Thigh Length and Seat Angles

I am often asked if a rider with a long thigh measurement needs a shallower seat angle. The above line drawing represents two riders with the same inside leg measurement. As a result, they have their saddle set at the same height, and they are using the same size frame.

If the inside leg measurement is the same and one has a longer thigh measurement from his hip to his knee, it follows his lower leg from his knee to his heel is shorter. Conversely, short thigh, longer lower leg. As you can see from the sketch the position of the knee varies only slightly.

The exact knee over pedal (KOP) is not a precise measurement anyway as one is pedaling in circles, and it makes little difference if the rider sits back and pushes forward or is more over the pedals pushing straight down.

For the purpose of this drawing, I made the thigh length of the blue leg the same as the lower leg of the one represented by the red line, and vise-versa. The above line drawing could represent an unlimited number of riders with the same inside leg, with the red and blue lines being the extremes. If the inside leg measurement is a constant, it follows that as the one measurement increases the other decreases.

This simple drawing does not consider the length of foot. {Shoe size.) As the toe points down at the bottom of the pedal stroke, the foot becomes an extension of the leg. This of course affects saddle height and frame size but does not change the position of the knee by any large amount.

So, the answer is no. Once you have the correct size frame the seat angle should be right for that size frame. Then if your saddle is positioned at the correct height, the length of your thigh has little bearing on anything.

Also, as a footnote, some people agonize over the fore and aft position of their saddle. If you view that too considering what I have said here, it is less important. More important is the position of the handlebars in relation to the saddle. See the links below for more info on that.

You can read more about my frame design philosophy here:

And another article on Riding Position Simplified:

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My Father and his Imbecile Son

My father was born on December 1910, he died in June 1996.

Fathers are good, bad, or absent, either physically or emotionaly. My father fell into the last category.

This being Fathers' Day, it would be easy for me to write paragraph after paragraph of negativity about father, but the truth is that this man influenced and shaped my life more than any other.

So instead here is a true incident that happened when I was sixteen years old. I had only just left school and started work a few months earlier. 

I was confused. How was a somewhat immature sixteen year old boy supposed to react? My mother had just told me that my father had been severely burned in a work related accident, and my first thought was, I hope the bastard dies.

I had just ridden my bicycle the five miles home from work the way I always did, as fast as possible, a heart pounding, lung bursting flat out sprint. I put my bike away in the in the garden shed, and walked indoors. I was sweating, pumped up with adrenaline, breathing heavily though not out of breath.

Once inside it was immediately clear something was wrong, my mother was still wearing her hat and coat, for one thing.

“David, your father’s been burned at the iron foundry.”

“How?” I asked.

“First thing this morning, he and another man opened the door to the blast furnace, there was an explosion, and all the hot coals came out and completely buried both of them. Other workers pulled them out right away, but they were both burned from head to toe.”

I stood there trying to evaluate the situation, could my father possibly die? The thought had never occurred to me before that moment; my father was this awful entity that was always there. I avoided him as much as I could, but I had to contact him at some point, and it was never good. Now I’m hearing that he has been severely burned. People die from that, don’t they? I was contemplating life without my father being there, I could hardly keep from cracking a smile, what confused me was my mother’s demeanor as she explained what had happened. She was frantic, beside herself with worry.

For the last seven years, since my father came home from the war, whenever I was alone with my mother she would unload on me all her frustrations concerning my father. She would go into detail about the physical abuse, along with the verbal and emotional abuse she endured. This had always fueled my hatred towards my father even more, and I always assumed she hated the man as much as I did, after all I suffered the same abuse, and I could relate what it was like. Now I saw a different side, the obvious concern, and for the first time the realization, My God, she really loves him.

“He’s at the Luton and Dunstable Hospital,” She told me.  “I’ve been there all day. Someone from the foundry came and told me this morning, and gave me a ride there. I just got off the bus not five minutes ago. If you hurry you can catch the same bus when it goes back into Luton.”

“But I don’t want to see him, what can I do?”

“David, you must go and see him, he’s your father, he’ll think you don’t care.”

I wanted to say, That’s right I don’t care, but didn’t. “But I was going to get at least forty miles in on my bike tonight.” I said in a somewhat whining tone.

“How can you think about riding your bike when your father is lying there in so much pain? Anyway, you have to go, he asked me to buy cigarettes, you have to take them to him.”

