Life’s Magic Cycle….With Added Prestige.
In the heart Hove, once a town, now an approximate third of a city, half way up a quaint cobbled street dappled with the dwindling remnants of high street retail, nested neatly between a coffee bar and a major mobile brand, there lives a shop.
To long-term locals on their daily forage and eagle-eyed explorers seeking sustenance, it is overlooked as easily as a chameleon in the African Bush.
But this particular shop thrives as much on the profound passion of its founding talent, as the widespread acclaim it has achieved, and operates on the principal that anyone wishing to reap rewards from the treasures beyond its modest entrance, will be harbouring unique desires and have planned their route in keen advance.
Before revealing the precise nature of the progressively popular niche it serves, here is a snatch of conversation I witnessed during one of many enlightening visits;
“This is one of our own customs. House colour, purple, extremely purple, new logo design and a plain gauge frame.
“Titanium?!”
“Oh yes, just painted. Livery’s an acquired taste but it’s a lovely little machine.
“Dunno. I was thinking just raw, or maybe gun metal, could you do that?
“Not a problem, that one over there, that’s close to gun metal, but we can do anything you like, including gold.”
“Nah, bit too bling. I want something noticeable that doesn’t scream out, maybe a splash of colour on the hubs.”
“Understood, subtlety with a touch of panache.”
“Yeah, it’s not about the speed, or the rider, it’s about the looks you get. I’ve always gone with raw.”
“Sure. Remember though, if you pick a shade and in a year you fancy a change, we can strip it back, and it’s raw.”
“ARGH! I just don’t know, I’m quite liking the purple now. Do they do a headset in that colour.”
“You mean a Chris King? No, there was limited edition about three years ago but they discontinued it in a month, I’ve been losing sleep ever since.”
The majority, unaccustomed to the agonizing dilemmas that a certain obsession precipitates could be forgiven for being bemused by such jargon riddled rhetoric, but those whose adrenaline races at the mere mention of group sets, bottom brackets, nipples and rims will have deduced its associated subculture within the opening sentence.
A historic practice, honoured and evolved by masterful human hands and born out of a craving for adventure, a yearning for good health, an instinct to compete and all with no aid but that of chains, cogs, pedals, profound stamina and intense ambition. A noble and honoured tradition requiring infinite reserves of dedication, control, technique, creativity, incisiveness and craftsmanship. The beloved, revered and prestigious science of bicycle building.
My inaugural experience of Prestige Cycles on a chill winter evening in 2015 was to prove a defining one.
Over the two preceding years, I had sampled an acutely polarised spectrum of riding disciplines and the vastly varying virtues of each.
A carbon concerto known as the “Giant Defy Advanced 1” had my chosen steed to confront the horrific realities of hard-core road cycling and had fearlessly galloped through a bleak winter of tortuous mob mentality, arcane etiquette, hailstorms, gales, Gamins and several “club socials”, the last of which had set off 12 members strong and concluded in three being dropped, two peeling off due to a dispute over the average pace, the ride leader taking a short cut, the stand-in ride leader colliding with another rider and the rest transforming the remainder of a supposedly convivial Sunday cruise into a savage pilgrimage of interval training before bidding a breathless farewell with not a millisecond to muse over a macchiato.
If the participants in such relentless masochism could legitimately claim it to embody cycling’s fathomless benefits, theirs’ was a fearful world I desired no part of. In desperation to rebel against the Velominati’s tyranny, decimate its insidious ideology and convince myself that progress without pain could evoke equal euphoria, I had defiantly turned to tradition.
A Steely symphony derived from Pashley’s pedigree was to reacquaint me with the pastoral pleasures a bicycle could bestow. Nobly and with casual assuredness, this quintessential marvel of English engineering had cruised its native coast, deftly danced over the south downs, weaved wily paths around flint peppered walls and through the coiling character of countrified purity.
All who glimpsed its rich burgundy frame, laudably and lovingly forged from Reynolds 531 tubing had been willed to smile as it purred passed bus stops, rolled down valleys, gracefully glided beneath windswept cliffs, whose glowing chalky visages enhanced the Sun’s infectious sparkle, illuminating a cornucopia of chrome trimmings.
Though its 12.5kg mass would cause every eye in peloton to narrow disapprovingly as a dozen critical tongues composed a persuasive preaching of titanium temptation, no Lycra laden roadie on a fleeting suffer sabbatical, sipping an espresso and feverishly fawning over his Strava feed could refrain from sneaking a furtive glance at this sensually sculpted homage to refined rural beauty, proudly posing against a dry stone wall, its polished alloy wheels winking, its handle bars swaddled in weathered leather and its Brooks saddle craving the day’s closing score of miles into a crimson westerly horizon.
