A 1939 Schwinn Paramount road frame freshly stripped and relieved of a seventy-year shroud; without its skin, each mark revealed tells a story. At the Wastyn shop in prewar Chicago: too much brass and a coarse file in loose hands points to a Friday afternoon without the watchful eye of Emil. On a spring day in Cleveland: a front wheel slips during a path race leaving a torn jersey and a dimpled seat stay. A garage in Cincinnati: a dad looks up while misplacing his strength on his son’s kickstand bolt, “This is a Schwinn Paramount son. It was the best.”
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