Far East production, standard madness, discount battles and a new trend hurricane every six months: the bike industry threatens to become part of the throwaway society. US-American Chris King has been fighting against this for more than 40 years. With indestructible headsets and hubs. He has not yet given up hope. BIKE visited Chris King in Portland. Read the full-length Chris King report "The Bastion" from BIKE 2/2019 here.
The king of tax rates strides into the Rolling Stones song as if a choreographer had given the command. It's only the company canteen, but the sound booms out of the speakers at a danceable volume.
Honky Tonk Woman, the legendary swaying hit from the time when he, Chris King (62), once decided to declare war on the throwaway society - with precisely manufactured, indestructible tax rates. That was more than 40 years ago.
But in contrast to the Stones hit, which blasts out of the sound system as brash and driving as ever, King seems tired this morning. For a moment, he stands indecisively in the sound system, as if he were the last guest of an all-night party.
So this is the man behind what is probably the most iconic brand in the mountain bike universe. Brown-grey work shoes, green-grey work trousers and an official Seventies moustache on his face, the kind that urban hipsters like to wear these days in a balancing act of fashionable daring and self-irony.
The moment has something surreal about it. Like meeting a phantom. Chris King products have enjoyed an excellent reputation worldwide for decades. Fans celebrate the sound of the rear hub on YouTube, and the film snippets with the infernal "Angry Bee" screech have as many likes as rock songs.
But almost nothing is known about Chris King the man. If you google the name, pictures of hubs, headsets and bearings pop up. Even on the company website, there is no portrait. Reporter question: "Is your name really Chris King, or is that a stage name?"
"Shall I show my passport?" smiles King, who is of course actually called King. Then he sinks onto one of the canteen chairs, exhausted. His nose is running, he's groggy. Others would be lying on the sofa. But his fight against the throwaway society leaves King no time for that right now.
It's Monday. It was an open house party at the weekend. A full programme for two days. Factory tours. Celebrations. Frame building contest. And as a highlight, a panel discussion on current developments in the bike industry - broadcast live on the internet.
The topic is close to King's heart like no other. It has cost him a lot of nerves in recent years. This incessant flood of new installation standards that make life difficult for accessory suppliers like him and drive bikers crazy.
Chris King's range of hubs alone has swollen to more than 1000 options, including all colour, axle and freehub variants. The headset and bottom bracket range has become similarly confusing. And it's getting worse. Shimano has just introduced its own new freehub standard, which is compatible with almost nothing on the market. It's exasperating.
"Why doesn't everyone sit down at the same table and agree on common standards?" asks King. The question is rhetorical. Because of course he knows the answer. Constantly throwing the status quo overboard is what drives the entire industry.
It is a merciless battle for sales figures and market share. Production now takes place almost exclusively in low-wage countries. A gigantic, incessant flood of pressure on the market with bikes and parts that are already being flushed back onto the compost heap of history by the next micro-trend.
It is obvious to ask the question: Is this really necessary? New trends, new bikes, new models, new installation standards, new discount battles every year? Because of a few millimetres high, lengthways or crossways? As if that's what biking is all about.
Chris King is the counter-concept. If you were to imagine global elbow capitalism as a Roman army, then the white concrete block on the outskirts of Portland in the US state of Oregon would be the small Gallic village mentioned in the Asterix novels - the last bastion.
There are a few forges that tick in a similar way. Hope, Tune, White Industries. But none of them throw themselves into it like Chris King. It's not easy to understand this highly complex construct of quality fetish, sustainability ideas, eco-ambitions and fair trade aspects that makes the company so unique. The best place to start is in the stairwell.
He doesn't want to wave a moral club around. It is only important to him to keep the ecological footprint as small as possible.
"Up there, for example ...", says King, pointing to the pipes along the ceiling: "The heating is fuelled by heat generated during production. That's good for the eco-balance and saves us 9,000 to 10,000 dollars a month." King has been standing in the stairwell for half an hour now and talks eloquently about the building's structural refinements, which are designed to save energy and costs.
