Milestone anniversaries are always a welcome excuse for journalists to reminisce a little with the person celebrating. In Tom Ritchey’s case, there was now a double cause for celebration: 40 years of mountain biking and Ritchey’s 60th birthday. Yet, to our author’s surprise, the MTB pioneer didn’t seem particularly in the mood to celebrate. At least as far as the birth of the sport is concerned. Ritchey speaks in a deep, calm voice. Yet something seems to be brewing inside him. And indeed: when the question arises as to who actually invented mountain biking, it all comes pouring out of him. More openly and candidly than ever before, Ritchey talks about the sport’s early days and what he sees as the unjustified idolisation of his former business partner Gary Fisher, who likes to present himself as the inventor of mountain biking. Ritchey shows photos and old documents. It’s important to him to prove that his story isn’t just empty talk.
On 21 October, 40 years of mountain biking were celebrated at the MTB Hall of Fame in Fairfax. Charlie Kelly, Joe Breeze and many from the old Clunker crew were there. You weren’t. Why?
To be honest, I had other plans – and the date doesn’t really mean much to me either. The decision to designate the Repack race on 21 October 1976 as the birth of mountain biking was more or less an internal matter at the Bicycle Museum, where the Hall of Fame is located. I knew nothing about it, and they didn’t ask me either. The museum has close ties to Marin County and the group that organised the Repack race back then: Gary Fisher, Joe Breeze, Charlie Kelly. All the names that are now associated with the invention of mountain biking. Whether it’s right to set a specific date for its origins is, in my view, hard to say. It’s their story, after all, and it probably feels right to them. For me, the Repack race isn’t the birth of mountain biking.
Pardon? That would mean the history of cycling would have to be rewritten.
The repacker scene was a very, very close-knit community. I probably had the longest journey of all when I went to visit them, even though I only lived 50 miles away. Everyone would drive up the mountain together in a pick-up and then race down the slope. With a stopwatch. That was it. The Ballooners, Mongrels, Clunkers – or whatever they called their lead-heavy bikes – were pure downhill riders, initially still on single-speed bikes. I went along once. I didn’t have a bike, so I borrowed one from a photographer. The handlebars bent out of shape the very first time I hit a bump. I found those bikes completely uninteresting. I wanted to ride everywhere – cross-country. Up and down. Charlie Kelly, who helped organise the Repack races, was a journalist and loved telling stories. He documented the races and wrote articles about them. Wild lads in jeans hurtling down Mount Tamalpais. That’s what made the Repack story so appealing. But the Cupertino Riders Dirt Club had been organising similar events for years before that. Just without timing the races or publicising them. Personally, I had no interest in what the Cupertino Riders were organising, nor in what the lads in Marin were up to. What appealed to me were adventure rides through the wilderness.
If not the Repack race, what do you consider to be the birth of mountain biking? Eyewitnesses say that you played an active part in the sport’s early days.
As far as I’m concerned, there was no single moment of origin that could be pinned down to a specific date. Rather, it was a development that emerged from various circles. Above all, it’s important to me to emphasise that there was already an off-road culture in place before the Repack races. Back then, there were lots of people involved with the Ballooners. But there was no one with my knowledge and experience who could actually create a specialised, new bike. Well, apart from Joe (Breeze – Ed.). But his bike was geared more towards downhill riding. I, on the other hand, wanted a lightweight, high-performance bike. I’d already been involved in frame building in the early 70s, even using fillet brazing. But it was clear to me that this time it wasn’t just about a frame, but about a complete package. So I also developed the stem, fork, seatpost and bottom bracket. All of this went far beyond just frame-building. All those many details in which my bike differed from what had been available up to that point – and which made it much, much lighter. It was in a completely different league. Yet for years it had no name, even though it was already being sold. Some called it the Ritchey Ballooner, others the Ritchey Clunker. One day, someone walked into a shop – or so I was told – pointed at my bike in the showroom and said: “Hey, that’s a mountain bike.” And yes, that summed up perfectly what it stood for. From then on, it was known as the “Ritchey Mountain Bike”. The term was part of my brand name. It’s a shame I didn’t have it trademarked back then.
