Stay The Course: A Stayer Cycles Shop Visit

Additional photography by Craig Lambard

His laugh was grand and jovial.

“Yes, you certainly stand out a bit!”

It required almost all of his tall, lanky figure to bork out. The kind of sound that demanded an equal and opposite positivity.

“Glows in the dark as well,” he smiled.

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He was talking about the paint job his daughter had selected for the Stayer Step Through—a bright coral, truss-forked step-through bike with mounts bolted onto the rear chainstays so that Sam Taylor, owner/operator of Stayer Cycles, could take his daughter to school.

“It’s mad. She had a whole life before we’d adopted her and her brother. It’s crazy to think about.”

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He seemed like the kind of father many hope to be. He cared, and it was easy to tell. There’s a love in the way he spoke about his kids. It differed from bikes, but the tone was similar. As we looked at his old single-speed cyclocross bike, some of that came across.

“Yeah, it was weird coming over on that. It’s quite fast. I mainly ride with my kids now or on the prototype cargo bike. It was nice to be on a fast bike again!”

I’d spent the last two hours having a somewhat impromptu conversation in the cold, dark office corridor of Stayer Cycles in Leytonstone, London. In the short time I’d known Sam, we’d launched into two lengthy, philosophical, relatively in-depth conversations about the industry. Be it bikes, family, or our perspective on the nature of the bike industry, Sam seemed to have a pretty measured take on all of it. It felt like talking to a wise old teacher. He approached it all with kindness and respect. It was an aura. One that he tried to imbue within me as I borrowed the bike.

“Here’s a lock, but if it gets nicked, no worries.”

There was that laugh again.

“You just have to sort of put out a vibe…”

“What? Don’t f*** with me?” I interjected.

“No, no—it’s all about peace and respect.”

As I pedaled off without a plan, I thought about a lot of things. I tend not to take notes in a conversation because I feel it destroys its organic nature. People change their tone when you introduce a mic or if they notice you’re writing something down. I try to keep it as real as possible. But it requires some reflection to keep things in. I’d resolved to do so on my afternoon on the bike, but I was largely just glad to have wheels beneath me. Having worked pretty much every day since my arrival in England for Bespoked UK, I’d been going full gas. Breaks were few and far between, even after the coverage, as shop visits and making the most of my time across the pond meant consistent 12-plus-hour days being “on.” As someone who thrives on being alone and unplugged, typically on a bike, I was excited to take to the streets of London all by myself.

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Splitting lanes and hopping curbs while occasionally forgetting the side of the road I was supposed to be on, I swore to never travel without a bike again. Not simply because I love riding my bike, but because it reminded me of one of the broader reasons I first fell in love with them. There are many things I disagree with patronizing in our current world. I think a lot of us feel the same, but don’t really know what to do about it. Uber and apps that prop up the gig economy are well-known for all kinds of transgressions. Being somewhat reliant on car-dependent modes of infrastructure, even with the ample public transportation in London, made me realize how I think of the bike as an extension of myself. I conceived of distances differently. Without it, I feel stranded.

Rambling on about these very concepts to Sam a few hours earlier, I got the sense that we felt similarly. He said, “We try to emphasize that sense of local-ity with the people we do business with. And, while it isn’t a massive market, that’s not something we really need. You know, we don’t need to sell thousands or even hundreds of frames. We just need to sell tens. It’s the same with the course. We’re not doing big business here. We just need to do a bit more than we’re doing now.”

Delving into a more in-depth conversation about margins and the history of the business, Sam spoke candidly, “Honestly, I feel I’m ready to die,” he laughed. “The business has been pretty close to the brink for some time, and we’ve survived in a variety of different ways. Whatever happens, I think I can be happy with what we’ve done. That’s the truth of a business. I’m happier with what it has allowed people to do—former members of staff, people who have come through the shop in some way—to go on to do as much as I am with anything we’ve created.” Sam’s answers to my wandering questions were roundabout and almost as adventurous as the means of their catalyst. Looking at the scribbles and chicken scratch that littered the dark corners of the workshop, we continued to discuss the various odds and ends of Stayer Cycles.

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“I’m a maker. I don’t spend much time on the computer, so I tend to do things in an analog fashion because that’s just how I’ve always done it. Which, by the way, doesn’t mean that I think it’s inherently better. Just that—this is my skillset. This is how I came to building and designing, so it’s how I continue doing so,” he explained.

