Recently I found myself in need of a bike for life, my last one having proved short-lived. I wanted something custom built because I was, too. My choices are circumscribed in a world geared for mass production, as I inhabit a niche where gears don’t intrude: call me a horizontal dropout.
After kicking ideas around in my head, I went to a forum for ideas from different heads, the chief imponderable being frame material. Along the way someone suggested Woodrup, established in Leeds. Their reputation and vintage as a successful business, along with an encouraging conversation with Tom, elevated them above the competition. I ordered a frame fashioned from Reynolds 853 steel by a veteran of the craft, Kevin Sayles.
Having already benefited from a bikefit, I sent Kevin the old frame on which to base the new. His admittedly uninspiring brief was to make, more or less, a carbon [sic] copy.
We nailed down the details in a series of emails. The difficulty in such situations is to temper your vision, if you’ll pardon the grandiloquence, with the builder’s experience; and naturally, he may have his own ideas. Well, I was paying for his expertise. We had no clashes, though I will admit to being perplexed why he couldn’t simply reproduce the measurements of what I’d had, which as far as I’m aware hadn’t been undone by its geometry.
Once construction began it went fast. I was waiting for a picture or two of the work in progress, which he’d sounded happy to provide, but before I knew it the frame had been built — when I enquired as to its progress I was informed it was at the painter. This came as a surprise, as I’d not settled on a colour. That little detail taken care of, next came the longest part of the process, waiting for it to come back sealed against the depredations of our atmosphere. Used to titanium, I’ve grown unfond of paint: to me, it’s just a series of scratches and chips waiting to happen.
And there it was. Next stop home, and building it up. This did not go without incident. If you’re interested, follow this link to my blog.
Finally we hit the road. The top tube had ended up high enough to threaten to turn me falsetto if I hit it too hard, the numbers on Kevin’s drawing not having been immediately recognisable as much of a departure from the template frame. The paint indeed turned into a bugbear, as it immediately began to collect microaggressions, such as the rear brake cable rubbing against it when I carried the bike on my shoulder down our muddy drive. But I was happy enough.
Then came the creak which undid everything.
A few short rides into our relationship it made its displeasure known, for is not a creak a disharmony? I made the usual investigations, starting at the bottom bracket, natch. The bike ended up at a shop in Hastings surrounded by a small group of us scratching our heads. At one point I was on the floor as near as I could get the the bottom bracket, with a guy astride it attempting to pedal whilst braked, and a mechanic with his ear to the handle of a screwdriver pressed against the head tube as a makeshift stethoscope.
The headset was removed and unpleasant discoveries made: a deformed steerer tube, and a deformed head tube. The steerer was my fault. At first I thought I’d managed to over-tighten the stem, but the evidence is that I’d simply used too many spacers (about +10mm), forcing the top of the tube into the hollow of the stem with use, which always includes plenty of honking. A £250 fork wrecked, I figured.
The head tube, which I hadn’t seen because Woodrup had installed headset cups, was suffering a slight but still visible distortion which my mechanic thought to be the cause of the creak.
I told Woodrup about this and a few other niggles, immediately receiving a very apologetic reply. Tony, the eponymous owner, even paid my mechanic’s bill. We were on our way to getting this sorted!
I shipped the frame & fork back, then there was a short but ominous silence, which may be dramatic licence.
They reckoned that the creak had probably been caused by the steerer tube. I actually kind of thought so too, but it couldn’t be proved without building the bike back up and seeing if the creak was still there. Anyway, the fault in the head tube needed to be addressed.
This had probably happened during the heating and cooling of the fillet brazing, exacerbated by a head tube which didn’t rise very far above the top tube as per the design of the frame Kevin had been working from. Funnily enough I’m not a particular fan of the look of brazing, but hadn’t been aware of the differences between that and welding, or that this could even be an issue.
They measured the distortion at <.5mm, leaving me to wonder how the mechanic and I had been able to see it. This was deemed to be within tolerance.
However, they were keen that I be happy, so offered to replace the head tube, though Kevin had since put some work into reshaping it. This was accomplished before I knew what was happening, which was turning into a theme. He’d also apparently gone ahead and added {presumably} stainless steel plates to the inside of the track ends after I’d belatedly mentioned that my cheapo Langster had plates, which keep the paint from getting scratched up. Like I said, they wanted me to be happy. The issue with hard steel in that area is that it may inhibit a tight grip of the axle on a singlespeed, and chain tugs weren’t an option. I was still thinking about this when voilà, it was done. This is the sort of thing it’s hard to complain about, but can be a problem.
Quite beyond my expertise as to the advisability of replacing the head tube, which hadn’t been been presented to me as a totally benign option, I returned to the forum for advice.
Here is the post that ultimately decided my course of action, which was to ask Tony if a rebuild was off the table. I edged up to this, as it seemed like overkill, but it really was the only way to get what I’d paid for: an expensive bike not immediately in need of repair.
He reiterated his offer to replace the head tube: politely baulked, in other words. My hope now was to be offered a refund minus the fork, which by the way, they’d rolled back into shape, free of charge. Perhaps you begin to see how difficult it was for me to take a hard line.
My wife had looked into the obligations of sellers and made me aware of my rights, but I really didn’t want to start quoting chapter and verse. It was all so complicated and gray to me.
I finally put it to Tony plainly that the only thing that would bring my happiness up to the required level was the rebuild. He replied that the head tube transplant would make the bike good as new, to which I could only respectfully disagree. My other choice was to leave the tube as it was, bearing in mind that the repair had thinned the top of it, which he said would not compromise the frame.
He then mentioned a full refund. I grabbed this like a drowning man does a lifebuoy. With incredible speed, the money arrived in my bank account: every penny I’d spent on this, including on the fork, which frankly amazed me. My guess is that they can complete the frame again, maybe with a jazzier colour, and with luck, find another buyer to help recoup what they put into it.
It’s a shame it ended this way, as they remain the kind of company I like to give money to when I have to part with it. I even experienced unbuyer’s remorse.
I don’t expect I’m their favourite person now. I have some experience in this role.
Emily Dickinson, born 192 years ago today, said truth is so rare that it is delightful to tell it. Your mission, should you choose to accept it, is to ponder the wisdom of her words.