On the table was a paper bag with several packets of cigarettes inside.

“Alright, but I won’t catch the bus, I’ll ride my bike.  I’ll actually get there quicker than riding two different buses. But I need to eat first.”

“I’ll make you a sandwich.”  My mother said as I went to get out of my work clothes, wash, and change.
Whenever I rode my bike I carried a small canvas bag, called a “Musette.” In it I carried tools, spare batteries for my lights, and my wallet, sometimes food if I was going on a long ride, tonight it would also carry cigarettes.

Riding towards the hospital, not at my usual fast past, but rather slow. I was deep in thought. Not really wanting to do this, and not knowing what to expect when I got there. I left my bike by some railings near the front entrance to the hospital, and made my way up the steps and though the double glass doors. Inside at the reception desk I told them who I was, and asked where I would find my father. I was directed to a ward on the second floor.

I was wearing a regular pair of trousers, and several layers of assorted old shirts and sweaters, topped off with a heavy sweater that my mother had knitted in my cycling club colors. I was rather proud of this “Badge” of a cyclist, along with my white socks and cycling shoes. I wore spring steel trouser clips to keep the bottoms from fouling the bike chain. I left these in place, a further symbol, along with the rest of my “kit,” that I was a real cyclist and had a real racing bike outside, not just some bloke who had arrived on some old sit-up-and-beg roadster bike. The metal cleats on the bottom of my cycling shoes made a clip-clop sound on the stone floors as I walked along the corridor towards the ward.

Inside the long narrow hospital ward with beds on either side, I looked for my father. Suddenly, I heard his voice call my name. From that moment it became a surreal experience as I walked towards this unrecognizable figure, with my father’s recognizable voice coming from it. Dressed in a loose fitting hospital gown, a blackened and red raw lump of meat sat where a head should be. As I came closer I next recognized my father’s eyes. Every trace of hair was gone; from the head, eyebrows, even the eyelashes were missing. 

“Did you bring cigarettes?” I opened my musette bag and handed him the paper bag. He immediately opened a packet and lit one up. Now the vision before me was even more bizarre, as a white cigarette by stark contrast, stuck out from this blackened piece of meat that was now my father's face. His right forearm and hand had miraculously been spared from the fire, but the rest of his body was terribly burned.

One thing was certain, he was not going to die, and for whatever reason I was now okay with that. As much as I hated him, I had never wished him dead. It was only when the probability had presented itself, I had contemplated what it would be like if he were no longer there.

This was now an awkward situation however, he and I never sat and held a conversation, now I didn’t know how to react. He just chit-chatted about this and that, and one thing became clear to me. He must have been in terrible pain, but he would never show it. To do so, in his eyes, would be to show weakness and he would never do that, least of all to me.

A nurse came to the bed side to check on my father. “This is my imbecile son.” He said, waving his good arm towards me. It was the way he always introduced me to strangers. The young nurse smiled awkwardly in my direction.

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Sheldon Brown and the givers and takers

The world is made up of givers and takers, not everyone of course, and some not all the time.

If someone gets recognized as a giver, the takers will call on that same person time and time again to give, give, give.

I have become reluctant to give to charities, because I have learned that if I give to one charity, my name address and phone number is sold to other charities, and I am called upon to donate over and over.

Givers don’t just give money, some share knowledge they have for the benefit of others. One such man was Sheldon Brown, a bike mechanic and somewhat eccentric character. (Picture above.) He had a vast knowledge of bicycle specifications. He shared these on his website, where anyone could go for free and look up standard thread specs, for different countries, ball-bearing sizes, and spoke lengths, etc., etc. Information necessary if you happen to be restoring an old bicycle.

When Sheldon Brown passed away in 2008 way too early at 63 years of age, the bike shop where he worked sponsored and maintained the website. When I read an article stating that the bike shop hosting Sheldon’s website was closing their doors and the was concern about the future of the site. I thought this was information I should share with others on the Dave Moulton Bike Facebook Group.

Now my timing was not good, it was Saturday evening, my wife was preparing the evening meal, and I needed to shut down the computer, go wash up so we could eat. The first comment back was, “You do it Dave, you would be the ideal person for the job.”

No.... That was not what I was thinking at all, and I wrote back. “I can’t do it, I am 85 years old for Cri-sake and have enough on my plate with my own blog, and bike registry.”