According to the history books, Gary Fisher bought one of your first mountain bikes and then, together with Charlie Kelly, started dealing in bikes that they had commissioned from you. ‘Mountainbike’ was the name of their company, which is why Fisher is now regarded as the founding father of mountain biking – according to Wikipedia, too. Is this unfair?
Gary never actually commissioned me to build bikes. He rang me after Joe had ordered a tandem from me for a tour of the USA. He said, “Hey, if you’re building a bike for yourself, could you make one for me as well?” I said, “Okay!” I didn’t even let him know straight away when it was finished. At some point, he popped round and picked it up. I told him I’d built a third one as well, and asked if he knew anyone who might want to buy it. He found a buyer straight away. And because he was so enthusiastic about his bike – which back then wasn’t even called a ‘mountain bike’ – he reckoned he could surely sell more. So I built ten more. At the time, Gary and Charlie were thinking about setting up a business, which is exactly what they did. I built the frames for the bikes, but was left waiting for payment. The reason for our split, in a nutshell: I was a young father who was in the middle of building a house. I needed the money. That’s why I invested all my time and energy into developing the mountain bike. I wasn’t a good businessman, but Gary and Charlie weren’t any better at running a business. I eventually decided not to put all my eggs in their basket, so to speak. In short: I no longer wanted to be their partner. It was a brief collaboration lasting about three years.
So is Gary Fisher the inventor of the mountain bike, or not?
No, because there was no single inventor. Looking back, we were all – including Joe Breeze and many others – the pioneers. But no one should claim to be the inventor. I’ve just told the story of how a bloke in a shop pointed at my bike and called it a ‘mountain bike’. Gary and Charlie realised that straight away. They suggested I name the bike the Ritchey Mountain Bike. It was a genuine cross-country bike, developed from the ground up. And before that – this is my opinion, my perspective – there were only downhill machines. Too heavy, not robust enough – and therefore far too limited in their range of use.
This story is hardly known. How important is your place in the history books to you?
It’s not really important. I’ve been hearing the story about Gary Fisher being the inventor for 20 years and have never spoken up. But now that the date of the mountain bike’s birth is being discussed, it’s time to set the record straight. My main priority is running a successful business and being there for my family. Gary and Charlie, the Grateful Dead and all that – it had nothing to do with me. I wasn’t part of the rock ’n’ roll or hippie scene. I enjoyed listening to music, but back then music was always linked to drugs. And I was totally against drugs. My drug was cycling. I didn’t want my body to be controlled by any substance. I wanted to be in control myself and experience the cycling high. Everyone has their own story. Charlie, Joe, Gary. And me, of course.
It seems that the main issue here is how to define the term ‘mountain biking’ in retrospect.
For me, it’s a very personal story. Marin County isn’t densely populated. My back garden was pure wilderness. Anyone who got lost here could die. As a result, the challenges I faced were different. I used to go on ten-hour adventure rides through the middle of nowhere on my cross-country bike. That was the starting point when I began designing a bike. For me, the basic idea of mountain biking is closely linked to backpacking, to the spirit of adventure. In 1977, I wanted to hike the John Muir Trail in five days. No one had ever managed it in under seven days before. The idea took root in my mind: to develop a bike that could tackle this route. Very few people know this story: the origin of the first mountain bike was the idea of conquering the Muir Trail in two days. On the longest day of 1980, 21 June, I set off, and it really meant a great deal to me at the time. I couldn’t gauge my chances. That part of the Sierras is wild. It was really dangerous – the highest mountains in the US, and no path crosses another. Compared to Marin County, the specifications I had in mind for my bike were really serious. It had to be functional, reliable, light and sturdy.
So, how many days did it take you?
