40th Anniversary tribute to the Old Green Dawes

3rd October 2021 marked exactly 40 years since I bought my first "serious" bike. I still have that bike - although it has undergone many component changes and repairs since then, which I'll come back to later - so I decided I should mark the anniversary in a suitable way, in the spirit of adventure and exploration.  I decided to ride from Potsdam, where we are currently living, all the way to the Baltic coast: somewhere I've never been before, and a much longer distance than my routine day and weekend rides - a good challenge for both the bike and the rider!
 

When I was growing up, two books on the family bookshelf shaped my interest in cycling.  Written in the early 1960s, "Cycling for You" and "Adventure Cycling" by Ronald English were already quite dated by the time I read them, but still fascinating and inspirational. Mr English emphasised the bicycle as a vehicle for experiencing the world around you, rather than, as he disparagingly put it, "pelting, head-down, along the tarmac to reach Aberdeen by nightfall".  He wrote about observing nature, following historic routes, sketching, photography, watching the sunrise and sunset, "collecting" landmarks such as milestones and towers. Many of these - except for the sketching, which I've never been any good at - are themes that regular readers of this blog will recognise.
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I had access to a small-wheeled utility bike and, later, a 26" 3-speed Raleigh - built like, if not quite a battleship, then at least a well armoured cruiser. Up and down the hills of Cornwall, where I grew up, it was darned hard work.  As Mr English wrote, "While it is perfectly possible to tour on a 3-speed roadster, most serious cyclists inevitably find themselves drawn to a lightweight sports tourer. It takes no longer than the first time one of these machines whirrs effortlessly past as you are toiling up some steep hill."

I had heard about the legendary Dawes Galaxy touring bike but I couldn't afford to buy one; then along came an unmissable chance to acquire one almost-new from a bike hire firm in London which was selling off their fleet at the end of the summer season. Renting out high-end touring bikes obviously hadn't caught on back then; they estimated that it had done only around 1000 miles (1600km).  The hire fleet spec was slightly below the standard retail Galaxy, so they called it a "Dawes Emerald", and it was mine for the bargain price of £135.  I wrote out the spec sheet longhand in the front of my new log book.

As far as I know, the main differences to the full Galaxy spec were the forks - unbranded steel instead of Reynolds 531 - and inferior, cheap pannier racks and saddle.  The main frame tubes were 531 butted like the real Galaxy.  The very next day, 4th October 1981, the log records my first "roughstuff" ride, another passion of mine to this day: "Cross-country ride taking in rough tracks, disused railway line, footpaths. Girton - Fen Ditton - Lode - Waterbeach - Cottenham - Oakington. 40km."  (No Strava in those days to keep track of one's rides!)
 

Back to the present: the plan was to split the ride over Friday evening and all day Saturday, as I had to be back home for Sunday morning church choir. I'd found budget accommodation in Wusterhausen an der Dosse, after some 80km, having first considered taking a sleeping bag and kipping in a bus shelter or similar, but rejected the idea as just a little bit *too* adventurous! Even having ditched the sleeping bag, my saddlebag was still bulging more than I'd ideally have wished.
 

One of the things taking up space in my saddlebag was a spare tyre! Thank goodness for folding tyres; in 1982 (photo above left), touring tyres had real wire beads and the best you could do was roll it into 3 coils, as you can see strapped to the side of the pannier rack.  The original wheels were 27"x1¼", a unique British size, and back then I felt that my chance of finding a replacement tyre on tour in Austria were close to zero; hence the spare - which luckily I didn't need on that tour. My reasons for taking a spare tyre this time were a bit different: I'd been unable to avoid a patch of broken glass the day before, and had to pull out a few shards from the rear tyre. No puncture, but there were 2 or 3 small gashes in the tread which I thought might pick up road debris and cause punctures later. As I was off on a long ride with a tight schedule, and the Compass Stampede Pass tyres I currently have fitted are allegedly notorious for punctures (ha ha! I've had one in 3700km so far!), I thought taking a spare tyre would be prudent, but I didn't need it this time, either.  The Stampede Pass tyres, by the way, of all the many tyres I've tried over the years, complement this bike perfectly - highly recommended.
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One of the many changes to this bike over its lifetime is the wheel size. 27"x1¼" was becoming obsolete already by the mid 1980s: by the time you get to the 1990 Dawes Catalogue, the Galaxy range is listed with 700C wheels. That was the year that I had to get a frame repair done: a freak accident in the office basement, where I'd left the bike after my commute, put a deep dent in the top tube so I had to have a whole replacement tube brazed in, which of course meant completely stripping and repainting the frame.  I asked the frame builder to add cantilever brake posts aligned for 700C wheels (as well as a few other braze-ons such as bottle cage bosses).  Only snag was that I couldn't afford to have the forks done to match - the insurance only covered the work on the main frame - so for a couple of years after that I ran with odd wheels, 700C on the back and 27"x1¼" on the front, until I was able to get a new Reynolds 531 fork as an upgrade.  This also explains the colour mismatch between the forks and frame, which eagle-eyed readers will have noticed!