However, even as such an bewitching metallic ensemble lit up faces lining the streets of sleepy suburbs and its robust tubes echoed with Elgar’s enigmatic melodies, all too suddenly, the steering would soften as the front tyre submitted to a gravely interrogation. The rear mudguard mount would fracture under abuse from thousand brutal potholes, the chain would falter in the finale of a crucial climb, and the snap of a solitary spoke would sully an otherwise spiritual experience, leaving an untrue rim to rub its rueful and humbling journey home.
After divulging these tiresome sagas to a handful of admirably sympathetic friends, congenial nutters from every biking bloodline and a variety of proactive bespoke builders from as far afield as the Netherlands. One message had been loud and unanimous. The merits of a bone shaker tailored to the accuracy of a Saville Row tuxedo were worth all the money, minutes and measurements an impatient impulse buyer could possibly conceive. Ever since, the mere prospect had evolved from an intriguing notion into a brooding obsession.
I coveted a creation that would vividly represent every era of my cyclical history, that would amalgamate the Pashley’s rustic romance, the Giant’s agility and the rugged reliability of my stable’s third and eldest stallion. A bold, battle-scarred and devoted Dawes commuter that were it blessed with a voice, could recount a fifteen year pilgrimage of Wagnerian proportions.
Today was to be my fit up for a present that I hoped would evolve into a heirloom and live to celebrate dozens more Birthdays than its owner. As I ascended a staircase adorned in Prestige’s prevalent regal shade, I mulled over how to communicate my needs in practical rhetoric to the discerning experts who awaited my arrival. Cautiously, I entered an impressive showroom, decked out in a luxurious array of customised spoils and laced with brands that were as far away from Halfords as the Earth was from the Orion nebula.
After taking a moment to acclimatise to its surprising spaciousness, I was warmly greeted by Toby, the firm’s principal technical guru and a man who, it was claimed, used necromancy to alleviate bikes of their numerous ailments. I divulged my wish list, less assuredly than I’d rehearsed, adding that my dérailleur days were numbered.
No matter how high grade the group set how or well calibrated the builder asserted it was, one gear out of twenty would never engage while others were rapidly and sadistically hammered out of alignment by the South Coast’s shocking surfaces. My heart was set on a hub housed solution and specifically, one from the venerable German manufacturer, Rholoff. 14 speeds, intuitively indexed, as bullet proof as a Panzer and as likely to slip as a limpet super glued to a tin of treacle.
Expecting Toby to respond with suggestions that I had been using the wrong parts, improper methods, or had relied on inferior expertise, all of which may well have been true, he simply looked interested, nodded in empathy, made scrupulous notes gleaned from my disjointed ramblings and a myriad of websites, before insisting that the any commission Prestige took on would be considered a failure if the client didn’t get exactly what they wanted…along with a fair bit of what they never knew they could have.
After a rough specification had been established, I was given a hypnotically articulate tour of several breath snatching exhibits from Baum and Mosaic, two top tier manufacturer’s based respectively in Australia and America and of whose captivating artistry Prestige were the UK’s sole importers.
Toby’s own road primed thoroughbred had been reared by the latter and was constructed around a sublime skeleton of double butted titanium, the brand silkily stencilled into a bead blasted surface. Violet hubs, electric shifting and more garnish than a thanksgiving turkey.
Despite his fantastically eloquent eulogy and the sensational spectacle that was his pride and joy, a nagging compulsion for nostalgia ultimately prevailed and I craved the perfect tribute to my Pashley’s spiritual legacy.
Reynolds 953 stainless steel, a material so scarce and murderous to mould that it had vanished from the menus of many revered fabricators, including Mosaic’s. Those that remained willing to negotiate its mercurial riddles, were quoting aeons of four to six months before a gram could even be sourced, let alone shaped. Such a wait would have tested the patience of a Franciscan Monk, for me, it might as well have been a decade.
I conveyed these concerns to Toby and he calmly assured that once I’d spoken to Stephen, I’d have a reasonably accurate and more agreeable lead time.
Following a medical assessment as diligent as any obtainable on the private sector and inspiring assurance by the Physio that I was the first customer to be given a clean bill of health, I was offered a welcome shot of caffeine by Prestige’s founding father.
Stephen Roche, a former child prodigy who was afflicted with cycling’s virus from birth and composed his first leg propelled masterpiece at the impressionable age of 15, began his professional career in London, working for another source of bespoke magic, Mosquito Bikes.
