Signs of Richard Sachs

It was the day before the Providence Cyclocross Festival and Richard Sachs asked whether I was going. Richard Sachs is a bicycle framebuilder in central Massachusetts, maybe you've heard of him. He builds these nice lugged steel bikes for which there is a 10 year wait list. He also races cyclocross, with his team, on bikes that he makes (no wait list for those). They would all be racing in Providence that weekend, and if I went I would get to see them. 

I should explain that I'd never actually met Richard Sachs at this point, though we'd exchanged a couple of emails. As another bit of indirect contact, some time ago I briefly rode one of his bikes - a blue and white 26" wheel brevet bike that belonged to a friend of the Blayleys. It was a nice bicycle, and I knew of the legendary status of Sachs frames. But what truly sparked my interest in the builder was his writing. His writing is extensive, addictive, and freely available online. Blog entries that read like essays on postmodernism. Quotes from his own interviews followed by commentary, analysis and critique of those quotes. He keeps records of things that happened 10, 20, 30 plus years ago. He tells and retells his history, using scanned photographs, scraps of receipts, and yellowed bits of newspaper as evidence. You can learn almost anything you care to know about Richard Sachs by reading through all of this. "[People] are buying me, not the bike," Sachs once wrote. "They want to have a little bit of me." And so he grants us access to his person, or at least gives the illusion of doing so. Naturally, all of this fascinates me.

The site of the Providence Cyclocross Festival was labyrinthine and chaotic. When I got there, I realised that I had no idea how to go about finding a specific person. There was no Sachs tent, and he had given me no instructions for where to find him. As I wandered around, I made a game out of looking for him. After 10 minutes the closest I got was spotting a red and white bike being wheeled past, with "Richard Sachs" on the downtube in yellow. 

Then I saw a woman with a fluffy white dog peeking out of her backpack. Both she and the small creature looked familiar. When I noticed that she too was rolling a red and white bicycle, I realised this was Deb, Richard Sachs' wife. The Masters men's race was scheduled to start soon, and she was headed to the staging area. 

All of the Richard Sachs cross team bikes are red and white, and all are fitted with identical components. The look of the team bikes has not changed much over the years, nor have his bicycles in general. "Why buy a frame from a one-man shop still using traditional hand-building methods?" his website asks. "Because technology alone is a poor substitute for experience." The experience he speaks of dates back to 1972. His frames are not custom, but made to measure, in the sense that the customer has no input into geometry or other core design elements. A Sachs frame means Sachs geometry, his own proprietary blend of (Columbus "PegoRichie") steel tubing, his own lugs, dropouts, fork crown. He has perfected his method over the course of 40 years. This is what the Richard Sachs customer pays for; this is what they believe is worth the wait. Spotting some more of his bicycles on the roofs of cars, I try to see all of this in the frames. But my novice eye just sees some classic lugged bikes. 

I was now in front of a car that I recognised as his. "Richard Sachs" was everywhere, but still no Richard Sachs. Also everywhere was his signature acronym ATMO - "according to my opinion." ATMO is used on online forums, in written correspondences, in descriptions of things. Products are branded with it. You can buy an ATMO bag, t-shirt, hat.

Socks. Seeing them somehow made me feel better prepared to meet him. Just one of those ridiculous thoughts that goes through one's mind. In fact I had no idea whether I'd be able to pick him out of a crowd. I flipped through my mind's database of all the online pictures I had seen of him. These generally fell into three categories: There was the thoughtful Richard Sachs in a black turtleneck sweater, brazing. The muddy, suffering Richard Sachs in a skinsuit and helmet, racing. The smiling Richard Sachs in jeans and a blazer, shaking hands at NAHBS. Tableaux.

I'd heard numerous stories at this point about what he is "really like." He is arrogant. He is humble. He is funny. He is humourless. He is charming. He is abrupt. But now I spotted him in the race, and my first impression was that he was a cyclist. Skinny and scowling, he stood and pedaled, staring straight ahead, breathing with his mouth open, as if gasping for air. "That bike fits him well," I thought, before I remembered that he made it.

I had picked the wrong day to attend the cyclocross race: sunny, dry, cheerful. The following day would be all rain and mud, but my pictures make the riding look like a fun little jaunt. There were at least two men in the Master's race wearing the RGM Watches-Richard Sachs team kits, but I quickly determined that Sachs was the one in long sleeves and that made it easier to follow him around the course. Not that this helped me much.