Being Friday, I was able to finish work by 4pm and was on the road by half past.  The ride to the overnight stop was basically just what in German I would call "Kilometer fressen" - "munching the miles" - covering as much distance as possible in fairly familiar and not terribly exciting surroundings.  What a beautiful evening for it, though, with glorious golden sunshine and a helpful southerly breeze; although the cirrus clouds forming high above suggested that the forecast for another 10 hours of sunshine the next day could be mistaken.

The evening wasn't completely without excitement, though, as a large flock of migratory cranes suddenly flew low over the cycle path - close enough for a decent photo even with my little travel camera; and later, long after nightfall, the route I'd planned using the Komoot app randomly sent me along a sandy field track, luckily only for a couple of kilometres, but still quite a challenge in the dark.

Soon after 8pm I arrived at my overnight accommodation, which was a real lucky find.  The house provides basic accommodation aimed mainly at construction workers and the like needing to stay on site during the week. Being a weekend, I was the only guest; if it had been full, it could have been quite noisy and the single shared shower room / toilet could have become a bottleneck.  As it was, it was spotlessly clean, practically silent - my room was at the back of the house and it was a quiet street anyway - and even benefited from a well-equipped kitchen including a coffee machine!  And it cost me next to nothing - €22, to be precise.  The proprietor wanted me to lock my bike up outside, but I persuaded him to let me bring it into the room by showing him that it was clean (that sandy track notwithstanding!) and by promising to lift it over the floor, to avoid making tyre marks.

The next morning I was away at daybreak, having used the kitchen facilities to make a flask of coffee and aiming to pick up breakfast supplies at a bakery in the next small town of Kyritz.  It was overcast with a hint of drizzle in the air - as presaged by those cirrus clouds last evening - until the clouds parted to reveal a spectacular sunrise over a field edged with sunflowers.

My arrival in Kyritz was equally spectacular, with a rainbow arching over the town, although of course this did further confirm the threat of rain. Indeed, when I restarted after my coffee and bun stop, I was riding through drizzle for the next half hour or so, but luckily it didn't amount to much.

I harnessed the spirit of Ronald English as I rode along, observing things about my surroundings.  The road surface: was it old, broken cobblestones (possibly inter-war), decaying concrete slabs (probably DDR-era), renovated cobblestones or small concrete tiles (post-1990 after the German reunification)? What type of trees were growing and what kind of debris had they left on the road? (Conkers can be pretty scary when you hit one at speed!) Here an old watermill, now repurposed as a B&B - historic but not terribly photogenic; there a village church, and look for the different constructions: wood frame, flint faced, or brick.  In the fields, the tractors were busy bringing in the maize harvest, as flocks of starlings swarmed overhead.

I came to a level crossing. No barriers, take care! And what's this? Narrow gauge, an archaism. But the rails are shiny, not rusty - it evidently takes some traffic - very likely a preserved railway. I looked up and down the track as I crossed but couldn't see any sign of a station or other infrastructure.  My route formed a kind of "S" shape, intersecting several times with the mirror image "S" shape of the railway line, and at the next crossing I found a very neatly maintained little station, with rolling stock parked on a siding.  It occurred to me that this was exactly the time of year when railway societies might have their end-of-season open days, so I went to look for a poster, and my luck was in: train operations on the 2nd & 3rd October (today being the 2nd), with the first train departing at 10am, and the departure station happened to be the next larger village on my route. Perfect timing for me to stop for the rest of my coffee and the second bun I'd saved from the Kyritz bakery, while watching the train depart, even though I didn't have time to take a trip on it myself.

