Crafting Freedom: The Art of Building My Own Mountain Bike
Don't think, just do: Oliver's Journey into Framebuilding
The bicycle represents itself as an industrial object. It is not the most natural of things; you do not grow a bicycle, you make it. Yet despite its man-made qualities, a bicycle offers access to the most natural of places. This is how I found myself making the ascent to a small village called Bischofsgrün, nestled in the mountains of the Fichtelgebirge. I left the city behind to visit my good friend Ralf for a tour of his framebuilding workshop. Ralf had been trying to convince me to build my own frame, and at this very moment, his persistence had worked.
There I was, operating a machine to cut and mitre my first tube, wearing my cycling kit — not exactly the most appropriate attire for framebuilding, but somehow fitting. This was the Huhn style: either embrace it or leave. The workshop tour stretched far longer than planned, but by the end of the day, I descended back to the city with half a front triangle of tubes cut and the beginnings of my very first handmade bicycle.
Getting started is always the hardest part in life, but Ralf’s “don't think, just do” attitude made the initial steps easier. The real challenge came in maintaining progress. I had to learn a lot of new skills: how to use a file, how to read a mechanical calliper, how to braze a joint. On top of that, there was the specialist framebuilding knowledge: understanding tube types, their thicknesses, and the specific standards required to fit the frame with all its components. It was overwhelming at times, but Ralf’s expertise guided me through. Often, our most productive sessions were late at night, a beer in hand, pushing through exhaustion and finding joy in the craft.
Along the way, I was joined by another novice framebuilder, Pietro — an Italian cameraman. What started as a solo endeavour soon turned into a mini-apprenticeship, where Pietro and I would make regular pilgrimages to Ralf’s workshop. With each visit, we added to our growing knowledge, developing our competence and slowly assembling something that was starting to resemble a hardtail mountain bike.
As the months passed, the project started to take shape, both in a literal and figurative sense. What began as a pile of steel tubes was now transforming into the mountain bike frame I had envisioned. Each late-night session in the workshop, no matter how many mistakes were made, brought a deeper sense of satisfaction. The raw materials were evolving into something that felt truly mine in a way that no store-bought bike ever could.
Before long, the tubes became more than just tubes. They had transformed into a front triangle, a rear triangle, seat stays, and chainstays — all coming together to form a cohesive whole. I had built something. Every curve, every joint, every inch of the frame reminded me of the hours of hard work, the moments of doubt, and the satisfaction of learning by doing.
As the build neared completion, there were still details to attend to: the paint, the components, and the final tuning. But the essence of the project was complete. What had started with Ralf’s simple phrase, “Don’t think, just do,” had become something far more significant. It wasn’t just a bike — it was an experience that taught me to embrace imperfection, to be patient, and to find joy in the process of creation.
The first ride was still to come, but in many ways, the real journey had already begun. It began in the quiet hours of the workshop, with the hum of machines, the clinking of tools, and the laughter shared with friends. And this, I realised, was only the beginning of many more miles ahead.