Passing the Torch: A Visit with Rodriguez Bikes

“That was a Rod,” he said as we flew down the bike lane.

I’d arrived the night before, and despite the stereotypically dour, gloomy Seattle morning, the sun had come out. Alder Threlkeld of Rodriguez Bikes gave me a run of his little sect of the city—the carrot on the stick being a highly recommended coffee shop in the heart of Fremont.

“They came by the other day. I think we refurbished that one recently.”

The amorphous albeit consistent outline of the “trillium” logo, Rodriguez’s main emblem, shifted into focus the more we rode along the path. I hadn’t paid much attention, but as we moved through Seattle’s surprisingly competent bike infrastructure, the logo became more and more abundant. It’s like he had a second sense for spotting them—some accompanied by a wave, most a longing, observing gaze. Among a sea of distractions, the Rods of Seattle cut through the morning mist.

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“Up here on the right. We can just leave the bikes outside.”

We sat down at Millstead Coffee, beneath what can only be described as a titanic bridge for an impromptu interview.

“So, how did you get involved at Rod? Is there a link between what you do there and Road Holes? What the heck is Road Holes, anyway?” I asked.

I had so many questions. Having struck up an all-too-modern internet friendship over the last two or three years, I met Alder for the first time at MADE 2024. Despite his jovial, fresh-faced, and accessible demeanor, the links between his various occupational personas weren’t immediately obvious.

“Road Holes is just a brand/cyclocross team my friends and I started back when we worked at Performance Bikes. We spent, like, every day with one another and just did dumb shit. It was just for fun, and then it grew over time.”

For context, Performance Bicycles was one of the largest retail-focused bike shops in the country. A victim of its size and hedge-fund-led liquidation, it closed its storefronts in the spring of 2019.

“It was good that it ended when it did. We all moved on to bigger and better things.”

While bigger is a relative term, it’s clear Alder’s path in bikes was certainly upward.

“I just needed something after Performance. I was a service manager there at just 20 so, I had plenty of experience. Then a spot at Rodriguez opened up and, now, five years later, I’m transitioning into ownership along with Max Hitch.”

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Size and reach aside, Performance couldn’t have existed in greater contrast to what I’d see at Alder’s shop later that day. A relic of the past as much as I hope is a telltale sign of a more sustainable future, Rodriguez Bicycles is a local Seattle manufacturer and bike shop of just over 50 years. They don’t sell Trek, Specialized, or any other large-scale, overseas producer. Instead, they make and sell all of their own bikes at a small, three-story shop in Seattle’s University District.

“I didn’t wanna just be a shop rat well into my 30s, so I stuck it out and decided to commit.”

Eventually, we made our way to the storefront. A small, unassuming wooden doorway led to a train-car-style shop. Through a mix of buildings that seemed to have joined, unjoined, and re-joined a variety of times over their history are the cavernous rooms of Rodriguez Bikes. It was distinctly different than most other bike shops I’d been to. Not because of the layout or nature of the components for sale, but because of the signs of use. Just as I started to dig into the crevasses of tubes and miscellaneous boxes, Max Hitch, former shop mechanic and current transitioning owner beside Alder, sauntered in from the basement, proudly displaying his new trinket.

“Check out what I made my girlfriend’s dad. He’s a big KC fan,” Max said.

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Among a mountain of brass shavings, Max held up a custom Kansas City Chiefs head badge. As he dove into the details of his manufacturing journey, my eyes wandered. Bolts, cut brackets, and steel and aluminum parts of all shapes and sizes littered the increasingly limited workbench spaces that lined an open floor plan. I’d been in plenty of bike shops, but few contained as many seemingly miscellaneous machines as this one. Evidently and perhaps all too unplanned purchases and inventory shifts told the story of what I’d seen online. A bike shop with manufacturing and machining capabilities—a veritable unicorn in the modern age of mass, carbon fiber bicycle production.

“So, you made that?!” I asked, excitedly snatching it from his hands.

“Wait until you see downstairs,” Alder chimed in.