This dawdling and soaking up the atmosphere was all very well, but I had to keep an eye on the run rate, because I was already planning to get the last reasonable train home from my destination; there was one later fallback option, but it involved changing trains 5 times, and wouldn't get me home until almost 1am!  I generally prefer to "front load" my rides - go out faster at the beginning, so that I don't find myself having to push the pace towards the end to catch up on my schedule when I'm tired - and here I was doing the opposite.  After the coffee stop at the railway, I tried to push on a bit, but every time I seemed to be making good progress, I would encounter a patch of tough cobblestones which slowed me down again.  My planned lunch stop, which I'd originally expected to reach around 12:00-12:30, receded steadily.
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The village of Wöbbelin, despite the amusing name, hides a sinister WW2 past; unfortunately I didn't have time to stop and pay my respects at the memorial site.  It was 13:20 and I was getting well into my "slippage time" when I reached my intended lunch stop restaurant, and then suffered the indignity of being ignored by the staff when I waited at the door to be seated, while the clock ticked on.  Luckily there was a plan B - another likely-looking eatery in the same village (info courtesy of Google Maps), which turned out to be almost empty, friendly, quick, and served me a delicious cordon bleu and chips which really hit the spot!

After lunch, it was back to "Kilometer fressen" - 30km, to be precise - straight as a ruler, and boring as heck, along the bike path flanking the main road to the city of Schwerin, state capital of Mecklenburg-Vorpommern.  Here I had a jaw-dropping moment when a turn in the bike path suddenly and unexpectedly brought the magnificent castle into view, reflected in the waters of the lake where it stands on an island. 

Straight afterwards, Komoot threw me a curve ball by routing me through the pedestrianised city centre of Schwerin, so I had to get off and walk. Frustrating as it was to lose the precious time I'd gained with my "Kilometer fressen", I decided that it would take even longer to look at the map and work out a better route, so I just had to grin and bear it (while enjoying the sights of the historic town).  To add to my woes, as I finally cleared the edge of town, it began to rain in earnest! I pressed on regardless - reluctant to get into an endless cycle of on-off-on-off with the waterproofs, losing precious minutes at every change.  After about 6 or 7 minutes my optimism was rewarded by the rain stopping again, without having got me thoroughly wet in the meantime.  Although the weather was threatening rain all day, this was the most which actually fell, thank goodness!
Northern Germany is generally pretty flat, but between Schwerin and the coast I got into a band of undulating hills - just what I didn't need to spoil my rhythm and add to my fatigue late in the day.  And the navigation gods still had a couple more tricks to play. Once again, the bike path was following the main road, and there were signs announcing a road closure ahead.  Initially I didn't worry too much - generally I ignore road closures on the basis that there is almost always a way through for pedestrians, which a cyclist can also follow. I decided that unless there was an explicit cycle diversion signposted, I would press on. Then, there *was* a very clearly signed cycle diversion, which I followed ... into a dead end ... not even a trace of a route through, just the end of a road with some dumped rubble.  Either the road signage team was completely useless and didn't realise they were in the wrong place, or possibly having a laugh at the cyclists' expense, in which case grrr!!

Luckily there was a local resident just parking their car whom I was able to ask for directions, and the diversion they gave me worked just fine, although the road was pretty narrow and quite busy with cars - obviously the favoured route for the locals in the know (though it wasn't the officially signed diversion for motor traffic either).  Also, it added a few more km to my distance, and an extra hill!
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At last - at last!! - I reached the outskirts of Wismar. By now it was less than an hour to my train, and I considered skipping Wismar pier and heading straight to the station.  But then I decided that I was darned if I was going to miss out on my planned destination and on dipping my toes in the Baltic Sea, even if it meant the 5-changes-and get-home-at-1am train.  And the navigation gods hadn't finished with me yet! The coastal path to the pier was closed - firmly closed, with barriers and "no pedestrians" / "no cycling" signs - so I was back into diversion mode. There wasn't even an official diversion this time, so I had to work it out for myself, which on the basis of my earlier experience probably wasn't a bad thing!

