Purpose Built: Riley’s Chisel – Pat Valade | The Radavist | A group of individuals who share a love of cycling and the outdoors.

Bike builds often involve some sort of sacrifice, not of the ritual kind but of performance. The local terrain can dictate the build, but often, what works perfectly in one setting is lacking in another. Pat Valade digs into the decisions and the psyche that went into this Specialized Chisel build inspired by the riding in the Sea to Sky country in British Columbia.

It was in the waning days of a Squamish autumn, with the heavy veil of winter about to settle into the valley, that Riley first rolled up to me on his fresh new build. In an era of parallel worlds – one with new bike technology, lauded from peak to peak by marketing teams and influencers, and the other featuring bespoke, lugged, understated, beautiful custom builders – Riley’s aluminum hardtail did not stir up too many emotions for me. However! As we rolled out for a group ride, small details started to pique my interest.

Why this decision, or that? I’m always curious about why certain parts get chosen, and how the smallest personal tweak can change how a bike rides, or deviates from its intended use. When I saw the ride in its final form, evolved from its initial parts-bin build, I was struck by the elegance of building for a purpose, and a specific style of riding. Also, that set of GURP Realtree bags were just begging to be documented.

A true talent on the bike, but also in the written form, I thought it best to let Riley explain the philosophy and layers of inspiration that led to this build:

When putting together a bike, I find it useful to approach the task with a sort of Janus-faced perspective, twin gazes looking towards two poles of reference: the pragmatic and the romantic. These poles are positioned not as a pair of opposites within some binary schema, but rather points of difference upon the continuum of purpose. For my ends, at least, establishing a balance, developing concordance between the two is the most edifying aspect of building a bike, of locating the perfect degree of tension in their midst. If one leans too far towards the romantic, then a beautiful tool is produced, but one that functions best on the showroom floor; contrarily, if one overemphasizes the pragmatic aspects, then a performance machine is all but ensured, yet one that rarely stirs the spirit to song. How delicate the dance!

On earlier experiences, I indulged more the romantic impulse, which led to very visually pleasing bikes that did not always rise to the demands that the terrain on which they were ridden.

This time around, while conceiving the Chisel, I decided to move against my nature, attempting to build an exceedingly practical tool but whose utility did not utterly eclipse the beautiful.

Now, outside of the pragmatic-romantic jig, there exists the very material consideration that is the terrain and topography upon and through which the bike is to be ridden. I am a strong believer in the local bike, of building or designing a rig informed by the sites that one seeks most to ride. This might seem like a bit of an obvious statement, but I think the more time one spends in a given place, the more nuanced and refined their understanding of its terrain and challenges they are afforded.

Thus, one is better equipped to consider what options will be most advantageous for moving through their local surfaces, and which they might forgo. I also think there is value in striving for a continuity between the aesthetics of the bike and the particular tones native to its place, of building a bike whose form mirrors back the world through which it moves.

I live and ride in Squamish, B.C., a town best known to cycling for its world-class mountain bike trail networks, which speckle the valley and offer a veritable constellation of different styles and difficulties. Squamish, which for many decades was a town revolving around the forestry industry, also possesses a seemingly infinite labyrinth of Forest Service Roads which climb steeply up mountain sides, sometimes connecting to other roads, and sometimes (read: often) ending unceremoniously in alder thickets.

The conditions of these roads fluctuate greatly depending on season and industrial use, but they typically climb and fall with equal swiftness, and generally feature no small degree of chunk. Most gravel bikes in town will sport 2” tires, hydraulic brakes, dropper posts, and, increasingly, suspension forks, all towards the purpose of better negotiating the roughness comprising local riding.

For most of my cycling life, I have ridden some variation of a gravel bike – from a 1988 Hard Rock to more recent boutique steel-framed drop bar rigs – long singing the praises of underbiking, while championing the simplicity of rim brakes, rigid forks, and the virtues of steel. But after about a half decade of riding in Squamish, I slowly became MTB-curious, in part based on my own time running on the trails here, imagining how they might open up deeper labyrinths yet, and in part because the vast majority of my pals here ride soft bikes in addition to their gravel bikes.

Because we are so limited by the steepness of the hills to our east and by the Squamish River to our west, the actual amount of gravel riding in town one can do is decidedly limited; eventually, and even though many fine variations exist, the same 45 km, 650 m loop grows flat. After a while and a few broken frames, I decided to abandon my position towards modern mountain bikes and take a crack at putting something together that would be perfectly suited for my local riding, but that I might also mount for any number of the burly, unsanctioned bikepacking races that have become popular amongst a particular subset of PNW sickos.

A hardtail felt like the most natural choice for my purposes: light, simple, able to accommodate a large frame bag, and would limit me from being tempted down the types of trail that eat collarbones for lunch and divvy out concussions for dinner (having rang my bell too many times in my youth, another encounter with a TBI is decidedly low on my priority list). From there, I opted for aluminum, given its lower cost of admission, and decided on a 120 mm fork, in part because it’s what a friend had for sale, and in part because it seemed like a good middle ground that would afford me a bit more comfort on trails while still keeping the headtube steep for climbing. The rest of the build came together quite quickly: 29” wheels with fast-rolling tires, wide-range 1 x 12 gearing, hydraulic brakes, and a dropper post. Originally, it was mostly spec’d with serviceable parts from the bins of pals, but as I wore through perishables and broke others via my inchoate handling skills, I tuned things more towards that ideal of the perfect local rig.

Knowing that I wanted to deploy this rig on tours and races alike, I enlisted my good pal Peter of GURP to design and make custom bags for the bike. I have been outfitted by GURP in the past, and know his work to be of truly the utmost quality and standards. Having an affinity for camo as it helps merge the bike better with its environment, we sourced a beautiful Realtree Cordura fabric and got to work. A full framebag with features galore, twin stembags, an XL top tube bag, and rear top tube bag comprise the setup. As with other bags made by GURP I’ve had, they braid perfectly pragmatic and romantic considerations. More so than the bike itself, they elicit the most commentary from fellow cyclists and interested pedestrians. Just last week, while waiting for a ferry on the Sunshine Coast, a boat dropped off a throng of workers after a shift on an offshore site. Lunch box in hand and Carhartt head to toe, a portly lad walked up to me and exclaimed “Buddy, I don’t like bikes, but where’d you get them Realtree bags?!” GURP truly transcends those harsh borders delimiting culture and interest.