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publisher’s Statement<br />
By Jeff Guerrero<br />
I<br />
guess I’m getting old. I realized this the other day<br />
when I saw an antique car parked in front of an<br />
old man’s garage. I’m no expert on cars, but I’m<br />
pretty sure it entered the world a few years before its<br />
owner. And he probably chose that vintage because<br />
it’s the car he remembers from his boyhood. A time<br />
when things seemed simpler. Even if he never rode in<br />
a 1938 Packard as a kid, driving one on Sundays brings<br />
on a sense of nostalgia. And I can totally empathize.<br />
When I moved into my current apartment about<br />
seven years ago the main attraction was the basement.<br />
It was secure, offered space for bike parking<br />
and maintenance, and it was cool and dry enough for<br />
long-term storage. This was evidenced by the two<br />
antique bicycles that the landlord’s parents had left<br />
down there.<br />
The Columbia was a joke, a promotional bike<br />
emblazoned with Pepsi logos, the frame alone must<br />
have weighed 14 pounds. But the other bike beck-<br />
<strong>Urban</strong> <strong>Velo</strong> issue #32, July 2012. Dead tree print run: 5000 copies. Issue #31 online readership: 55,000+<br />
8 URBANVELO.ORG<br />
oned from beneath a coat of dust. The dark brown<br />
1974 Raleigh Sports women’s model looked to be in<br />
impressive shape. So I pumped up the tires and took<br />
it out for a ride around the block. Low and behold, it<br />
worked like a charm. I won’t say it rode like a dream,<br />
but the three-speed Sturmey Archer hub shifted just<br />
fine and the well-worn Brooks saddle felt remarkably<br />
good (though it did eventually tear from dry rot).<br />
Unlike the old man with the Packard, I haven’t<br />
lavished hours of restoration efforts on the Raleigh.<br />
I’ve lubed the chain, kept air in the tires and added<br />
a basket, new saddle, hub shiners and a cool set of<br />
self-powered LED lights. But I use it in much the same<br />
way, for spins around the neighborhood, or trips to<br />
the corner store. I never rode one as a kid (I was born<br />
in 1975) but when I go clanking down the road, sitting<br />
bolt upright with a grin on my face, I’m sure I’m getting<br />
the same sensation that countless old men experience<br />
on their own respective Sunday drives.<br />
Photo by Jeff Guerrero
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