Building Bikes and the Importance of Creative Diversification.
Like most kids that grew up in American Suburbia, I learned to ride a bike quite young. I would ride around the neighborhood, down to a friend's house, over to the park, and back. It was the first little taste of freedom that I had in my younger years. But then, also like most kids that grew up in American Suburbia, I got my driving license at 16, a car, and never looked back. It took quite a few years before riding a bike became something that I did again. The american streets, especially in the suburbs, are not built for using bikes as a mode of transport, and that friction that was built into my environment pushed me further and further away from cycling. It wasn't until I moved to Nashville in 2011 and sold my car that I started to return to the world of cycling, and it slowly started to occupy a bigger and bigger piece of my life. But this reflection isn't supposed to be about cycling, or transportation systems. It is meant to be a reflection on the different ways that the principles of design extend beyond the screen, embed themselves into every facet of life, and in this case, how that love of design intersects with my love of bikes.
I built my first bike in 2012. Like any good city dweller turning 20, I started to fall in love with fixed gear bikes. At the time, it was a perfect fit for my life. A mode of transport that was dirt cheap to maintain, easy to service at home, minimal, nothing but the essentials. But I was constantly bothered by the uniformity surrounding the bike companies offering fixed gear bikes at the time. They seemed to fall into one of two camps - either they were boring, and mostly all black, or they were composed of wild colors, feeling cheap and plastic-like in the process. I really wasn't drawn to either of those options. I wanted something that was uniquely me, but obviously, a mass market solution was never going to fit so perfectly into my needs as something custom would. So, in search of my perfect bike, I set off on a journey to learn more about how bikes work, values of every small component, and most importantly, how to make everything fit together harmoniously in a machine that is both beautiful and effective. The result was a two month long journey of scouring the internet for parts, looking for inspiration, choosing color schemes, and every component with intention. Selecting the rims, spokes, and hubs individually to get the perfect color combination that I wanted to each wheel. Looking endlessly for the perfect saddle in the perfect color. It was such a thrilling process, and seeing all of the pieces laid out on the ground like a lego set ready to be put together was a feeling I will never forget, although it was quickly eclipsed by the thrill of riding that bike for the first time.
I rode that bike for almost ten years, but, like most people approaching 30, I decided that the fixed gear bike riding was doing more harm to my knees than was compensated by the joy of riding it. I have built three other bikes since that first one, and each project has contained a different end goal, different use that I have adapted the design to. For me, building bikes has become such a valuable creative outlet precicely because it demands problem solving, composition, balance, and an eye for design, just like my work as an animator, but with one key difference. The end goal is rooted in functionality, not purely consumption. It is a bridge between the physical, built world, and the conceptual aesthetic one. As I have moved around in my life, those needs in my surrounding environment have changed, and so has the need for different designs of bikes. In Nashville, a fixed gear bike without brakes was a thrill. The few hills that we had were never too much for me to handle with some skillful (possibly reckless) skidding to come to a quick stop. But when I moved to Seattle, the steep hills leading out to the mountains convinced me pretty quickly to put at least one brake on my bike. As my needs changed, the bike changed as well. I built another bike, single speed this time, built for longer distances, ready with fenders, baggage mounts, and a more comfortable position. But as I continued to change my uses, I eventually graduated into geared bikes and built my first road bike. The distances got longer, the rides got faster, and my old fixed gear days seemed to slowly fade away behind me. Until now, finally settled in the Basque Country in the southwest of France, the roads are a bit rougher, the gradients a bit steeper. My rides have gotten longer, slower, more focused on taking in the beauty around me rather than seeing how quickly I can get from A to B. And so I built a new bike.
I won't dive too much into all the technical aspects of this, because frankly, even I don't find that part of things overly interesting. But at the most basic level, this was a design project for me, taking lessons I have learnt in my career and applying them to a different kind of project. Recognizing needs, setting limitations, and figuring out how to reconcile all of that inside of a well designed package. I will digress a bit here because I am far from special in this regard. There are custom bike companies that build some truly magnificent pieces of art, and in comparison, my bike is nothing special. But the overarching thought on this, the feeling that made me want to write this piece in the first place, is the importance of implementing diversity into how design is applied in our lives, within our work and adjacent to it. Interior design, landscaping, pottery, cooking, they are all forms of art and opportunities to express individuality and beauty in their own ways. Building bicycles has been one of my favorite ways to solve problems through the lens of design. A solution you can use. One that takes you on adventures, and opens up new doors.