He took my vital measurements, height, in-seam, show size, wing span and others, telling me he had soon had grown weary of the extortionate daily commute, and that an attack of common sense sparked by astute parental guidance, had eventually convinced him to set up business in his native homeland.
One fine day, on a pleasant stroll down a particularly idyllic street in central hove, his father, now the company’s redoubtable bookkeeper had gestured to the property we now inhabited and said
“What about there?”
Though Prestige was originally conceived to provide the classiest bespoke brands with a British presence, not all customers were content to shell out mortgages to purchase Baum’s latest framesets or auction kidneys to acquire Mosaic’s double-butted tubes. In an effort fill this financial chasm and satisfy a sizable portion of the mainstream market, Stephen had initially stocked off the peg builds from a variety of ubiquitous manufacturers. When these hadn’t sold as anticipated, he decided it was time for a home brewed solution.
The most critical stage of the fitting process was poised to commence and as I clambered upon a menacing machine that resembled a highly sophisticated torture rack, I reiterated my concerns over how long my order might take.
Both Baum and Mosaic cater for titanium objectors. The latter’s finest steel is known as KVA-MS3 Stainless” and is also encountered on Genesis’s flagship offerings, while Baum’s frames are extracted from Columbus XCR and Reynolds steel.
With Mosaic already out of the picture, Stephen informed me that he would be unable to contact Baum for an estimate until the following week and that from there, build time was likely to be at least 3 months. Whilst this was still far quicker than any other estimate I had received, patience was a virtue that had eluded me since the days when Christmas presents were declared off limits until after lunch. I had to have things good AND on Tuesday!
As I pedalled with my eyes transfixed to a large image of myself defaced with triangular graffiti, hope handily materialised in the form of Prestige’s house label, Mustard.
Intended to bestow the masses with adorable and affordable exclusivity, Mustard was a cooperative venture devised by Stephen and his supreme frame sculptor, Mark Reily, a former disciple of elite UK manufacturer Enigma and proprietor of his personally nurtured brand, Nerve.
Mark is a Savant in the art of manipulating every grade of steel to be touched by human hands and with Stephen, had capitalised on its rampant resurgence by formulating an adaptable frameset for under £1000, consisting of Reynolds 853 tubing. Scarcely loose change but for a bicycle backbone assembled to spec by a craftsman of renowned calibre, a steal…in more than one sense.
Stephen explained that Mark was based in Newhaven and conducted his wizardry from an impeccably appointed workshop. So stunned was I when he went on to suggest that the 953 should be easy enough from him to harvest, that he had to instruct me not to pedal with my heels.
The program he uses is Dartfish, an intricate CAD based application employed by accredited forces throughout the sports industry to forensically analyse and refine the techniques of a diverse range of athletes. Having been devised to address a multitude of physical activities outside the realm of cycling, the software provides a broader scope for intuitive adjustment and can collate more informative data on its subjects.
The rider’s stats are fed into corresponding fields and as the pedals revolve, their actions are monitored in real-time as the program dynamically tracks every postural characteristic and highlights any indigenous tendencies, good and bad. From here, tweaks of the finest granularity are applied to the machine in order to correct anomalies such as lateral movement of the knees during pedal strokes and inadequate or excessive extension of the legs at the base of each rotation.
Regardless of their requirements, these pivotal modifications are essential to maximise a rider’s efficiency and avoid a catalogue of pernicious injuries triggered and aggravated by careless guesswork.
Stephen was keen to remind me that the system isn’t fool proof and that feedback from the customer is compulsorily to achieve an optimal fit. No single bike can serve every riding discipline. A competitive road or track racer may benefit from an acutely appointed frame that induces an aggressive posture. A flat crossbar, a more sharply inclined seat tube, a shorter stem for responsive handing, a steeper drop from the saddle to the handlebars and a greater distance between these two points to ensure the spine is less arched and minimize air resistance.
If there existed a moniker that aptly defined my species of cyclist, it would be “UET” or “Unadventurous Endurance Tourer”. I explained that as a gym phobic, my bike was everything from a rowing machine to a cross trainer and that when at operating at hard tempo my hands fidgeted over bar tape as though it were the surface of a ceramic hob .