You haven't seen the production hall yet, not even the warehouse for the raw materials. But you can already sense the obsession with which King thinks through every little detail. It's always about the eco-balance, but at the same time it's also about business. As if these topics were Siamese twins.
King leads round the corner into a kind of vestibule and stands in front of a container filled to the brim with metal shavings. Production noise emanates from the large hall next door, the smell of burnt metal. King plucks a long curled aluminium chip from the container.
"Ninety per cent of the raw material becomes waste," he says. A short pause. Then he follows up with a solemn "But!". He routinely reaches for an aluminium puck lying on the adjacent machine. Voilà! At some point, he had the idea of pressing the shavings into pucks, which would make recycling easier and more effective, King explains.
All of the company's milling machines work with biodegradable cutting oil made from rapeseed. During pressing, it can be almost completely recovered and then reused. The oil saved almost exactly offsets the cost of the metal press.
This runs through the entire production process. Starting with the raw materials, which are purchased exclusively from local producers in order to keep transport distances short. Right through to the company canteen, where only dishes made from fair trade ingredients are served. Economy and ecology. Symbiotically fused even here.
"Employees no longer have to drive to lunch," explains King: "And we have a bonus programme. If you come by bike, you get a free meal." King realises that there can be no climate-neutral production, and he doesn't want to wave a moral club around. But it is important to him to keep the ecological footprint as small as possible. There are spare parts for every Chris King product ever made.
King grew up in Santa Barbara, the surfer's paradise on the west coast. It was the time of the hippies. Anti-nuclear power, organic food, make-peace-not-war romanticism. King had trained as a mechanical engineer. He could have got a high-paying job with one of the many defence suppliers.
But that was out of the question for pacifist King. He preferred to build parts for these new off-road bikes that were so hip at the time. And because their headsets were constantly breaking, most of which were still from racing bikes in the mid-seventies, he also knew what kind.
The Chris King headsets, at that time still with bearings from medical devices, became a big hit. In 1982, King started its own ball bearing production. The headsets were so precisely manufactured and robust that King offered a lifetime guarantee.
A sensation in those days, when headset bearings often wore out faster than tyres. A King headset was a purchase for life. Like a Leica camera or a Marantz amplifier. A promise of lasting value and reliability. Something to bequeath.
The company history can be viewed in the museum area. The old lathe on which King produced the first headset in 1976. King's 70s cycling shoes, mummified by dust and sweat, which he wore until he could no longer walk as a statement for conscious consumption. The 1993 Yeti, whose cracked frame he repaired and rode until 2008. The second bike built by his phased second brand Cielo.
And, of course, the MTB Hall of Fame trophy, to which he was inducted in 2006 - partly because of the "social conscience" that the products harbour, as the laudatory speech put it. He has already been invited to the White House because of this. From Obama. Chris King, the eco-rebel?
"I'm still a hippie at heart," smiles King, pointing to his long hair, which he wears in a plait. He is now sitting in the moss-green swivel chair of his office, which is located on the top floor and gives an interestingly neglected impression.
The interior walls are completely glazed. If the windowsills weren't so crammed with prototypes, milled parts and souvenirs, you could look straight into the production hall from the moss-green swivel chair.
You can hear the symphony of the machines, which is pleasantly muffled by the glass fronts. The hissing, the roaring, the screeching, the hammering. King leans back and crosses his arms.
"At the Eurobike trade fair, a few Chinese people came to us and asked why we produce everything ourselves. They said it was far too expensive. They suggested we do it for them."
King gives the words time to unfold their effect. Then he laughs so hard that his hippie braid dances on his shoulder. As lively and cheerful as a hippie pigtail can dance.
Angry Bee: The legendary Chris King sound
It is a hoarse screech, like the attack of an intergalactic swarm of bees. The famous "Angry Bee" sound of the freewheel is the signature tune of Chris King hubs. At first, King thought it was a design flaw. Because his mates loved it, he left the sound as it was. Want to hear a sample? Click here for the soundfile >>
