May 13, 2026
The front of the shop had an elegant entrance with large glass windows on King Street, a few doors in from Jarvis Street, in the centre of Toronto. My father and his business partner, Mike Brown, took pride in frequently updating the window displays with all the latest bikes and parts from Europe. Large format posters and hand painted banners tastefully announced the latest products from Europe and the season’s specials. Before opening the shop, they had dreamed a vision of what the shop would look like, based on all the bike shops visited during their travels around the world. He told me that he had imagined the workshop in the back with the mechanics’ stations, the frame building shop, even the small white pebbles that the parts would rest on in the display cabinets. And, he felt, every shop needed a shop bike, which was a communal bike for employees to use to run errands during the day, whether to the bank, the bakery or the chrome platers. A shop bike, or office bike, is something every business needs.
The bike sat in a spot by the grey sliding wooden door that led to the back lane. In contrast to the front end of the shop everything was grittier back there. The lane was filled with cars, trucks and dumpsters and behind the door, the workshop was a hive of activity. Several mechanics worked away at their stations while the frame and paint shop buzzed and whirred with the sound of airtools, saws and files. The aromas of grease, solvents and rubber would bed into the fabric of clothing at the day’s end. Above the bike, on the slate grey wall was marked “shop bike parking only” in felt tip. It sat there ready to be grabbed for an errand.
Cobbled together with parts new and used, the bike had certain attributes that made it suitable for purpose. The frame was midsized–big enough for a six foot rider to get around and small enough for me to run over to the pastry shop when I was nine. It had mudguards for rainy, or snowy, days and generator lights that never needed to be charged. A rear carrier was fitted for parcels or loaded panniers.
The bike was built around a 1950’s Italian racing frame. Nobody can remember the brand, but it may have been a Torpado. Chromed and painted red it was once a top end racing frame. Damaged in a crash, it was repaired just enough to be safe and become the shop bike. Smaller diameter 650 wheels were fitted in place of the original 700’s to give more clearance for mudguards and larger tires while also lowering the bottom bracket so the rider could easily put their foot down at a stoplight. To accommodate the porter bars, which sweep back and shorten the rider’s reach, an extra long 16.5 cm stem was made in the workshop so that the bike would handle well and ride comfortably.
The presentation and aesthetics of bicycles mattered deeply to my father and Mike Brown. Only function trumped those qualities. A fancy bike that was poorly designed was useless, like a designer shoe that causes discomfort. A well made shoe, that is well kept should last for years. Those shoes were polished daily, and resoled when worn out. The shop bike was a bit like those old shoes. Cobbled together with used good parts and maintained for decades. It always ran and suited the purpose. Nothing was new. Nothing was elegant enough to be a target for thieves. Fixed up and ready for its place in the shop, the final touch was when my father stuck an “Alex Kay Cycles” decal to the headtube.
Alex Kay had a shop on Queen Street, not too far away, that had closed down in the late 40’s. They had built frames during the heyday of cycling, and had a shop loaded with bikes and parts to service the city. Mike Brown, told me that he and my father had bought a pile of stock from their old shop, and as a lark, or a nod to the brand, he affixed the decal on the old shop bike.
Through the years, the bike was disrespected by some employees, which I guess, was to be expected as the odd human neglects or intentionally damages shared property. To my father’s annoyance, someone stupidly punched the code to the combination lock into the top tube, leaving four numbers and a massive dent.
The rough patina and functional qualities of the bike didn’t stop a thief from snatching it as it rested on a wall as an errand was run. In the eye of the thief, a bike sitting unlocked was too easy not to steal. It disappeared for a few years only to be spotted in the street by someone who knew its provenance (an old employee, I think) and returned it to the shop.
With time, the bike had become a symbol of something more than what it is, a tool for nipping around town. The bike is a catalyst for employees to recall stories that are now memories of their time working in the shop. Perhaps, because many worked there during a time in their lives when they were young, in school or just out, learning new things, growing in new ways and working with bikes, which, for most, was their passion.