I’d found drops on the Giant and the Pashley extremely conducive to comfort over exceptionally long and arduous treks since they catered for multiple riding positions, in and out of the saddle, thereby exercising a variety of muscle groups and minimising lower back fatigue. The problem had been with balance. Despite both bikes tipping the scales at over 5 kilos below the Dawes’ bulky 17, their comparative lack of stability on the steepest ascents, owing mainly to the bars’ reduced width, wasn’t worth the Strava kudos…not that I had attained any!
Having excelled as competitive mountain biker and managed his own racing team, Stephen was more solicitous than ever over the importance of equal weight distribution and attentive to my desire for a wide centre of gravity. He recommended a flat top bar with ergonomic grips and bull horn extensions for additional leverage on hills. “Practicality over prettiness” he surmised. I readily agreed.
A minute of two’s further spinning proceeded in cogitative silence, broken only by the fitting machine’s humming monophony and the harmony of Stephen’s iPhone as it fielded an avalanche of eager enquires. I reflected over what had at dawn had been a distant dream and at dusk stood poised on the boundaries of reality.
The fact that I had opted for black wheels with matching spokes, combined with a Rholoff Hub and a Schmidt Son dynamo arrayed in identical attire, meant there was major decision left to discuss, that of an appropriate paint scheme.
Though painting an area that amounts to no more than a square yard may sound as simple as putting on a helmet, in truth, the levels of diligence and skill required are close to those employed when forging the frame itself and the margin for error almost as narrow. In an effort to assuage my irrational impatience without sacrificing a sliver of quality, Stephen insisted that a former teammate based in Bournemouth and now fronting his own operation, could execute the swiftest and most professional job he could envisage. Mustard’s signature would be manifest in polished steel, peeking through layers of translucent lacquer, tastefully picked out by a silver boarder and surrounded by premium coats of glittering onyx élan.
I didn’t care so long as the three weeks it was likely to take didn’t push us too far past the commendable two months Stephen had estimated it would take to complete the project.
With the physical analysis over, the data Dartfish accumulates is utilized to generate the blueprint of a frame whose dimensions and angles are seamlessly synchronised with the anatomy of its lucky owner.
Having thanked Steve and Toby for three fleeting hours of kindness and hospitality, not to mention a service as flawless as that of a Michelin star restaurant, I headed for the stairs and began to mentally prepare for what would be a salutatory period of waiting, Stephen hurriedly ushered me back with that he couldn’t let me leave until I had met my frame builder. Clearly I was wrong, this service was as flawless as the Savoy Grill’s when the Sultan of Brunei was its honoured guest “. Moments later Mark Reily greeted me with a hand as firm as the steel it forged.
Following a routine exchange of pedalling pleasantries. Prestige’s metal maestro explained that running a discreet, independent and scaled down operation, allowed him to specify and construct a frame set with greater precision than a factory could attain within a batch of a hundred clones.
Moreover, the term “hand built” is all too often misappropriated, with many duplicitous manufactures relying on machinery for significant portions of their builds, not least milling the tubes. Honest Manual Labour, was the essence of Mark’s motivation, and meant every surgical thrust of a hacksaw through shiny bones.
“You going tig or lug welded?” He asked, triggering a bemused stare followed by the ignorant response, “Whichever is quicker”.
“Those are lugs.” He gestured to a pair of delicately moulded holsters that housed the ends of two tubes on a wall mounted Mustard. “I like lugs, it’s all about style with lugs, the process is quite cumbersome, but you end up with a more traditional look.”
I peered closer, they were indeed remarkably easy on the eye. Elegant and intricate. A silvery testimony to fancy Georgian cuffs and I instantly recalled, one of my Pashley’s intrinsic and endearing features .
He went on to explain that tig welding is the contemporary method and the one he favours since the tubes are fused together without lugs, economizing on weight and the leaving joints exposed for a discerning eye to admire. “it’s cleaner and more rewarding.”
Stephen asked him if he could bore holes in the crossbar for the brake cables to be routed internally, as he had done on the frame we were observing. However, this crossbar belonged to an 853 assembly, standard steel as opposed to stainless. The former, a veritable wind assisted descent to manipulate, the latter, a stubborn, tiresome, hypersensitive creature and, somewhat fittingly, a far stiffer test of a welder’s virtuosity.
Mark sucked his teeth, mulling over how thin the tubes were but in the seconds it took for Stephen to goad him and for me to decide that lugs were a necessity, his spirits wire primed.
For eleven strenuous weeks, Stephen, Toby, Mark and Alistar performed their miracles. The frame was fabricated within the first three and personally transported by Stephen to receive its exclusive livery.
I rued I would not glimpse its steely sublimity first hand, nor pass one calloused palm over a frictionless tube until spraying had been duly carried out.