I do not envy sports photographers: This stuff is more difficult than a wedding. To get good shots, first you have to study the course in advance and wait for the riders you want to capture in the spots that not only promise action, but offer a good vantage point for photographing individual riders. Then you have a split second to compose a shot; once a rider passes you, there is no do-over. By the the end of the day I started to figure it all out, but when Richard Sachs was racing in the morning I had not yet gotten my bearings. It took a couple of laps before I even managed to get a picture where his head was not overlapping with a tree or other riders. Finally he was riding alone for a stretch and I got a few shots, one or two of which were even in focus. Still, nothing to write home about and certainly not worth all the running around I did. 

Once it was over, I headed back toward the car where I had seen the ATMO wheels and dirty socks. On my way there I saw the other, short-sleeved Masters rider (David Genest?) rolling along while doing the double-bike maneuver. 

Soon after that Richard Sachs rolled up, recognising me. His appearance up close was a little startling at first. He has very pale gray eyes and features that are both angular and delicate. The kind of face you might see in an expressionist painting. We said hello. He was tired, but willing to pose for pictures, even pointing out which parts of the bike and his outfit to photograph, so that sponsors would receive attention.

"Make sure to get the watch," he said, and I did (RGM Watches). 

The black team kits with cream horizontal panels and red edging are striking and elegantly styled. Sponsors' logos have the look of vintage newspaper headers. 

I studied the bicycle - a Richard Sachs, with Richard Sachs upon it. I tried to focus on the details of the frame, take some close-up of the brake bridge and fork crown, that sort of thing. But instead I kept thinking of the steel tubes against the 59-year-old muscles. The streaks of dirt on the frame juxtaposed with those on his legs. The stylised RS headbadge with the weight of the actual man whom those initials represent resting above it. Richard Sachs has done an impressive job of branding himself. He has created a micro-universe of imagery, logos, words, phrases, even ideas that signify him. The red bikes. RS. RICHARDSACHS. e-Richie. ATMO. CFRS. "The frame is the frame." "Imperfection is perfection." I tried to see through these layers of signifiers and representations, to the actual flesh and bone person in front of me. But I couldn't see him clearly. Or photograph him in a way that satisfied me. 

We kept talking, not about anything in particular. He came across as open, friendly. At some point he picked up his fluffy white dog, cuddled it, held it in front of the camera. I took the pictures, but even as I did I sensed that this too was a tableau; that when I'd get home and look online, others will have taken the same shot. 

"Perhaps I am not I even if my little dog knows me," I thought. That's a lesser known version of a popular Gertrude Stein quote. I could not get a feel for the man, as a separate entity from the e-mythology that surrounds him. At the end, finally I came close - catching him off guard as he sat on the edge of his car and stared into space. It was a fleeting moment, and still perhaps a tableau. The post-race Sachs. 

Before becoming a framebuilder, Richard Sachs had planned to be a writer. Of course, this was over 40 years ago, but it still "explains things," one could say - meaning his blog, his extensive documentation of personal history, the way he forms his replies in interviews. And the interviews with him are numerous, as are the biographical articles and the reviews of his bikes. Me, I can hardly contribute anything of substance to such a collection. Best I can do is share this story of meeting him.

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A Walk in the Woods, a Day at the Races

It felt like one of those dream states where worlds collide and everything is mixed together. 80 degree heat in October. A supposedly obscure bicycle race with ball game-sized crowds. Roads closed, cheering heard from a mile away. But most disorienting was the warped sense of time and place. It was Saturday morning, and I was walking through the woods where I'd spent practically all my free time as a teenager many years ago. I had not set foot there in over a decade, but my rote memory remained intact. My feet did the walking along the still-familiar trails until finally I found myself in a clearing, facing that wacky neoclassical structure that now served as the podium for the Providence Cyclocross Festival. No matter how much I tried to incorporate this fact into my narrative of "the woods" of my teenage years, it just did not compute. Worlds, past and present, were colliding.

They say that when you visit places from your younger years everything is smaller than you remembered, but the opposite was the case here. The clearing was more spacious than I recalled. The trees looked taller. The race course was enormous and complicated. They told me Cross Vegas was a bigger deal than any other race I was likely to see, but as a spectator I disagree. This was huge. There was more going on. And in the daylight I could see it all a lot better.

Part of the course followed the lake, with the riders backlit picturesquely as they cycled along the shimmering water.

Another part wound its way through a pine grove, beautiful trees and tight turns everywhere.

The requisite bridge.

The stretch of paved road leading up to the start/finish.

And of course the exciting parts with the obstacles and the steep hills.

But aside from the race course itself, there were many pockets of public space where spectators and racers could stroll around, socialise, eat, watch.

A bouncy-house was set up for kids.

There were multiple food vendors.

And the beer tent offered some of the best seats in the house (though they wouldn't serve me as I didn't have my driver's license!).

Finally, there were tents with handmade bicycles from local builders on display, as well as a tent selling interesting vintage bikes.