In our current shop, the bike hung from the rafters for years. My dad retired, we have a small team of employees and the internet has eliminated most trips to the post office or the bank. An old friend , Tim Scott, who was an employee decades ago when he was in university, saw it, reminisced, and appreciated it for all its gritty qualities and history. We pulled it down, dusted it off and Tim offered to clean it up.
In a text I wrote Mike Brown that Tim had taken on the project. He texted back, “just make sure it doesn’t look too good.” For the many who rode the bike over the decades there are memories in the patina from a time in their lives that perhaps they never want to forget. Too shiny and new, those memories will be rubbed away, and it might catch the eye of a thief when someone runs in to grab some milk from the corner store. Tim did a wonderful job resurrecting the old treader. It is beautifully worn and functional, ready for a run around town, and appreciated for all its scars.
Bicyclesport Shop Bike Refit - What Was This About and Why Bother?
Dec 2025 to Mar 2026 By TIm Scott.
Early in our back and forth about my “City Bike Stories” piece Michael Barry sent me a couple of photos of an old bike with the caption, “Do you mean this? And then. “Do you want to come in and fix it up?”
But why bother? There are a number of reasons under headings like Design, Carbon Footprint, Shop Time, Community, City Life and Fun. It also seemed like attending to the bike might be part of my “City Bike Stories” project; involving shop time rather than words. I remembered the bike in 1976 as a curious amalgamation of parts which I would learn was not the result of whatever was at hand but as an effort to replicate the features of post war French city bikes Michael Barry Sr and Mike Brown so admired. The only way to explain the arcane Sturmey Archer “dyno-hub” is that both Mikes were fascinated by the idea of a weatherproof drive train that also powered the lights. It’s an idea that persists today! Finally I was simply curious to see if the 60 year old bike could be resurrected.
Michael gathered up a few new parts – tires, alloy mudguards and a rear light – along with some lightly used bits I might need. Otherwise the plan was to re-use everything that still worked.
The rear triangle was out of true, and the left seat stay noticeably bent but for all the abuse the frame had suffered, it came back in to alignment and provided a robust basis for the rebuild. Once cleaned the chrome on the main triangle with it’s patina of dings, scuffs and bruises stood out like a well worn suit of armour. The remaining patches of original red paint were left at the lugs where they now meet new red paint on the stays and forks, added to protect the various accessories brazed on over the years. The new alloy mudguards extend the burnished chrome out to bow and stern. The old steel crankset and rims add their patina to the assembly. Taken together the visual effect for me is of the bicycle passing through time; the paint washing away then reassembling on the edges as if to add flesh and finish back to a machine now free of those affectations.
Most of my time was spent taking everything apart that could be taken apart. Which was everything! Then cleaning, repacking bearings and putting everything back together again. This included the 1965 SA dyno-hub which was a new adventure for me. What was remarkable beginning with the hub, was discovering how well made everything was! Bearing surfaces were pristine in spite of the decades since anything had been serviced.
Once the rear hub was back together (and producing 6 volts again!) and the wiring to the lights hidden in the frame and mudguards, there wasn’t much else to the bike, which is its charm and virtue. Except then there was everything else to do! The alloy brake levers have been bent into a curve so that they meet the underside of the grips and extend the curve of the brake cables to the ball ends. The gentle almost imperceptible rise of the handlebar plays against the carefully considered curve of the cables. The mudguards have been lowered on rubber mounted brackets to suit the smaller 650B wheels, just so. And so on!
I’m pleased with the project. On one hand all I did was service an old bicycle. And on the other I did my best in collaboration with Michael, to extend the story of this well travelled bike. I have had the feeling as I worked on this project that I was getting a peek into a future where we fix things again rather than replace them, where “performance” has a much broader meaning. And I’ve come to believe there is something true and perfect about this old bicycle, even beautiful.
A few days after we finished, Walter Lai took several photographs of the bike in the morning sun. These handful of images provide eloquent evidence of the project and with that evidence, the argument for doing it.