Other parts were promptly couriered to the shop. I made several return visits to salivate over the expanding inventory, each time being welcomed with warm smiles and learned conversation.
A customised carbon fibre fork was produced by Wound Up and shipped over from America to accommodate the frame’s extra height.
Stephen drove to Bournemouth twice to inspect Alister’s efforts, fully intending to collect the frame on his initial visit but convinced, after scrupulous deliberation, that further Lacquer needed applying to the logo to ensure its edges were seamless with the surrounding paint and each letter was invisible to enchanted fingertips.
I was emailed photographs prior and subsequent to each coat’s application as a result of what I later deemed to be an ill-judged request, since every jpeg amounted to a sneering taunt that I could look, but not touch.
Once Stephen and Alistair were unanimous in proclaiming artistic excellence, it was time for the sorcery of Prestige’s Dr. Frankenstein to animate a monster far more obliging and attractive to behold than Mary Shelly’s Darwinian nightmare.
Stephen had joined forces with handful of accomplished mechanics before Toby but was adamant the skills, ingenuity and commitment of his latest recruit placed him in a different league. Within days I realised this acclamation had been modest. He arranged for replacement wheel rims upon identifying a solitary hairline scratch I’d have been far too impetuous to notice.
He attached and configured the Roloff Hub using an assortment of 20 nuts and bolts with two pairs of Allen screws residing in holes between the chain and seat stays to enable the rear drop out, disk brake, pads and hub to slide forwards and backwards as a single entity. An indispensable facility when adjusting chain tension.
Middleburn’s commander in chief paid a flyby visit, eulogizing over the hub’s marriage of one of his delightful cranks.
He worked tirelessly through all a hours, refusing coffee breaks, frequently clocking off after dark and on one occasion, having to waddle indignantly on cleats to catch his connecting train at Eastbourne.
On the 1st of May 2015, at six o clock on a clement Friday evening, a week before the general election, my onerous sentence in pedalling purgatory entered its final moments. A dream that had tormented me for over a year had been afforded divine physical presence. Destiny was about to begin. There it was, the showroom’s centrepiece.
A Cyclical catharsis. The Dawes’ heart, The Giant’s soul and the Pashley’s panache, preserved in ravishing Reynolds rigidity. Frosty silver on glossy Sabbath. Classical charm fused with contemporary luxury. All that remained was for Toby to replace the lurid lime green pedals he’d attached for an evaluative spin, and for the bank to willingly depart with a six and three zeros.
I had entered Prestige’s domain assuming my knowledge accounted for every asset of a bicycles ageless anatomy. I had departed, not for good, imbued with wisdom about appendages that might as well have formed part of an Alien’s exoskeleton.
However. There remained one profound concern. In light of my negligible contribution to its composition, the majestic creature I now ushered towards a coast bathed in soft gold, may not accept me as its rightful owner.
Within two turns of the malleable Middleburn crank, fear conceded to rapture. Such fulsome clichés as silky responsiveness, sublime control, enviable comfort, and stability to rival that of the Pope’s pension are hopelessly inept to describe what Prestige had created. If a bicycle were a Cadillac, this was a priceless prototype, a machine that subsumed its man.
Where a dérailleurs grinding grudges had emanated, there now ticked the Rholoff’s tranquillity. The Scwalble Marathon tyres purred with no hint of a pop. The front fork reflected the sun’s crimson cadenza, igniting echoes of a carbon fuelled past. I wondered how I had ever allowed one of life’s legendary pastimes to propel me to the edge of sanity.
For the first time into a westerly breeze, I was smiling. As a lonesome Rodie puffed past on his Genesis Volare, my smile broadened. Why with pride did there have to be struggle?
Strava was an abomination I was delighted to abandon to expert sufferers. Those whose lives hinged on numerical conquests. Whose eyes acknowledged nothing but the next tyre in the crocodile. Whose sense of fulfilment depended on bridging the gap between their ravaged muscles and the aching lungs of a sworn Rival.
Whose instincts compelled them to tear up a flagged portion of tarmac in a single minute, rather than take two to bid the sun goodnight. Those who would forsake the transcendent beauty of a star spangled sky to transcend another hero in Ditching Beacon’s league.
I didn’t resent these people, I respected them but I was happy to have learned how not to become one.
On Shoreham’s’ deserted harbour road the heady cocktail of hulking industry and maritime repose was surpassed only by the lithe synergy whose steel I commanded. How many more miles to Babylon. A hundred, a thousand, a million? It didn’t matter. Cycling was mine again.