Then suddenly, there I was, looking through a gap in the trees above the pier - and of course it would have been rude not to lug the bike down the steps for photographs on the beach, complete with urban grunge graffiti and picturesque views across the bay to the shipyard and the power station (photo at the top of this article).   

The "time remaining to the train" and "estimated time to the station" had now almost converged, and as I couldn't even spare the time to take my shoes and socks off - not to mention back on again, complete with drying and de-sanding my feet! - the ceremonial toe-dipping had to be with my shoes on. 

Then it was hot-foot back up those steps again, and back onto my bike to make my tired legs propel me into Wismar city centre - luckily mostly downhill - hoping that finding the station would be straightforward (not always a given!).  There was just time for a photo of the harbour with sailing ships at rest under leaden skies - but no time to stop at one of the many promising-looking eateries on the touristified seafront. 

I made it to the station 10mins before the train, and was glad there was no queue at the sole ticket machine, knowing that it can be quite a challenge to find the correct fare on the German ticket machines - especially with the added complication of a bike ticket.

The navigation gods smiled at my tenacity in making it to the train - then sniggered as they played their final trick. The ticket machine declined to sell me a ticket for my intended train - "no ticket sale due to cancellation of the connecting service" -  and the seconds ticked as I weighed up my options. It looked as though I'd be waiting another hour for the 5-changes-home-at-1am train after all, which at least meant I'd have time to find some food.  But I had the last laugh on the navigation gods: having bought a ticket for the later train, I decided to go and find the conductor of the waiting train to Rostock, who explained that the Rostock to Berlin service had been re-routed, not cancelled, and that I should be able to get back to Potsdam via a slightly longer suburban train connection through Berlin. Which indeed turned out to be the case: I was home just after midnight - none of the train crews having challenged my ticket with the wrong routing - and even had time to buy a sandwich on Rostock station, so it was all good!
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Evolution and the "Grandfather's Axe Fallacy"
A bike isn't a "classic" when it's new.  It's a working machine, it's there to be ridden, when things wear out you replace them, and not necessarily with identical parts - either because you want to try something different, or because the manufacturer has discontinued the original.   Just like the grandfather's axe which still gives great service every day, you've replaced the head a few times and it had a new handle a few years ago!  I just sat down and worked out which components are still original from 1981, and the answer is: (... drum roll ...)
The frame, except for the top tube (and not including the forks)
The left hand brake lever
...and, er, that's it!
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Here's a part-by-part update against that original spec sheet from 1981.
Frame: Reynolds 531 butted main tubes, original except for the top tube which was replaced after an accident in 1990.  The frame has non-original cantilever brake posts, bottle cage bosses and cable guides, added during the 1990 repair.
Forks: Reynolds 531, upgrade on the original, fitted ~1992. A Campag headset was added at the same time.
Wheels: Many, many iterations! I soon found that the original wheels kept on breaking spokes - most memorably, two on the same day when crossing a pass on the Austrian/Italian border on my tour in 1982.  The advice from more experienced cyclists was that the only way to get decent wheels was to build them yourself, and a splendid old chap in the Cambridge CTC taught me how.  The further quest for wheel strength led to a 40-spoke rear wheel with a lovely Campag Record high-flange hub, which is still on the bike, rebuilt in 1990 with a 700c Super Champion rim and rebuilt a couple times more since.  The front wheel is a 36-spoke Super Champion on a Pelissier low-flange hub.  As mentioned earlier in the article, I down-sized to 700c wheels from the original 27"x1¼".  (Both current wheels are bike-shop-built, as I was taking a break from wheel building at the time, though I recently started doing it again.) 
Tyres and tubes: Again after many iterations - in the 27"x1¼" days, I used to use Michelin World Tour, Nutrak Marathon (fabulous tyres, not to be confused with the ghastly modern-day Schwalbe Marathon!) or Continental Top Touring.  Currently I am very much enjoying the ride on Compass Stampede Pass Extralight tyres, which have a very classic look as well as being fast and comfortable even on imperfect road surfaces. 
Gears: The 1970s-design Huret Duopar Eco is an extraordinary piece of engineering which I fitted as an upgrade sometime in the 1980s in my pursuit of ever wider and lower gear ratios. When it wore out, I was lucky enough to find another identical one in new condition on eBay, which remains on the bike to this day. The down-tube-mounted "friction shifters" (a term which hadn't been invented back then, because there wasn't any other sort!) are a later replacement for the original ones which wore out. 
Chainset: Stronglight triple 51/42/28 - fitted as part of the same 1980s upgrade along with the Huret Duopar.
Freewheel block: Shimano Tourney "Megarange" 14-16-28-20-22-24-34T. The frame was able to accommodate a "narrow" 7-speed freewheel as an upgrade from the original 5.  I'm very frustrated that Shimano nowadays only offer this in their "Tourney" groupset, i.e. rock-bottom quality - it's a service item which I have to change about once a year, so there's not much point in trying to find a new-old-stock Sun Tour or similar.