Then someone asks, “Where can we donate money?” I don’t know, why should it be the one to find out? I do a quick Google search; find a Sheldon Brown Facebook page and I post there asking for info on how we can donate to preserve the website.

Meanwhile, my wife is calling me to come eat, as I post the link to the Sheldon Brown FB page. Now I have a response back from the first poster. “85 is no age at all. My mother is 87 and she’s a powerhouse.” I responded to that with a post that basically said, “Fuck you.” When someone else pointed out that the FB page I had linked to was for a young girl named Sheldon Brown. Not Sheldon Brown Bicycle Guru.

Now as well as being thoroughly pissed off, I am embarrassed that In my haste I had made such a stupid mistake. I went back to the FB page and deleted my post there. Then with my wife still calling me to come and eat, I said, “Fuck it, I’m done.” And deleted the whole original post on the Dave Moulton Bike page. Shut down and went to eat. It did not ruin my whole evening, but did leave me to wonder, “Why do I even bother?”

I think it is safe to say, “I am a giver.” I have left a legacy of several thousand bikes, that will still be here long after I’m gone. These bikes will continue to be bought and sold, collected, ridden, and enjoyed for many years to come.

This leaves me with a warm, fuzzy feeling, and little else. A feeling of pride, but not so proud that I am going to fall for a line like, “You do it Dave, you would be ideal for the job.” Then when that failed, he came back with, “85 is nothing, my mother is a powerhouse at 87.” This is how people try to manipulate givers, flattery first, and if that does not work, try shaming them.

It has been a while since I had a good old rant, feels good to sometimes get it out. It would be a pity if Sheldon Brown’s site were to disappear, but I doubt that will happen. Someone with a giving nature will donate time and money to keep it up and running. But it ain’t me, I have enough on my plate.

I have simply drawn attention to the issue, now I am done.

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The constantly changing normal

Giuseppe Martano 1934 Tour de France

Life is a constant change, new ideas, and new technology. People often hate change, they fight against it, but it is futile. Change will come for better or worse. In time we accept change, (Often we have no choice.) and a new “Normal” is established.

In the mid-1970s I wrote a series of articles on frame design for the British “Cycling” magazine. There was no Internet back then, no email, and no comments section where you could debate any ideas put forward. However, one older gentleman took the trouble to write and mail me a long hand-written letter, explaining my theories on “Trail” were wrong, and he enclosed a photocopy of an article from ‘Cycling’ dated 1946 to prove it.

Back in the 1930s, 1940s, and even into the 1950s, there was a thinking that trail was a bad thing.

It was thought that it made the steering of the bike sluggish.

Front forks had a rake (Offset.) of 3 to 3.5 inches. (76mm. to 90mm.) See the photo at the top, from the 1934 Tour de France, and the drawing, left.

I can even see where this idea gained traction.

At first glance it seems logical that the steering axis should reach the ground at the exact point the wheel makes contact and therefore turns at that point. Or it would make sense if a cyclist steered his bike by turning the handlebars, and the frame remained upright.

However, we steer a bicycle by leaning in the direction we wish to turn, and the steering axis ahead of the wheel’s point of contact, is one of the forces causing the wheel to turn in the direction of the lean. (See drawing below right.)

As far back as the late 1950s, early 1960s, I had realized that trail was a good thing, as had almost every other framebuilder. It provides a caster action, and gives the bike stability when going straight, and certain ‘self-steering’ characteristics into the corners.

However, trail goes hand in hand with the head angle. Steeper angles are more sensitive and need less trail to achieve the same self-steering qualities. As many framebuilders in the 1970s were building frames with 75 and even 76-degree head angles, their trail would have been a lot less than mine.

As well as staying with a 73 head angle with less rake, my overall geometry placed the rider’s weight more forward, which also affected the ‘feel’ of the steering. The point I am making, you cannot simply say fork rake should be this much, and trail should be this, without considering the whole frame’s geometry.

Whenever I write one of these type of articles the comments that follow remind me of the old gentleman that took the time to write me in the mid-1970s. He was quoting from an article written 30 years earlier in the mid-1940s.

Information here is just my opinion, if you read another article with a different point of view, it does not mean I am right and they are wrong, or vice-versa, it is simply two differing opinions. One must weigh the qualifications of the writers, and from the information, the reader forms his own opinion.

