Revanche bicycles

The world’s first magnetic framebag. A clean, modern, simple and permanent solution.

Here’s some full shots.

Someone mentioned at the Bristol bespoked show that there was a touch of Bridgestone about it.

It doesn’t surprise me, though it wasn’t planned nor conscious.

Framebag off.

Framebag off.

Culture is what’s left after you’re forgotten everything else.

Grant Petersen’s influence was a cycling phase I went through, ten, twelve years ago.

I don’t think it’s the answer to every question, but it’s a timeless solution that draws on a lot of heritage.

It’s part of my cycling culture: not the only arrow I have by a long shot, but good to have and understand.

It works and looks good in this case.

It builds on that simple, timeless idea, thanks to the innovative magnetic framebag.

bespoked-2015-studio-675

As a builder I strive to look fowards while not forgetting the lessons I’ve learned in the past.

There’s value in a bike that will continue to look good when today’s fashion has been forgotten.

I think it’s a more mature approach to creating something.

The flavour of the month will get more attention, but when you’re reading this in 2025 this bike will still look as good as it did in 2015 when I’m writing this.

These bikes aren’t about fashion, These bikes are about Style.

That’s what Revanche is about; Bicycles that work, that last, and look good doing both.

Simple English, Beautiful Italian.

(plus some american/canadian in this one)

Words by Emanuel Ferretti

Photos by Ben Broomfield

Ian's new bike.

Ian’s new bike.

It was so boring, waiting in the garage.

Dark, dark too.

I was thereĀ  a long time. I lost count.

I used to count the seasons, I can feel the change.

Seasons go from fire to water. And back.

I was hanging there, feeling naked without any cranks on, no handlebar to keep me company.

Handlebars usually like to talk, it’s a way to deal with the stress I suppose, they don’t last long in any case.

All my friends stripped off. Even the binder bolt. Misers.

I’m missing an i from my right fork blade.

My name?

It’s just a name, I was built in a big busy place, it was warm there.

The men yelled. Jokes, laughter. There was an older man, he didn’t shout. But everyone listened.

The torch burnt, but it was over quickly, then into water, except it stung.

The files: so irritating! I wailed, like everybody else, the sanding was better, soothing. I did look better, I admit.

I was pulled then pushed the other way.

At last had to give a sample, I think; BSA, BSA, BSA. I can still remember the name rotating. It hurt.

I was off, not far away, to paint they said.

Smooth and shiny, I felt so proud, the men quiet, concentrated. Softer hands, but it stank.

Finally into a box so tightly. I couldn’t breathe.

The truck, the jolts.

We arrived and waited in a tall room, full of others, like us, but different, we all talked excited about our future.

They’d come take one,sometimes two, finally it was my turn.

The man who unpacked me built me.

He took some shiny parts out of green boxes and put them on. It didn’t take long.

I was gliding. The world looked different. I was Happy. Scared.

Another man took me home that night, He was careful, hesitating.

I waited, again.

My tyres softened,the cables relaxed.

At last. It was a nice day, not cold, not warm. Sun. Spring.

He pedalled slowly, I braced myself, nothing happened.

His hands never left the tops of the bars.

We came home.

That’s it? Was it me?

I waited. Again.

Loud talking, laughter, the seatbinder was loosened, the shiny seatpost moved up, it had a scratch now.

He was different. I never let him notice it but sometimes it was hard keeping up. I always did, however.

He’d tire of kicking a few hours into the ride and settle down.

We had fun, we also had some scares. We fell, but he got up, the good ones always do.

I was always clean, too. that’s nice.

Oh sometimes I was filthy, but only when he was.

I got scratched but who cares, I was alive.

The years, places, seasons. It all passes so quickly.

I was so happy.

That was a long time ago.

He moved onto something younger, I heard he married, stopped riding.

Nothing ever lasts, I know, but it’s a shame.

Then the garage. Limbo, I called it.

Better than death.

Or Hell.

I’m just thankful I’m not a fixie.

Let me explain.

After I got out I saw an old friend, I hardly recognized her.

She tried to look happy, I know what it’s like to be neglected, it’s nice that someone takes notice of an older frame.

But not that way. Act your age. Style would be nice, dignity at least.

I’m not getting younger, I know. Experience is a rank, they say.

I’m no snob. I’d just like a bit of life, areiespeiciti, I heard that once, on the radio.

I like music, it’s like riding.

I know, I know things change, The boxes aren’t green anymore, they’re blue mostly. The parts are black, not shiny.

Wheels, what a change! I met the wheels a week ago. They’re so big, bigger than me, it used to be the other way round.

But we get along fine. It’s nice to be filled in on what happened during my Wait in the Garage. It was so boring.

Tomorrow I ride.

I’m so happy.

See, some things don’t change.

The important ones.

(thanks Ian)

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Uncompromising Standards, attention to detail and very simply putting the time and effort in.

When you build something yourself there are no excuses.

There are no shortcuts.

There are no magic tools.

 

There is just your responsibility.

 

So you do the best work you can.

 

Skill and dedication to your craft.

That’s what I was taught.

That’s my method.

 

It’s simple, but it’s not easy.