there (Google it...).

Nearly all of these places had a Breyer’s Ice Cream sign above the front door similar to the image pasted in here. I fuck off on some Facebook pages dedicated to my hometown, and I’m here, now, to testify that I miss some of the old days and the way life happened then. I’m not a “Hey kid, get off my lawn” type of guy. I’m openminded and accept change. I just don’t think all of it is for the good. I’d like to see a Breyer’s sign in my dreams tonight. That’s all.

[Too Tall]

Good stuff Reeshard.

[Peter Polack]

Good story.

In my youth, there was Jumbo's, another store whose name I can't remember, and Rovelto's.

In those days (the 60's), your parents could send you to the store to buy cigarettes for them. Whether it was legal or not I don't remember.

I routinely fetched the things for mom and dad.

One time I went on the mission to Rovelto's and decided to use the change left over from the cigarettes to purchase a pee-shooter.
When I got home, the parent hit the roof and marched me back to Rovelto's to to return the pee-shooter in person...

At the no-name place, it was just as Richard described. They mixed seltzer with syrup to make your soda. I must have had a tooth on the verge of calling it quits, because when I took my first sip, it dissolved the final protective layer of enamel and, OUCH!

[d.bancroft]

In my town there was Guy's Drug Store. it was full to the ceiling of everything imaginable. Most importantly, to me, were the models and the Testor's paint and glue. God how i love the smell of that stuff!

[e-RICHIE]

In my town there was Guy's Drug Store. it was full to the ceiling of everything imaginable. Most importantly, to me, were the models and the Testor's paint and glue. God how i love the smell of that stuff!

Huge HUGE Revell Models guy here.

[rwsaunders]

Huge HUGE Revell Models guy here.

Now we’re talking...countless hours at our basement workbench, listening to rock n’ roll (WZUM) on the AM radio, building, modifying and painting models of all types of cars. What parent in the modern world would allow their kid to use X-Acto knives while inadvertently huffing model glue and Testor’s paint? It’s amazing that we are alive.

[Moke]

I can remember struggling with great intensity of which penny candy I should purchase with my nickel. All behind a glass counter. so many choices That poor store owner had the patience of Job because the kids never went in alone. We seemed to press our noses against the counter glass in sets of three kids per mission. Thanks Richard for stirring a great memory. Your photo looks more like what we called the news stand in Missoula terms. We had one of those with bins of pipe tobacco smelling so earthy. With rows and rows of magazines. That is where my friend introduced me to Cliff Notes. Sure beat reading the whole book. Our penny candy provider was more of a mom and pop grocery, the kids sort of went from penny candy to underage beer as we aged up, but not quite enough up. Mom and Pop must of needed the extra coins because I know I didn't look close to 21 when I was in HS.

[e-RICHIE]

In the beginning. Every commission is three maybe four days of small decisions. Some get in the way of others. Sequence is often rearranged. I mean - the goal is to make a bicycle frame that's well designed and let's the client find an efficient and comfortable position.

It's not about lengths and interference fits. Sometimes it is. Things have to be right. What we do - what I do - enables the wheels to sandwich the client so that vehicle rolls efficiently and turns easily. It all has to look good too. That's why I have to lean on things a bit.

Removing material is part of the job. Not to lighten the whole. To make it beautiful. That elegance stuff I'm fixated on. There isn't a playbook for craftwork. Repetition is the only way to know how deep I should go, and when to stop. The last file stroke is the end.

All This By Hand

[e-RICHIE]

We all have these half-truths and little white lies. They’re part of the wall that shields us from reality. Mine began the day I started my label. Late June 1975.

Expectations can be a Hell. But we’re paid to meet them. And when you’re alone with no one left to ask, the questions fuck with your confidence. If you have any.

No matter the day. Or decade. Or era. No matter how far along I come on this path I’ve walked for nearly fifty years, there’s an unshakable certainty at the bench.

Sideways is best known as a film title. It’s also the way things go without warning. That’s why it’s important to have an escape route. You’re looking at mine.

All This By Hand

[e-RICHIE]

It takes me 110 minutes of pedaling to leave myself behind. That guy with bicycles to make, emails to answer, and tchotchkes to hustle. It’s good that most of my rides are twice this. Or longer. But even if I ended at the two hour mark, the ten minutes would be a gift.

I realized this afternoon after turning right out of the driveway, then taking the two roads that get me out of town and into the woods, that starting is often a chore. I have to push my way through the heaviness before I feel light. When my own light goes on, I’m transformed.

So many hours on the bicycle this year. Many more now that I’m riding rather than training. I’m still driving all of it; I’ve never been one to freewheel along. And every time I get to that moment when I’m in my own rear view mirror, I think about not returning. And then I do.