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Looking up at the small fleet of bespoke frames and customer requests, I thought back to a million different conversations with friends. Dreams of custom geometry wonder machines aside, the number of times I’d lamented the state of modern bike shops due to a lack of seemingly rudimentary ability to alter or fix something stretched into the hundreds. A recent example came during Mega Mid South, where a newfound friend inexplicably piloted a neutron star of Trek 970 through the hills of Oklahoma. Despite his less-than-ideal experiences, Dawson wanted to continue to make it work. While a new fork had afforded him the luxury of a disc brake up front, the rear was still a cantilevered 26er without much in the way of changing that. As we gazed at his lugged, basketed wonder, I gave him my two cents as to what could theoretically be done, ultimately concluding that he’d need a welder and someone with the willingness and ability to alter his old, steel frame. As I descended the creaky staircase to the Rodriguez basement, that was exactly what I’d found.

Between lathes, mills, and all kinds of brutal industrial mechanisms lie the heart and soul of what made this storied bike shop tick. Rounding the corner, we found Todd Bertram, a welder who enjoyed three separate stints at the shop, totaling an aggregated 22 years of service. As he silvered some dropouts for an upcoming build, we briefly discussed his time at the shop.

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“As long as I get my work done, it doesn’t really matter when I come in. It works well for me now that I have kids,” Todd said.

He was quiet, and I got the sense that he felt right at home in the creaking, well-worn corners of the machine shop.

“I never left because of bad blood or anything like that, just wanted something new. Something different. But I’ve always ended up back here because I really like it.”

Not wanting to interrupt his workday, I headed back upstairs where we spent the next few hours discussing logistics. How does something like this operate? Rodriguez had been in business for 51 years as of 2024. How were they making it work in the roller coaster that is the bike industry?

“Our bread and butter is sales. We don’t overstock groupsets or a lot of componentry. We try to make one bike at a time so we can ensure every part of it is done correctly and to the needs of the person who will be riding it. We think if you serve a community really well, they’ll appreciate that and stick with you,” Max said.

By all accounts, that was exactly the case. As the hours passed, I was shocked by both the number and variety of Rodriguez bikes that came by. Be it a simple fix or grand undertaking, Seattleites brought their well-used bikes in with the ease and comfort of a visit to a friend’s garage. From racers to commuters, all manner of Rodriguez frames came through as the hours drew on. The most surprising bit was that 99 percent of the bikes that rolled through the door were manufactured in that very building. As someone who has spent a bit of time in bike shops big and small, I’ve gotten used to the run-of-the-mill bikes that wander in for service. Given the sheer number of people who decided to drop by that day, it was astounding that they were all of the same make.

Among that fateful fleet was Tom Freisem, fresh off a tour of France with his wife. As Alder attempted to remedy a busted spring inside the shifter body of his old Campagnolo groupset, we got to chatting.

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“Yeah, probably tens of thousands of miles on that thing by now. A number of countries too,” Tom said.

He was soft-spoken and probably not expecting to be interrogated by an over-caffeinated Floridian during his seamless drop-off at Rodriguez, but I pressed on.

“If you must know, I made that poster up there in the corner,” he added.

In the dusty recesses of the storefront hung an old poster that just barely read, “FOUR AMERICANS CROSS THE SOVIET UNION.”

Dan Towle, the current owner from whom Alder and Max are taking over, chimed in, “Yeah, I think it was Gorbechov who was trying to bridge the cultural gap between Americans and Russians at the time. They sponsored some trip across the country, and some of the folks here did it. I was working here as a mechanic at the time. Must’ve been around the time the wall fell,” he said, trailing off.

As they discussed the glory days of prior trips and former employees, I couldn’t help but sit back in awe. Amid the normalized, near-constant consumption of our current day, it felt like a rarity to see someone on the same bike for more than a few years. Yet, this local had not only ridden his cantilevered 26er for more than a decade or two but continued to patronize the shop that made it for almost three decades. He’d participated as a functional member of its community and been woven deep into the fabric of its history. And he just casually strolled in on a Wednesday afternoon to get his shifter fixed. It all felt so part and parcel.

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During a lunch break, Alder and I pedaled down to a local food truck and discussed his goals for the business over tortas.

“You see a lot of builders closing up shop or winding down. It’s scary. It’s sad. But we think we know how to keep the ship afloat. Our goal isn’t to expand the company in a distinctly different direction, but we do want to step into the space others have left behind. We want to be the builder people go to for their best and wildest ideas. We can do it. We know how.”

