As with architecture, the first step for Nocella is to suss out his clients' desires. Like many, I wasn't quite sure what these were. But as we talked, it emerged I was looking for something distinct from the procession of overly technical-looking mountain bikes and sturdily sober city commuters that my cycling life had become. Nor was I particularly fond of swoopy carbon-fibre road bikes. Budget was an issue. And then it hit me: what I was looking for – in the bike, if not in life itself – was a return to the graceful, lugged-steel frame simplicity of a Panasonic 10-speed road bike I had owned in the 1980s.
From here, it's a series of questions: modern or vintage frame? New components or hunt for the rather paradoxical "new old stock" – vintage gear in unopened original boxes? Index or friction shifters? Geared, fixed-gear or single-speed? About 70 per cent of Nocella's business, it turns out, is so-called "fixies", bikes without gears (or often brakes), a style increasingly à la mode in relatively flat New York. "They're cheaper, they're lighter, there's less maintenance," says Nocella. "I have people coming to me and saying, I have all these gears and I don't even shift anymore." Yet with decades of gear-shifting built into my muscle memory, I wasn't quite ready to quit.
The frame hunt was on. One of the virtues of well-built steel frames is that they're virtually indestructible. Which means eBay and garage sales are awash in decades' worth of good frames, often at a fraction of their original cost. After losing at the last minute on a beautiful red Masi frame, Nocella pointed me to a dark grey "Designer '84" frame by another Italian company, Ciöcc, founded by the legendary Giovanni Pelizzoli. It had signs of use but looked dark, strong and sculptural. I won it for the eminently reasonable price of $300.
I faced another choice: repaint or leave as is? This is debated in internet forums with theological zeal. I went for patina, which lowered costs and gave me a bike that was largely new, but looked as if I could have had it forever. Then, days of agonising over parts, from bottom brackets to bottle cages. Next came the wheel build. This is where art and engineering come together, as Nocella and I lace the spokes in a "three-cross" configuration. "The simplest spoking pattern you can do is radial, like a wagon wheel," Nocella tells me. "But you can only do that on the front wheel." The back wheel not only bears more weight, but gets torque pressure from the chain – here Nocella, waving Gerd Schraner's tome The Art of Wheelbuilding, launches into a physics seminar. Like a bridge, the suspension needs to be perfectly tuned: if one spoke is off, it will subtly degrade its neighbours, working itself into a wobble.
A few days later, the bike comes together before my eyes. It hasn't been without its hiccups – the Campagnola chain required its own special (and expensive) tool, slightly but crucially different from the other (expensive) Campagnola chain tool Nocella already owned. Remarkably, however, the new gear, despite various changes in technology, fits perfectly on this more than 30-year-old frame (that little tab to hold the rear derailleur is still exactly where it needs to be), which speaks to the enduring sort of perfection of bicycle design itself.
"I'm an architect, and that job could go away tomorrow, they could outsource it to India," he says. "There's nothing I do at that place that's unique. What I do here, you can't replicate it – no one else has these bikes, nor will they ever." Feeling a bit flush with the aura of this work of art in the age of mechanical reproduction, I hop on the bike, something greater than the sum of its parts, and ride home.
This article originally appeared in Financial Times. Click here to read more coverage from the Weekend FT.