The problem is today there is an overload of information, couple this with a lot of poor quality and miss-information, and one often searches until they find an article that aligns with their own established viewpoint. This approach leaves little room for growth, instead of keeping an open mind and leaving room for new ideas.

There were more changes made in the 30 years that were the 60s, 70s, and 80s. than there were in the previous 60 or more years. Changes in actual frame geometry that is. Angles, tube lengths, and fork offset, etc. Closer wheel clearances, shorter wheelbases, and higher bottom brackets too.

Some changes brought about by economic factors, others by framebuilders trying to make something better. It once again made me realize how fortunate I was to have been around in that period. Those times will never happen again. There was so much experimentation going on amongst so many individual craftsmen. There will never be that many individual craftsmen at the same time again. 

We have also seen many changes in the last 30 or more years since the end of the 1980s. The whole appearance of the bicycle has changed. We have seen clipless pedals, index shifting, leading to 11 (Or more.) gears. Thread-less headsets. Oversize tubes and carbon fiber have changed to look of the frame, along with sloping top tubes and tee-shirt sizing.

But actual frame geometry has not changed that much, 73/73 angles came out in the 1960s. My road bike fork rake was 35mm. I don’t think other steel framebuilders were too far away from that. Probably around 38mm. was an average. Fork rakes (Offset.) have increased but I feel this has more to do with avoiding toe overlap with the front wheel, than to affect the actual handling. I guess for the time being somewhat of a new norm has been established.  

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Reflections on this Memorial Day

In the early part of 1944 I lived in rural Hampshire, in the middle-south of England. We were not far from Portsmouth where most of the invasion fleet set out on June 6th. that year. I was eight years old, not old enough to fully understand what was going on, but old enough to have clear memories of the events of that time.

I remember the American soldiers coming over to England in the months prior to D-Day. Suddenly appearing one afternoon as I walked home from school, arriving in what seemed to be an endless convoy of army trucks, each full of young men, smiling, waving to us as we waved back.

In the weeks and months that followed that is how I remember the Americans, always smiling, laughing, goofing off, a lot of horseplay and kidding around with each other. At the time they seemed like adults to me, but I now know that most were only 10 or 15 years older than I was.

They were teens or early twenties, goofing around as teens will do. To get it in perspective, if this were today an eight-year-old would have been born in 2013, many of these young soldiers would have been born since 2000. No age at all, really.

Prior to the arrival of the American Army, roads were pretty much devoid of all motor traffic because of petrol rationing. When the Americans came, there was a constant flow of army trucks, Jeeps, and even Sherman Tanks going up and down the roads.

Soldiers were training, playing war games, in the local fields and woodlands. I saw paratroopers jump from airplanes, and I can still visualize the sky filled with hundreds of descending parachutes. They fired blank rounds during these exercises, and after we would go out colleting brass shell casings. 

There was a large US Army camp close by, and we would go hang out there at the weekends. The soldiers would give us chewing gum and candy. This was a big deal because sugar was rationed during the war, and we had to make do with 2 oz. of candy a month. I had never seen chewing gum until the Americans came.

Just as suddenly as the Americans appeared, they all disappeared. I came home from school one day around the first week in June 1944 and they were all gone. I went to the army camp that weekend and it was completely empty. It was a surreal experience that I did not understand, any more than I understood anything else that went on during that period of my life.

It wasn’t until ten or so years later when I became a young adult myself, I realized what had happened. To an eight-year-old it was all a game, an experience, and those young men with their happy, smiling faces never led me to believe it was anything else. But after they left and things got serious, they died in their thousands on the Beaches of Normandy, and others in the months that followed.

It had a profound effect on me. Because today I still see the happy faces of those young American soldiers. I will never forget the sacrifice they made. A sacrifice not of their choosing. But one they made none the less so I would never have to do the same.

Today is a day for humility, to realize it is no longer about ME. It is not even about the veterans of those wars, it is remembering those who died in those wars, gave the ultimate sacrifice.

WWII was a fight against Fascism, the Korean war and Vietnam were fought against Communism. Both are Dictatorships, or Totalitarian form of government.

Time to reflect and ask, is this where we are headed? Is this what I really want? And if it is, then what did all these young men die for? What was the purpose?

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