After 30 miles, I came across a backcountry ranger on horseback. He arrested me, as it were. Well, more or less. Back then, there weren’t any rules for bikes yet, but he was absolutely furious that I was travelling on a mechanical vehicle. He lumped it in with cars and motorbikes. So I ended up in court in Yosemite Valley for breaching the Wilderness Act. That hearing ultimately led to the rules being rewritten. Since 1980, there have been national park regulations governing the use of bikes. Anyway: the story illustrates that what mattered most to me was experiencing nature. Adventure. About cross-country riding. I built bikes for myself, and then came bikes for friends who paid for them. So I became a businessman rather by accident (laughs). At some point, it dawned on me that I could not only build hundreds of frames, but also develop as a components manufacturer.
It is astonishing just how precisely Ritchey recalls events from decades ago. Because every detail is important to him, he later sends five more audio files in which he talks at length about his early days as a frame builder. His home at the time, Palo Alto, his cycling-mad father and the spirit of optimism that characterised the 1970s all play a central role in his account. Ritchey enthuses that the area around Palo Alto was full of people who had no qualms about experimenting. He says he was born into this creative world.
How did you learn to build frames?
My father was an engineer who was always drawn to the great outdoors. He introduced me to the world of the outdoors just as much as he did to the world of engineering. My earliest childhood memories are of my father hopping on his bike and then coming back beaming with joy and covered in mud, whilst raving about the routes off the beaten track, away from the tarmac roads. When I was twelve, I decided to build a go-kart. And because my father wouldn’t allow a petrol-powered go-kart, I suggested an electric version. My father taught me how to solder and helped me with the electrical details, but the mechanics were entirely my own work. It was also my father who introduced me to Jobst Brandt – a mate of his who worked as an engineer at Hewlett Packard and had already cycled all over the place. When I met Jobst, my life changed in an instant. I was living in my own little bubble, and Jobst examined the bikes I’d built when I was 15 or 16. He was very critical and pointed out my engineering mistakes. That had a huge impact on me.
What sort of bikes did you build?
Road bikes fitted with the thickest tubular tyres available. A sort of cyclo-cross bike. Bikes that were tailor-made for the legendary, sprawling ‘Jobst Rides’ that Jobst organised regularly. That was also when I met John Finley Scott. A bloke who thought ahead in much the same way as Jobst. He was a professor at UC Davis, a famous university in California. A small chap with no racing background, but with the aim of riding every dirt road in California. And he wanted me to build him a bike for that – a 650b, which he called the Woodsy-Bike. Back then, nobody had any idea what an important role this bike would one day play in cycling’s development, precisely because of the tyre size, which is now known as 27.5 inches. There are photos of it at the Supertour, a 1,000-mile adventure race spread over ten days. Incidentally, it was this same John who lent Gary and Charlie the money to set up their business.
What was the driving force behind such rapid progress in bicycle development?
The racing aspect was extremely important and accelerated development enormously. I was one of the pioneers with my own team. By 1983, we were already holding national championships. Cross-country formats, whether classic circuit races or stage races, developed rapidly – and yes, downhill was sometimes part of a stage. In Crested Butte there was a three-day race with a downhill stage, which I won. Against Gary and Charlie, incidentally, who were also competing. I was certainly no slouch when it came to riding downhill. Downhill was part of cross-country. Some people don’t put the pieces of this puzzle together. But for me, it’s an important part of the development of the mountain bike.
Looking back now: how much does cycling today have in common with what was celebrated in California 40 years ago?
I’m fascinated by the sheer number of categories and directions the sport has developed in. People call it mountain biking, but it’s so much more than that. Essentially, the past 40 years have always been characterised by a certain spirit of experimentation. Don’t follow the rules; rethink things instead. That spirit was what drove us back then, too. Everything is always in flux – but today it’s happening at breakneck speed. The industry seems to be tripping over its own feet at the moment. What with self-imposed product cycles and all that. Actually, it should be the customer who dictates how the industry should operate. Perhaps that’s the most important point: I see myself as a consumer. If I want something, I go and do it. But I don’t want the industry to dictate anything to me. My company has been around for over 40 years now. I believe Ritchey is the oldest American bike company still owned by its founder. And I’m still responsible for every product design. The mountain bike was a major milestone for me. It brought so many things together and took them to a whole new level.
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