It was easy to see why the Festival was attractive for so many: It simply offered a nice way to spend a day in the park, around nature and bikes. There was no charge for admission, and food and drink were reasonably priced. The turnout was impressive, and with the sun out people stuck around all day - some watching the races, others simply walking around, talking, picnicking. I never expected to see a bicycling event in the US with such a large public turnout, let alone in my former neck of the woods. 

In her book Mud, Snow, and Cyclocross (available at the Ride Studio Cafe to purchase or read inhouse), Molly Hurford contrasts cyclocross spectator culture in Europe with that in the US. The main difference is that at American races, until very recently spectators were largely made up of participants. Amateurs would race, then stick around for the elite races that would take place later. Elite racers would show up early and watch the amateurs. And while friends and families would come and watch as well, the events have nonetheless been mostly insular, with no expectation of engaging the general public. In Europe, on the other hand, cyclocross has for some time been a spectator sport on a grand scale, much like baseball or football in the US. At that level, it would be ridiculous to suggest that one has to be a participant or know one personally in order to enjoy watching the event. It is entertainment. Hurford points out that at the moment, cyclocross in the US seems to be on the cusp of potentially transitioning to the type of status it holds in Europe. The audience I saw in Providence on Saturday certainly supported this possibility. 

Listening to some of the conversations around me, it was clear that a substantial chunk of the public had no direct connection to cyclocross. They stopped by because they read about the event in the local paper's weekend listings. Or else their neighbour or co-worker was going and they tagged along. Probably because I had a big camera, I was approached on multiple occasions and asked questions about the event by spectators who were there for the first time and weren't sure what they were looking at. But despite not understanding what was going on around them, these visitors were obviously having a good time. They were sticking around. They were supporting the vendors. They were looking at all the bike and equipment manufacturers' names with interest. And they were saying "good job" to the racers. I wonder how many of them had a good enough time that they will seek out other races after this one. I can see it happening. 

With attendance high and not limited to cyclocross inner circles, sponsors enjoy greater visibility. And if you look at the sponsors whose names are displayed on the team kits, many of them are outside the bicycle industry: real estate agencies, lawyers, dentists, grocery stores, landscaping firms. Greater attendance by the general public directly benefits these businesses, which makes it worth their while to continue - and hopefully expand - their sponsorship programs. It will also make other businesses consider cycling sponsorship as a viable form of local advertising. 

I think about things like this, because quite a few of my friends and acquaintances race, and there is a lot of discontent about how difficult it is to attract sponsors. But the reality is that sponsorship is a form of advertising, not a charity or a merit scholarship. A business needs to believe that a cyclist will provide sufficient visibility for their brand to make it worth their while to sponsor them. And for that we need wider audiences and greater media attention - even if it's just grassroots media - people taking pictures of the riders in their kits, then posting them online and sharing via social media. 

Getting back to the idea of US cyclocross being in a place where it can potentially break out into the mainstream, one thing I noted in Molly Hurford's book is that by far not all of her interviewees wanted that. Some expressed disdain toward the fact that in Europe there are "fat guys smoking cigars" showing up to the races, as well as others who are not into the sport at a participant level. These critics would prefer that cyclocross in the US remain insular, "pure." It would be a valid point of view ...if those very same people then did not turn around and complain about lack of sponsorship opportunities. You can't have it both ways.

Why do I care about any of this, you might be asking yourself? Well, because as a spectator I am finding cyclocross immensely entertaining, and I appreciate that. Entertainment is a big deal. We need to sustain those who entertain us if we want the fun to continue.

Watching a cyclocross race in a place that I had filed away as belonging to a past life - separated from all this crazy bicycle stuff by at least a couple of other past lives - has challenged my tendency to compartmentalise things, to break up the past into distinct, locked memory boxes. Things do come around full circle sometimes. It's like following a trail in the woods, and eventually finding that you've walked around a lake. And now here you are, in the same spot where you first stood twenty years ago, straddling your rusty mountain bike in front of the Temple to Music. "You can totally race cross on a mountain bike," says a teenage girl to her friend behind me, as I stand there lost in thought.

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Spectator Sport

"So I hear you are into cyclocross," said Martina from Clever Cycles as we chatted on the second day of Interbike. I responded with genuine amazement. "Me, into cyclocross? What makes you say that?" And then I remembered that I'd spent the previous evening live-posting a continuous stream of blurry snapshots from Cross Vegas - "the biggest cyclocross race in America." I gave up two other industry events to attend this thing. I guess it did seem like I was pretty into it! But as I was quick to explain, I am only interested in watching, not racing. In fact, of all the forms of cycling out there, cyclocross is the one I am least likely to actually take part in (it combines every aspect of cycling I am terrible at!). Moreover, I had never before been able to tolerate - let alone enjoy - watching sports of any kind. So what makes cyclocross so appealing?