Brakes: Cantilever brakes, fitted as part of the 1990/1992 adaptation for 700c wheels. The rear brake is still the same Shimano Deore LX fitted in 1990. Its twin on the front packed up in 2019 - the spring broke and I couldn't source a replacement - so I replaced it with an Avid Ultimate Shorty, which is a fabulous piece of kit - efficient, light, elegant - though totally out of style with the rest of the bike!  I'm using Kool-Stop Salmon brake blocks, which are supposed to be very gentle on the rims, as I want to maximise the lifespan of those irreplaceable Super Champions. One of the brake levers is still the original; the other one had to be replaced after an accident in 1982.
 

Pedals: Shimano SPD one-sided cage style (I moved over from toe clips to cleats in 2012)
Handlebars: SR alloy randonneur type, with Brooks Cambium rubber tape wound over Grab On foam grips. (The handlebar and the Grab On are 1980s upgrades; the Cambium was added in 2020).  Unbranded stem, added with the fork upgrade in 1992.
Saddle: Brooks B17 aged leather, added in 2019. I have 3 leather saddles (two Brooks and one Wrights) and the Dawes currently has the newest of the three, although the ancient Wrights was on it for most of  the 40 years, after I moved it over from a tandem which I acquired in 1984.
Mudguards: The original Esge chromoplastics, amazingly, survived until 2019 when the front one cracked and broke, and I replaced them both with SKS black plastic guards.
Pannier racks: The original Tonard racks, which were so lightly constructed that they wobbled like jelly under anything but the very lightest load and made the bike virtually uncontrollable, were soon replaced by sturdy Jim Blackburns - a classic alloy rear rack and a Low Rider front.  I still have both of those racks and in fact the rear Blackburn is about to go back onto the Dawes, after having been borrowed for a long stint on another bike.  The front rack is likely to stay off for the foreseeable future, because I have no plans for heavy touring requiring front panniers.
Other accessories: Two carbon bottle cages, a Lezyne Micro Floor Drive pump, and a rather splendid rotary bell which I acquired in Switzerland.

What next for The Old Green Dawes?
It would be nice to get another new paint job, to have the frame and forks matching.
It would be nice to have the frame spaced for a modern rear wheel with wider range gears (and a decent choice of cassettes).
It would be nice to have matching brakes front & rear.
It would be nice to have a pair of my own handbuilt wheels, preferably with tubeless tyres (which I've learned to love on my other two bikes, after a fairly steep learning curve!)
But, I'm a great believer in the principle "if it ain't broke, don't fix it"; and the Dawes, as currently configured, perfectly suits my niche for commutes, daily exercise rides, and lightly loaded short tours like the one described in this article.  I have other bikes for rougher roads, higher mountains, and for longer tours with heavier loads.   So, aside from minor tinkering, I think the Dawes will be staying as it is for the foreseeable future, and munching lots more miles!