All This By Hand

[e-RICHIE]

Delightful. Four hours from driveway to driveway. Mine to mine. Once I get above Tylerville and into Haddam it becomes somewhere else. Where I am is cool. Somewhere else is cool too. Especially on empty roads.

There’s a good network of gravel and dirt and a little pavement if I make a wrong turn. I know most of the holes and ditches, and avoid them. But after last week’s windstorm there were some new ones. No big deal.

There was one stretch at 45 minutes in when I clocked almost an hour and a quarter without getting passed by anything. What’s not to love about where we live? That’s a rhetorical question. But feel free to reply.

All This By Hand

[Moke]

Yea Richard you are 100% right on that one. Lonley roads are the best roads. My ride yesterday saw 3x more deer than cars that is never a bad day.. With college and school sort of back in session the lonely roads got a bit more so.

[e-RICHIE]

Riding is for pondering. Especially now, it’s for pondering. Before, it was for other things. Among them, especially among them, it was for finding ways to turn myself inside out so I could do the same to those next to me on race weekends. I’m done with that.

I’m a devout ponder-er off the bicycle. I spend an inordinate amount of time thinking about things. I’m consumed mostly with my own self. What’s the reason for me? Why am I here? What should I do after breakfast? Shit. Like. This. Has always consumed me

I’ve spent most of my life (so far) wondering. I’ve wondered a metric shit ton more about things than I’ve acted on them. And while it may seem smug to admit it aloud, I’ve acted on a lot (so far.) Maybe more would get done if I examined things less. There ya’ go.

Most of my riding time is devoted to thinking about what’s next, if there’s even such a thing as next. I remember a NYT article about my hero Larry Bird. The headline was, “At The Top of the Game, Bird Plots a Way To Leave It.” The print date is 1988.

For me, the pondering became an intense, almost a varsity sport level pursuit, when I turned 60. That was seven years ago. When I crossed the decade, I thought it was time to get serious about what’s next. Larry Bird thought about it. Maybe I should.

I have a hard time committing. Or being serious. I’m anything but deliberate. I can be deliberate. But mostly I’m content to sit, look inward and wonder. I can watch time and not see it pass. And before the sun sets, I’ll be thinking about tomorrow.

All This By Hand

[e-RICHIE]

Sometimes I leave the driveway and turn right and have no idea where I wanna go. There is no shortage of cool roads and places to ride. But every so often my mind can't make itself up. There are times when this happens that I go straight to the water line.

We live near the river and also the Sound. Some of my favorite pedaling moments include riding in and around these areas. Town beaches. Boatyards. Wildlife refuges. Land trusts. None have roads that are too long. But when I string them together, it's sublime.

I grew up on Newark Bay. As a child I summered in Belmar. The shorelines always call me back. There's something about going to the very edge where the land ends and there's nothing left but water. It's soothing. Serene. And puts everything right.

All This By Hand

[NCC1701]

and you can collect shells tooooo!

Good to see you my friend!

KJ

[Mark Walberg]

Riding is for pondering. Especially now, it’s for pondering. .....

It is a funny coincidence that, the same day you posted this, I posted a bike ride on Strava titled "Pondering"
I called it that because I rode through Ponder Texas and because that's what I was doing as I rode through.
Bike rides are indeed good for that.

I see that we were both riding bikes that we built ourselves.

[e-RICHIE]

It happens each season when the weatherman taps you to remind that this is the week. For me it was last Tuesday. Until then and for as long as I can remember, for as long as I want to remember, it was a pair of bibs and a jersey.

The thermals were easy to find. Hanging dutifully in a corner of the basement, they were next to the box marked “everything else.” The gloves, the arm-warmers, the base layers. All the armor one needs to fen off the elements.

By Wednesday my wardrobe changed into one I expect to wear until the snow flies. That’s when I no longer ride outside, and my walking routine commences. I’ve always walked rather than ride indoors. I need the fresh air.

This was also the week I (finally) accepted my present, one without races but - more importantly - one in which I’m no longer a racer. I knew last October that I was done with lining up. I began to embrace it these past few days.

All my life (so far) I’ve lived with, lived for, learned on, and profited from the weekends. These were when I played bicycle racing. I fell into my sport’s net as a teenager and spent my adulthood happily entangled. This no more.

I’ve been on my bicycle more in 2020 than any season since the last century. Perhaps at a slower pace, much of it. With the chain on those once seldom used cogs nearer to the hub. That’s where my comfort zone is now.

All This By Hand

[Ras72]

With the chain on those once seldom used cogs nearer to the hub.

I've always looked at that damn cassette as a man's life. Indicative to his age but in dog years. So, I rejoice every time Campagnolo adds another cog.