From my day on his former race bike, I could tell Sam’s kind energy isn’t the only thing keeping Stayer alive. He has a knack for making things quite well. Taking a look at the show bike the Stayer team brought to Bespoked, it seems his range is practiced and well-understood. From industry standard designs like Stayer’s UG and stAyTB, to the bespoke step-through at the show, Sam has an ability to balance what he calls “following his nose” and trying to keep the ship afloat. Asking about specifics, I learned about much more than just a unique new frame design.

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“We’ve stayed alive in so many different ways over the years. Carbon wheels have done it at times, and different things at others. It’s a balance. And not one that I’m claiming to have gotten right most of the time. But we’ve made it this far. And that’s something… The UG, for example, is not a groundbreaking design. It’s something pretty standard as far as gravel bikes go these days. But I’m proud it’s something people look for, and I’m proud that we make it here, ourselves.”

Reflecting on the idea of emphasizing the process as opposed to the result took me back to this year’s Bespoked UK coverage. In one of our roundups, someone left a comment that read, “I can’t help but wonder: what’s the value in these presentations? Bikes made by first-world companies that are exactly the same as those made in Taiwan but cost four times more? The only real difference seems to be some strange colors and a super high-quality company logo on the head tube.”

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Now, this isn’t intended to single the person out but rather to take the question seriously. It’s one that often plagues the bespoke bike industry and people like Sam at Stayer, and something we discussed at length.

“I suppose you either engage with this side of the industry or you don’t. I think it’s important for people to be able to access bikes at all kinds of price points, but it’s obviously never going to be as accessible for people to buy something from a custom builder than it is from someone that’s doing production.”

Adding my own perspective, I said, “Yeah, and on some level, I think if I have to explain to someone the difference between writing a letter and using ChatGPT—we’re on two different wavelengths, right?”

“Yeah,” Sam continued, “I think there’s a lot of value in showing someone that things can be made. And that’s what we’re really excited about here with the courses. Showing people they can really make something on their own is a pretty incredible experience.”

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The frame-building courses at Stayer are a new addition, but they’re something that Sam and his partner Judith are really excited about. “The reality is, that person probably isn’t ever going to throw that away, right? I mean, they might move house or sell some old bikes they don’t use anymore, but they’re probably not going to sell something they made themselves… Witnessing the awe happening in someone’s eyes as they realize they’re capable of making something—I’m gushing about it, but I really do mean it—it’s incredible.”

When I asked Sam about the less-than-stellar sales of the courses, I offered some idea of an explanation. “Well, you said it’s about as expensive as a decent custom frame. Maybe people just figure they want a high-quality frame without the faff. I mean, what quality of bike are people generally coming away with?”

Sam was honest, “It’s not of the quality that you might get on the market and is certainly different than what we make here. There is a massive learning curve in the skills of making a frame. So, maybe you’re right! But that’s not really the idea. We believe the value of the course is in showing people they’re capable of doing something that has a lot of mystique around it. Is it going to be the same as someone who has years of experience brazing? No. But that’s never going to be the focus.”

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Sam’s piercing blue eyes lit up. I could tell it was something he felt passionate about. And in that moment, something clicked. When I speak to people in the industry, it does tend to feel like I’m being sold something. A concept, an idea, a story. “This is why you should support us. This is why we’re different. This is why we’re special.” It’s a story that can feel stale or contrived after the umpteenth instance of a similar origin story. As Sam and I said about four or five times throughout our conversation, “It’s just two wheels and a frame. We’re not reinventing the wheel.”

I try to peel back the onion as best I can. But with Sam and Stayer, I don’t think there was much selling going on. Aside from the fact that he’d told me they’re moving away from one of their more lucrative ventures in carbon wheels simply because it didn’t agree with their environmentally focused, generally sustainable approach, Stayer wasn’t a sales pitch. It was the belief that the act of making things mattered more than the products themselves.

Walking away from Stayer that day, I felt I finally had the uncomplicated, clear-cut answer to why domestic manufacturing mattered. I’ve often grappled with the idea because a “Made in the USA/UK/etc” sticker felt like it came with an uncomfortable connotation. After all, plenty of people are more than happy to buy based on arbitrary, antiquated country lines that date back to less than savory rationales. But, for those like Sam at Stayer, that sense of pride isn’t’t based on nationalistic ideals. It’s based on a sense of personal pride. One that values the concept of what it is to make something yourself. To have stayed the course, no matter what.

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