HOW FIELD CYCLES MAKES CLASSIC BIKES WITH A MODERN TWIST
With no time for nostalgia, custom framebuilder Field Cycles is putting Sheffield back at the heart of British manufacturing
heffield’s association with steel dates back to 1740, when Benjamin Huntsman discovered a method of producing a higher-quality metal than was available at the time. Then in the mid-19th century Henry Bessemer further cemented the city’s position at the heart of industrial Britain when he found a way of producing steel quicker and cheaper with the invention of the Bessemer Converter, a huge belching horror of a machine.
Stamped on everything from cutlery to factory machinery, the words ‘Made in Sheffield’ would become a mark of quality recognised and exported around the world. The city’s steel industries made it a key component in the nation’s defence during both World Wars, when it was the target of extensive German bombing.
Post-war, the 1950s and 60s saw the city steadily transformed through slum clearances and major infrastructure upgrades. Yet this regeneration was to prove a scant bulwark against the decline of industry across the north. By the 1980s Sheffield was the grim
backdrop to films by Ken Loach, along with the even grimmer Threads, a TV drama that imagined the city in the aftermath of a nuclear strike.
For decades now, Sheffield has struggled to remain relevant in a country whose economic model has shifted towards tech and financial services at the expense of industry, and whose distribution of wealth has tilted ever more towards the south. But skip to the present day and it’s not all bad news. With two busy universities and the Peak District within easy riding distance, Sheffield is home to a young and dedicated cycling scene. Its abundance of underutilised industrial space also provides a home to a growing number of people determined to resurrect at least part of Sheffield’s legacy of making things.
And it’s this winding preamble that leads Cyclist from Sheffield train station, down a series of warehouse-lined back roads and to the door of Field Cycles. It’s opened by Harry Harrison, who represents one-third of the company.
Origin story
The modestly sized space inside is home to some serious looking machinery, along with an array of tools and gadgets that the amateur mechanic would probably struggle to put a name or use to.
Harrison nurses a mug of tea lined with an impressive accumulation of tannins. He comes across as being passionate about his craft to the extent that he would much prefer to be doing it rather than spending the day being pestered by a journalist. After a quick tour, we start by asking how he became a framebuilder.
‘I was a pipefitter on a youth training scheme, and I remember thinking, “I don’t want to be a pipefitter.” I’d look around factories at cup of tea time and everyone was miserable. I thought, “If I stay here I’ll likely end up miserable too,” so I left and went to art college. But I knew I had to make stuff. I got into set-building and had a pretty healthy art career, as did John, our paint man. He ended up selling some of his art through Saatchi and all sorts. I love bicycles, and I love making stuff, and I thought, “Alright, I’m going to have a go.”
‘From set-building and making, I had the rudimentary skills. But the learning curve is pretty steep. Making your first frame for a customer is a huge leap. I didn’t realise that initially. Having someone put their hand in their pocket and say, “I want that and nothing else will do.” It went smoothly because of the three of us working together.’
Years on from Field Cycles’ first sale, each member of the trio now has at least 10,000 hours experience in their
‘I was a pipefitter on a youth training scheme. I’d look around at cup of tea time and everyone was miserable’
particular craft. Enough to make each of them a master in their chosen disciplines.
‘Working with someone who’s much better at something than you are is brilliant,’ says Harrison. This maxim dictates the fairly strict division of labour at Field Cycles. Split between fabrication, design and painting, Harrison, Tom Smith and John Burke take on one job each. Reflecting this, each third of the workshop is divided and dedicated to a single purpose.
Up front and closest to the door is the area reserved for making the bikes, a space filled with everything needed to fashion a frame from a box of uncut tubes. Field’s huge lathe and milling machine came via a friend of Harrison’s mum.
‘He was a retired engineer and built tandems,’ says Harrison. ‘Five years ago he passed away and his wife gave us both machines and said, “Keep making bikes”. There’s a steady trade in machines like these to India, where the labour conditions are anyone’s guess, so it’s satisfying to know they’re still here and being used.’
Keeping the business in Sheffield is something of a passion for Field Cycles and many of its local peers. ‘If you’re making stuff here there’s a real camaraderie, especially among engineering firms.’
The intricate dropouts on many of the company’s frames are case in point. ‘We had a CNC machine ourselves, but you’ve got to keep them running 24 hours a day to justify the cost. The firm that produces these dropouts specialises in valves for nuclear power plants. They’d never normally touch an order as small as ours, yet they’re happy to help because it’s part of their vision for the city. The knowledge in Sheffield is unbelievable. But it’s worrying that all of their workforce is over 60. There are lifetimes of learning in that place. When that’s gone, it’s gone forever.’
As if to prove the point, while we’re talking a man who works at a nearby factory pops in for a chat. Apparently his company does a line of easy-clean kids’ playground equipment and a wide selection of autopsy and embalming tables. He arrives on a fast-looking Field Cycles bike, but he’s keen on commissioning another, more practical, machine.
‘We need 50 to 60 customers a year,’ says Harrison. Many of these are referrals or repeat punters. ‘Most of the time once someone is through the door they’ll order a bike. My dream scenario is where we grow a little bit, maybe train another person up, then I can spend more of my time tinkering. I’m fascinated by making and creating new processes.’