As it happens, Molly Hurford has just written a book that seeks to answer that very question. It's called Mud, Snow, and Cyclocross: How Cross Took Over US Cycling. Having borrowed a copy from the Ride Studio Cafe library, I finished it just days before Interbike. Aside from providing historical context, Hurford's book helped me make sense of my own feelings toward this bizarre sport. As race promoters all over the country have discovered, cyclocross is in many ways the perfect spectator event. And so I thought it might be interesting to describe it from the point of view of someone who is purely a spectator - and a fairly clueless one at that.

To do this, I will backtrack to last year's Interbike, where it all started. I had zero interest in attending Cross Vegas, but tagged along with Chris Kostman, who insisted I should at least stop by ("Come on, you can't go to Interbike and not see this!"). We drove to a giant field on the outskirts of town filled with tipsy people and flooded with electric light. In the distance I could see a colourful blur of bicyclists making their way through an elaborate obstacle course. As the sounds of cowbells and screams filled my ears, I remember wondering: "What am I doing here?" Five minutes later I was leaning over a barrier, ringing a cowbell and having a shockingly great time. And that's pretty much your typical "my first time watching 'cross" story. No one intends to like it, but inevitably they do.

This year we arrived to the spectacle of Elvis performing on stage before the start of the elite races. 

Visitors wandered around purchasing water, beer and cowbells. 

Cyclists rode around the grass warming up. Bicycles were being adjusted.

Before the crowds became too dense, I got the chance to survey the empty course. Winding around the grassy field, it did not look too technical, though there were lots of tight turns and a couple of short steep hills.

And, of course, these. I still remember how stunned I was when I first saw the riders hop right over them without breaking stride. How is this possible?

And then the race began. First the women's elite race; the mens would be next. Watching the hoard of riders charge cross the start line, the excitement of it all came back to me. I got goosebumps.

The thing is that at a cyclocross race, you can stand so close that you feel the energy of the riders wash over you like a wave.

And this wave is not some abstract poetic concept. It is very real, visceral. Even if you know nothing about race tactics and don't follow the background stories of any of the riders - just standing there and feeling so much human power and speed happening inches from your own body is a physical rush.

Watching track racing is more abstract in comparison, because the riders are further away. And with road racing you can only witness a small portion of the course at a time. But with cyclocross, all is laid out right in front of you in close proximity. The course winds around the spectators; it intertwines with them. There is a feeling that everything is happening everywhere, all at once.

Pressed against the barrier, I can see the riders' flushed faces, gritted teeth, twitching fingers, razor-burned legs. The physicality and rawness of it are overwhelming.

And then there are the technical parts that differentiate cyclocross from other forms of cycling. The obstacles, the vertical uphills, the dismounts and remounts, the bouts of running with the bike. No matter how graceful the rider, there is an intimate awkwardness to these struggles that makes us feel as if we are witnessing something private that perhaps we are not supposed to be witnessing.

Equally intriguing, is when a group of riders is so synchronised in their movements, that the dismounts and remounts appear to be done in choreographed unison - like a staged ballet.

And of course there are things like this - at which point it is the crowd's chorus of gasps that seems choreographed.

Watching first the women's, then the men's race, I noticed differences. The men stuck in larger, tighter clusters while the women were more strung out after the first lap. There were also difference in demeanor and body language - too subtle to describe, but nonetheless there. Watching the two races were separate experiences.

As the lead group of riders made its way through the course, spectators would rush to position themselves in different spots. This too was interesting to watch.

Through the elbows of others, I could see the anticipatory face of each rider as they crossed the finish line. 

What struck me was how much they seemed to be savouring the moment, rather than rushing through it. There was a performative, theatrical element to it.

Photographers were everywhere, capturing the action with impressive lenses and flash units. John Watson's Cross Vegas photos on Prolly is Not Probably are especially worth a look.

While my low-light snapshots are far from professional quality, they do reflect my experience of the event as a spectator: dark and chaotic, punctuated with bursts of light and blurs of colour. 

I am not sure whether any of this really explains what makes watching cyclocross fun. It is an evasive quality, but ultimately it is about entertainment - genuine entertainment. You don't even have to like sports or racing to enjoy it - though you might surprise yourself by developing a taste for beer and cowbells.

Accessible and awe-inspiring in equal measure, cyclocross strikes the perfect balance between a country fair, a bicycle race, and an alcohol-fueled block party. While the circus of Cross Vegas examplifies this more than typical races, it truly is the ultimate spectator sport.

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