Hobbies are for dreaming. Whilst car fanatics rave about the latest Porsche, bikers get misty-eyed when it comes to luxury bikes. But there is one crucial difference: hardly anyone builds their own Porsche. Bikers, on the other hand, have the opportunity to assemble their dream bike piece by piece themselves - provided they have the necessary tinkering skills. Building a Dreambuild MTB bit by bit from individual parts is undoubtedly an experience that every bike freak must have had. When an individual dream bike is created from handlebars, stem, saddle, tyres, rear derailleur, crank, suspension fork and of course the frame, magic is in the air.
Dreambuild between curse and blessing
Emotionally, a bike is not a cold machine. Loving care quickly becomes a need. Changing a bottom bracket on our own responsibility gives us the feeling that we are making a difference. Others build a birdhouse or decorate Christmas baubles - bikers just screw things together. For many bikers, the technical aspect of their hobby is just as important as the actual riding itself. This is probably why BIKE colleague Stefan Frey with his YouTube video on setting the gears now a click millionaire. But watching other people screw? What's the attraction? Almost every mountain biker has stood hopelessly frustrated and cursing to themselves in front of their disassembled bike. Swearing is as much a part of wrenching as thunder is to lightning.
Dreambuild mastermind Gee Milner never grumbles. He works calmly and patiently with high-quality tools on highly polished dream bikes. Instead of a wild screaming fit, the video features atmospheric ambient music. The apparent effortlessness of his work has an irresistible effect. Every move is perfect and everything seems to be in flow. In Dreambuild videos, every screw on a bike is atmospherically staged. People love to watch professionals at work. It extends dreaming beyond the material to the actions of the mechanics: "If only I could screw like that myself." In addition, watching others create something has a kind of meditative effect. The videos often last 15 minutes or longer. With the aesthetics of the perfect wrenching situation, they involuntarily cast a spell over bike fans and block out the fast pace of everyday life. Dreambuilds are a holiday for the biker's brain.
Professional wrenches and luxury bikes
Would Dangerholm would be able to put together a rusty DIY store bike, however skilful his hands. Nobody would want to look at his Instagram account. Of course, it's also about the material experience - at least the one that can be felt when watching a video. The protagonists of the Dreambuild videos are always standing in a perfectly equipped workshop. The right tools are at hand for every job and everything has its place on the well-lit wall above the clean workbench. All the individual parts are neatly organised and waiting to be used for the big show. Without exception, the best that the mountain bike world has to offer is used. Luxury quickly makes people dream - whether it's houses, boats, cars or mountain bikes.
Sinfully expensive small series parts from Intend, Chris King or Tune mingle with the top models from established manufacturers, such as Fox, Rock Shox, Shimano or Sram. Of course, the Dreambuild mechanics don't have to dig into their own pockets for the parts. On the contrary: the manufacturers pay large sums of money so that they can appear for a few seconds in the much-clicked videos. "Product placement" is the marketing magic word. From the carbon paste to the assembly stand to the mechanic's cap, everything that can be seen in the clip is usually meticulously planned. This accumulation of many small dreams does not fail to have an effect, but instinctively triggers a strong "want-to-have" reflex.
Column: The mood is in the basement
"Slow TV" is the latest craze in the entertainment industry. In Scandinavia, whole families gather in front of their screens for hours on end to watch bread being baked or a sauna being built in real time. BIKE volunteer Jan Timmermann recently fell under the spell of extra-slow television when he was shown a Dreambuild video by Gee Milner on YouTube.
I lounged on the couch for three quarters of an hour and watched as Gee Milner lovingly married the most exclusive parts on the market to create a dream bike. Even the previously aired beer advert looked old against this advertising format. The tension-relieving drone from the speakers of my laptop had put me in a hypnotic state. The fluid movements and exquisite parts satisfied the perfectionist slumbering inside me. As the Brit pulled brand new tyres onto the finest carbon rims, I thought I could feel the studs on the palms of my hands. Gallery owners speak of the "haptic perception" of a work of art. When looking at tangible objects, the brain remembers experiences of its own sense of touch. Every mechanic knows how good it can feel to insert the front wheel into the fork and tighten the thru axle.
Aesthetic close-ups showed how titanium screw after titanium screw turned into the stem. In my daydreams, I held the precious tool myself and slowly moved my right hand along with it. Seeing how the thickly greased press-fit bottom bracket slid sensitively into the frame gave me an almost erotic satisfaction. I made a mental note to play the warm crack of a torque spanner as a notification tone on my mobile phone. "You're drooling", my girlfriend's voice snapped me out of my trance just as the rainbow-coloured chain flew purring over the perfectly milled sprockets. Embarrassed, I just mumbled: "I have to go to the cellar" and rushed out of the flat.
Like in an Ikea advert, I solemnly closed the last drawer of the workbench, which now radiated much more glamour than our kitchen unit. I rolled up my sleeves like a heart surgeon does in a public television programme, dipped my index finger into the pink assembly paste and began to caress the seat post with abandon. I fingered the matt carbon for much longer than necessary. It should have slid into the seat tube as smoothly as Elon Musk in his Hyperloop. Instead: nasty creaking and violent twisting movements. A little later, a tiny grub screw disappeared into the darkness of the cellar floor. Cursing under my breath, I crawled around on my knees and half an hour later was desperately trying to repair one of my other bikes. The chain jumped across the cassette, rattling listlessly, after I had first shortened it too much and then lengthened it again. When I made a poor attempt to bleed the brakes, a lot of oil spilled onto the floor tiles. There it mixed with the sealing milk, which caused every single tool to stick like the fingers of a two-year-old after eating rice pudding.
Cursing, I slammed the cellar door shut. Behind it was a battlefield, filled with the stench of sweat and rubber. "So, did you have fun?" my girlfriend asked as I trudged up the stairs with my shoulders slumped, eyeing my black fingers suspiciously. Grumbling, I switched on the TV and replied: "I have to watch how a carpet is woven!"
Jan Timmermann
Editor