As evidence of this, there’s a box of different devices that he’d rather not have us photograph
‘We need 50 to 60 customers a year. Most of the time once someone is through the door they’ll order a bike’
sitting beneath a bench. As much as a framebuilder is expected to mitre, braze or weld, Harrison believes that unless you push the craft forward you’re essentially part of a historical reenactment society.
Light on dark
To this end, Field also sells a range of not-so-secret tools for other framebuilders. Having done a rough cut on the lathe using the sort of flimsy hole saw used by most builders to create the mitres on their frames, Harrison loads up a custom fabricated cutter of his own design. Ultra-robust and clean-cutting, it costs 50 times more than the flexible and disposable alternative, yet can be endlessly resharpened. Cutting precisely and without distortion, when the hard tubing comes out of the machine the mitre cut into it is so exact it fits its corresponding partner with no visible gap.
Adding the tube he’s just cut to the frame, Harrison uses the opportunity to try to correct a stay that’s out by a millimetre. ‘Framebuilding is still a bit of a dark art,’ he says as he heats the inside of the tube with the flame from his torch. He is aiming to use the heat to pull the frame into alignment.
‘The tolerances some people claim are ridiculous,’ he adds. ‘You’d need to have the measuring table certified for a start.’ He flips the frame over he runs a micrometer over both sides. ‘Equally the old guys who’d claim to do it by eye’ – he mimes holding up the frame and squints down its length – ‘Yep, another one for the perfect pile!’ He shakes his head. Generally, if it’s within a millimetre he’s happy.
While playing about with lathes, brazing gear and frame jigs might seem at the heart of the business, no less care or effort goes into the design and painting of the frames. While all come out with a candy-esque shell good enough to sink your teeth into, if you really let the team loose, the bike might spend as long as 10 days having its final battle dress applied.
Tucked away at the back of the building, the Cromaworks paint shop is the domain of Field’s taciturn artist and former cabinetmaker John Burke. Blotted and splashed about with an almost infinite number of colours, his spray booth is where the bikes are transformed from raw metal to finished, show-winning masterworks. Stacked with brightly coloured bottles and vials, its shelves resemble a neon apothecary’s cabinet.
‘You can tell when a design has been made by the person doing the painting,’ says Tom Smith, who’s also responsible for creating the bike’s geometries and maintaining the overall look and feel of the brand. Little elements in the scheme can suggest that it has been put together with one eye on ease of application. That’s why it’s Smith, rather than Burke, who creates the bike’s colour schemes. This might make life harder for Field, but it ensures there’s no compromise when it comes to either the concept or execution.
One example is a design inspired by Ghanaian Kente cloth in honour of the owner’s time in the Ashanti region and his great-grandfather, a craftsman of gold leaf. The result is bold, yet very personal. Similarly, the paint on
Field believes that unless you push the cra ft forward you’re essentially part of a historical reenactment society
a photographer’s bike picks out elements of the famous Leica ‘red dot’ logo without labouring the point.
Craft and technology
Harrison is adamant that the bikes he makes need to be both as beautiful and functional as possible. Still, working in steel comes with certain preconceptions.
‘I feel the skills and processes needed to do it right are being devalued a bit at the moment. I had an experienced framebuilder say to me you need about four years or a hundred frames under your belt until you know what you’re doing. It’s great that people want to make things, but if you make one frame you’re not a framebuilder. That’s why so many companies stop once they realise it’s really hard and they run out of mates to sell to.’
Existing at the intersection of craft and technology, and continually pushing both, is what sets Field apart from many rivals. It’s also the driver behind its experiments with its new 3D printer and carbon. Mention the c-word to most custom framebuilders and you’ll get the same response as if you’d dropped the other one at a kids’ party, but Field isn’t scared of the black stuff. Being able to work with a range of materials, even if they don’t make it onto finished bikes, helps keep it at the forefront of what it does.
Field is currently playing around with a lugged carbon and steel hybrid frame, and even if it never makes it into production, the skills learned will help inform the bikes the firm does sell.
‘I never wanted to be a man in a shed,’ says Harrison. ‘I wasn’t interested in nostalgia and whittling away at bikes that look like they were made in the 1970s. I want to make things as contemporary and beautiful and functional as humanly possible.’
With bikes born in the Field Cycles workshop sent out into the world to race, circumnavigate the globe or serve day-in-day-out on the nearby Peak District roads, every element of their design, geometry and paint is unique to the user. Yet this never comes at the expense of technology. It’s partly why American composite firm Enve has chosen to partner with Field on its show bikes.
Field is rooted in a culture of making, but has its sights set on the future. Besides a dedication to pushing forward the craft of framebuilding, the other constant is the Field Cycles logo somewhere on every frame, each proudly declaring ‘Handmade in Sheffield’. Field’s efforts ensure people will continue to recognise what that stands for. Joseph Delves is a freelance writer with calves and quads made of Sheffield Steel
‘I f you make one frame you’re not a framebuilder. That’s why so many companies stop once they run out of mates to sell to’