Why I Bought a Rene Herse
The last time I bought a new bicycle was 17 years ago. Long-time readers of Bicycle Quarterly might be familiar with my ‘Six Hands’ bike that served as the control/reference for numerous bike tests and has carried me over tens of thousands of miles through many unforgettable adventures. I didn’t buy a new bike because I’m tired of my Six Hands, or because it’s worn out. (It’s remarkable how durable this bike has been.) So why did I buy a new bike now, after all these years?
For many years, it was my job to learn about satisfaction—what it is, how it is created, and how to measure it. One useful ideas was the Kano model, named for the Japanese professor, Noriaki Kano, who developed it. Kano proposed that products have different features or attributes which affect satisfaction very differently. The primary types of features have been translated to English with various terms—I tend to think of them as Threshold Features, Performance Features and Excitement Features.
Threshold Features are the attributes that determine whether the product (a bicycle in this case) works at all. For my bike, these include: Is it rideable? Does it fit? Is it reliable?
Performance Features determine how well the bicycle works. Does it handle intuitively? Does the frame respond in a way that encourages maximum performance? Do the gears allow me to climb the hills I like to ride? Do the fenders keep me dry? Can I carry what I need on the bike?
Excitement Features are more subtle, they don’t have a direct effect on performance, but instead enhance the experience of riding a bicycle. Excitement features are the attributes that move satisfaction into delight. I bought a Rene Herse because of excitement features.
Years ago, when I first started thinking about a new bike, my motives were focused on performance. I thought a lot about ‘modern’ carbon bikes: I’ve ridden dozens of wonderful bikes for Bicycle Quarterly’s tests. In the end, I found that, for the long-distance adventures I enjoy, a fully equipped bike—with integrated fenders, lights and a rack for my handlebar bag—tends to suit my riding style best.
My plan was to get a bike built around 54 mm-wide Rat Trap Pass tires that provide suspension and comfort on rough roads and trails. I went so far as to order a frame from a custom builder, but never quite settled on the specific details that would define the bike’s purpose. Was it going to be a rough-road explorer that could carry lightweight camping gear, or a bare-bones gravel racer like the green Rene Herse that Jan designed and I ended up riding in the Unbound XL? My vision for the new bike never quite solidified.
A single ride changed my mind about what I truly wanted. The BQ team of Jan, Ryan, Steve, and myself took the ferry to Bremerton and rode the Tahuya Hills route that includes North Shore Road. Jan and I were switching back and forth between two Rene Herse bikes: The Oregon Outback bike with 26″ Rat Trap Pass (54 mm) tires (right) and the 650B bike with Babyshoe Pass (42 mm) tires that Jan had ridden in Paris-Brest-Paris the year before (left). As I expected, the fatter tires on the Rat Trap Pass bike worked better on the rougher sections of gravel. And yet, as we neared the ferry that would take us home, I was riding the 650B bike, and I found myself spontaneously telling Jan: “I want one of these!”
At first, I didn’t fully understand why I felt so sure. The 650B Rene Herse had the same riding position and essentially the same functionality as my Six Hands. Even a trained eye would see them as extremely similar. Considered separately, the differences between the bikes were small. Objectively, I doubted that they performed differently at all. (Well, the Rene Herse was almost two pounds lighter and shifted a little faster.)
The big difference was that the 650B Rene Herse was delightful. The Nivex system shifted with a light touch and precision that was more satisfying than any shifter/derailleur I’d ever experienced. The build quality of the frame was a joy to inspect – the kind of frame you find yourself touching because looking isn’t sensory enough. And the entire bike had a unified aesthetic, blending form and function. These were just some of the excitement attributes that made riding the 650B Rene Herse different, and more delightful, than riding my Six Hands.
There was still an argument in the back of my mind for the Rat Trap bike. On the rough gravel of North Shore Road, the high-volume tires clearly made it the best-performing bike. The weakness of that argument was this: Around here, even rides that include gravel are mostly pavement, and I very, very rarely ride where 42 mm tires are significant limitations. Would I rather have a new bike that performed better than my existing bike in very specific, rarely encountered situations, or a new bike that was as well-suited to my riding patterns as my existing bike, but more delightful on every ride? The answer to that question wasn’t very difficult.
Right after my new Rene Herse frame was painted and assembled, I set off on the bike’s first big test: I took it to France for one of the greatest rides I’ve ever experienced. The Raid Pyrénéen Touriste is a route of approximately 500 miles (800 km) from the Atlantic to the Mediterranean with 62,000 feet (19,000 m) of climbing spread over dozens of spectacular mountain passes. I’ve dreamed of riding through the Pyrenees for years, but I had never bicycled in France. Now I was setting off solo, looking forward to an improbably jagged elevation profile and a series of near-mythical passes and villages.
I’ve always loved cycling in the mountains—metering my effort with the changes in grade, watching the environment (and sometimes the weather) change with the altitude, looking back down into the valley to see the road I’ve just ascended, looking ahead to search out the place where the mountain ridges meet and the road will pass from one valley to the next, and finally, the rush of descending. I knew the Raid Pyrénéen was a spectacular opportunity to enjoy these things, and it still surpassed my expectations.