“Isn’t that already what you’re known for?” I retorted, mouth half-full of torta.

“To some degree, yes. But, we’re mostly known for tandems. We love building tandems for people. And S&S couplers. We do the most S&S-coupled bikes out of anyone in the world. But, like I said, I want to step more directly into the space of fulfilling people’s wants and needs, as well as the stuff we’ve built our reputation on.”

I nearly choked on my food to interject because I’d already seen the stable of ‘road holes’ with custom frames of all shapes and sizes. Alder fulfilled requests for friends who wanted something different. Something eclectic. Something weird, sure, but also things scratching the itch the broad broomstick that is the bike industry couldn’t quite reach. We entered into a sort of philosophical debate sparked by a passing question while gazing at a recently refurbished Rodriguez of his own creation.

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“Do you ever lust after bikes other people make? Do you ever want to buy other bikes?” I asked.

“Not really. Why would I? I could just make it or make what I like from it for myself,” he replied.

“Really? Never? What about…” and so it went. I listed off a series of bikes and features I’d gathered or thought about from time to time. Alder denied every one, pointing out the flaw or tradeoff in each idea.

“I think a lot of people got obsessed with this idea that one bike should do everything. And I disagree with that. Sure, there are bikes out there that can do a lot. But you have to make compromises to do that. There are things you have to sacrifice. We like to make whatever people want, but really, I like to make bikes that serve a certain idea really well,” he elaborated.

“So, if someone asks for an all-rounder, do-it-all gravel machine, you’d steer them away from that desire?”

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“No, not necessarily. But I’d find out what they really want out of it. And if the shoe fits, so be it. We’ll make whatever people ask us to, within reason, but I think the bike space has moved toward a jack of all trades, master of none model that doesn’t serve everyone well. I want to make beautiful bikes that perform certain functions really well.”

Pedaling back to the shop with some remnants from lunch in tow, what greeted our return was all the more comforting. A workshop space quietly bustling with the sounds of familiar voices and conversational comfort. A neighbor dropped in to install fenders—a material concession to the long, dour Seattle winter ahead. A part-time mechanic eased into his afternoon shift and put on what was, respectfully, one of the worst SoundCloud playlists I’d ever heard. Among the laughs, revisited conversations, and clicks, clacks, and snaps of the bikes in their stands, the experience felt as lived in as the wooden floors of the room enclosing space. There was no pretension, intimidation, or elitism about the shop or those who inhabited it. It was simply a place for bikes and those who pedal them.

Eventually, the day drew to a close, but the fun didn’t. We prepared for a group ride Road Holes was hosting out of Rodriguez, the kickoff of a race series called “Portals,” set to highlight the narrow, snake-like portals of singletrack that connect Seattle’s various boroughs. As riders lined up just outside the shop, so did familiar logos and faces. Surlys and Rodeo Labs and Otsos, sure, but that distinctive trillium, too. Darting through the dark streets of a longitudinal city that just seemed to go on forever, the flowery logo came in and out of focus. Custom rigs, friend bikes, odd requests, and popular offerings all the same. The fleet of Rodriguez-made bikes filled in the scene I’d passively experienced in my short time here. These weren’t just bespoke frames and particular builds—these were the living, breathing incarnations of a community ambulated by two wheels. Bonded and forged by bad ideas and lived-in concepts, these connections ran deep, and they meant a lot more than just sales numbers or yearly quotas.

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Often, the experience of modern bike shops feels extractive. Though many shops do well to prop up the best bits of an activity that contains such a wide array of experiences, my anecdotal observations have made me cynical about what a bike shop can really be. Rumors of algorithms detailing, down to the cent, just how much a person who walks into any bike shop can be taken for ruin what can otherwise exist as that most sacred place in a land with an ever-decreasing number of public spaces. Third spaces, as they’re so often referred to, are rare and ever-changing. Like disappearing islands in a sea with no constant tide, they rise from the inscrutable waters of our confusing today as brief respites from a world that appears ready to nickel and dime you at every cable stop.

Rodriguez Bikes, for all its history, heritage, and tradition, has carried the torch of what it is to exist in opposition to that monetarily attractive end. In Alder and Max, it remains in good hands.

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