![[Short article I wrote about handmade bicycles and NAHBS, Monocle, June 2012]](http://25.media.tumblr.com/tumblr_m44uwtkusi1qackd0o1_1280.jpg)
[Short article I wrote about handmade bicycles and NAHBS, Monocle, June 2012]
[Short article I wrote about handmade bicycles and NAHBS, Monocle, June 2012]
![[English craftsman, Italian steel, Occitan cross]](http://24.media.tumblr.com/tumblr_m0grgkSxKm1qackd0o1_1280.jpg)
[English craftsman, Italian steel, Occitan cross]
![[Dreams of space]](http://24.media.tumblr.com/tumblr_lqfop1U9tr1qackd0o1_500.gif)
[Dreams of space]
![[Maza Modena]](http://25.media.tumblr.com/tumblr_lpt5qqIIqJ1qackd0o1_500.jpg)
[Maza Modena]
![[chris boardman’s bike from the 1990 national hill climb championship]
The 1990 champs took place at Widecombe-in-the-Moor, Devon.
Photo found on David Crisps’ Flickr.](http://24.media.tumblr.com/tumblr_l0g59rtKyA1qbq6wwo1_500.jpg)
[chris boardman’s bike from the 1990 national hill climb championship]
The 1990 champs took place at Widecombe-in-the-Moor, Devon.
Photo found on David Crisps’ Flickr.
Even if I did not enjoy riding, I would still do it for my peace of mind…
‘After a long day on my bicycle, I feel refreshed, cleansed, purified. I feel that I have established contact with my environment and that I am at peace. On days like that I am permeated with a profound gratitude for my bicycle… Even if I did not enjoy riding, I would still do it for my peace of mind. What a wonderful tonic to be exposed to bright sunshine, drenching rain, choking dust, dripping fog, rigid air, punishing winds!’
Velocio, inventor of the derailleur in the 1890s.
![[one in the eye for hitler]
German Toni Merkins riding a Hetchins in the mid ’30s. He won gold at the Munich Olympics on one of the Jewish framebuilder’s bikes.](http://25.media.tumblr.com/tumblr_kvozmjw9TV1qackd0o1_500.jpg)
[one in the eye for hitler]
German Toni Merkins riding a Hetchins in the mid ’30s. He won gold at the Munich Olympics on one of the Jewish framebuilder’s bikes.
the still centre of the turning world
The road to the Marmotte started at the midwinter solstice, “the still centre of the turning world” as TS Eliot called it.
I didn’t get as far as Oli at Morvélo; far enough, though, to feel the Siberian wind whipping snow across the downs.
Daylight was scarce and precipitation later came as water, not snow, stripping the muddy fields of their white covering as the day went on. Then Talisker and fish pie in the pub.