From Hendaye to Cerbère, I felt like the Pyrenees were a Disneyland designed specifically for me. Narrow, well-maintained roads, little traffic (at least when I was there in late September), skilled and courteous drivers in the few vehicles that did pass by, challenging but spectacular climbs, and sweeping, switchbacked descents. It’s hard not to dive into a detailed account of every day and every climb, but I’ll confine myself to a few highlights.
In the Pyrenees, the longest climbs are not necessarily the hardest. On the morning of my second day, I found myself grinding up the relatively short Col de Marie-Blanque, climbing what proved to be the steepest kilometer of the entire ride, at least according to the helpful(?) roadside sign telling me that the next kilometer averaged 13%. Fortunately, the effort paid off in a wonderful descent that flattened briefly in a high meadow where horses, cows, and sheep grazed under the dramatic clouds and rocky peaks. I spoke briefly with a local cyclist who pointed out the direction I would descend through the valley, turn left around a dark mountain ridge, and then begin the next, longer climb to the Col d’Aubisque. Words can’t capture my feeling of joy, wonder, and anticipation at that moment.
Ironically for those who mistakenly see a Rene Herse bike as a museum piece, I was very happy that my bike seamlessly incorporates a modern 11-speed cassette. Before the ride, I thought that I would rarely use the smallest gears, but the paved roads in the Pyrénées Atlantiques are not the same as the paved roads in the Cascade Mountains. Stretches of more than 2.5 miles with average grades of 11+% were too long for mashing at a low cadence, particularly when each day included multiple big climbs. Over the course of each day, I found myself enjoying the full range of gears available with my 42/26 Rene Herse chainrings and 11-30 tooth cassette.
The third day began with the legendary Col du Tourmalet, the longest climb of the trip at 17 km (11 miles), where I pedaled past not one, but two ski areas before reaching the pass at 2,115 m (6,939 feet). For me, the steadier grade of the Tourmalet was less challenging than some of the shorter passes with their short, steep ramps, but the altitude still made the last few kilometers hard work. I found myself upshifting periodically and standing on the pedals to vary my effort. One of the benefits of the Rene Herse setup was the ability to carry all my gear on the front of the bike, creating a natural stability and feeling of rootedness while standing to pedal. The last kilometer I rode through light rain and smiled for the professional photographer who then handed me a card with their website address, where I ordered the photo after I returned home. By the time I crested the pass, the rain cloud blew away and the view back down the valley toward my starting point that morning in Luz-Saint-Sauveur was immensely gratifying.
Another highlight of my trip was a particularly memorable descent. The Port de Pailheres is the only paved Pyreneen pass other than the Tourmalet higher than 2000 m. The descent on the east side of the pass includes a 2.4-mile (3.9-km) stretch with 20 switchback turns, with the last 8 coming in the last ½ mile. I’ve never been on a road like that, and riding my Rene Herse down from the pass, supremely confident in its capabilities, was fantastic. Braking before each turn, sweeping around the apex, and feeling the rush of gravity as I set up for the next switchback was an experience beyond any other descent I’ve ridden.
Even though this was my new bike’s maiden voyage, there were no mechanical problems at all. Not even a single bolt needed tightening, nor were any adjustments required. These bikes have seen so much R&D over the years that they’ve become what I’d call mature technology.
One mechanical characteristic that didn’t affect the experience of riding my Rene Herse, but still made it particularly well-suited to my Raid Pyrénéen, was its Rinko capability. Before I left, I spent a morning practicing the process of taking the bike apart, strapping the pieces together, and packing them into a padded Airplane Rinko bag…
…and then into a lightweight Train Rinko bag. It was fun, but it was also important practice for my trip. The Airplane Rinko bag was much easier to use than a full-sized bike case on my trips from Seattle to Paris and back.
But more importantly, the Train Rinko bag allowed me to buy my train ticket from southeastern France back to Paris only a day in advance, without worrying whether the few bicycle reservations on the TGV high-speed train would be taken (and they were). When I left Hendaye at the start of the Raid Pyrénéen, I did not know how long I’d spend riding to Cerbère. The flexibility afforded by the Rinko capability allowed me to take as many or few days as I wanted.
I’ll gladly admit that I didn’t need a new bike for the Raid Pyreneen, or in general, and that the monetary cost of going beyond performance to maximize delight is significant. Nonetheless, I have zero regrets. Every moment I was in the Pyrenees, I felt immensely grateful. I was where I most wanted to be, doing what I most wanted to do. I was also on the bike I most wanted to ride. Delight is too small a word to capture that experience. I can’t put a price tag on that.
More information:
- The Raid Pyrénéen is a brevet organized by the Cyclo-Club Béarnais. For a very modest fee, you get a medal after completing the ride within the time limit (10 days for the Touriste version).
- The Limited Edition 80th Anniversary Rene Herse bikes are sold out.
