There’s something undeniably magnetic about a man straddling a bicycle that looks like it was built in a steampunk fever dream. Dan Bolwell, Australia’s self-proclaimed ‘Penny Farthing Dan,’ isn’t just making bikes—he’s curating experiences. When he talks about his customers, I can’t help but think about the human need to find joy in the absurd. A reclusive man in Sydney who found connection through his daily ride? That’s not just a story about a bicycle; it’s a testament to how oddities can become lifelines. I mean, who else would spend their mornings becoming a human curiosity just to feel socially engaged? It’s a reminder that in a world of screens and algorithms, sometimes the most authentic interactions happen when you’re literally two feet off the ground.
Bolwell’s workshop in Bacchus Marsh isn’t just a place where metal meets wood—it’s a portal to a bygone era. He’s crafted over 400 custom penny-farthings, shipping them to places like Nepal and Israel. But here’s what fascinates me: the way he describes his clientele. ‘They’re not normal people,’ he jokes. And yet, isn’t that the truth? The people drawn to his work are the kind who’d rather spend weekends assembling a 19th-century bicycle than binge-watch a show. What does that say about our modern obsession with nostalgia? It’s not just about the bike; it’s about the rebellion against the sterile efficiency of today’s technology. When you ride a penny-farthing, you’re not just moving—you’re defying gravity, time, and the expectations of a world that’s always in a rush.
Let’s talk about the physics for a second. Bolwell mentions how these bikes can reach speeds of 60 km/h on a sprint. That’s not just impressive—it’s a lesson in mechanical simplicity. Unlike today’s bikes, which are loaded with electronics and sensors, a penny-farthing is pure engineering. It’s like riding a clockwork beast that relies on your body’s rhythm. And yet, the irony is that this ‘simple’ machine requires a level of skill and balance that most people haven’t practiced in decades. I find it fascinating that in an age of automation, we’re still captivated by machines that demand human input. It’s almost like a paradox: the more advanced our tools, the more we long for the tactile, the physical, the messy.
Then there’s the story of Big Bertha, the world’s largest rideable penny-farthing. Bolwell had to add steps and stilts to make it functional. That’s not just a feat of engineering—it’s a metaphor for how we push boundaries, even when the tools we use were never designed for such extremes. It makes me wonder: what other ‘impossible’ things are we about to achieve by reimagining old technologies? Could we be on the cusp of a new wave of analog innovation? I’d argue that the resurgence of penny-farthings isn’t just about nostalgia—it’s about rediscovering the thrill of creation in a world that’s increasingly dominated by mass production.
And let’s not forget the social aspect. Bolwell says people often look down when they first ride a penny-farthing, which he corrects by telling them to ‘look up.’ That’s not just advice for safe riding—it’s a commentary on perspective. In a culture that’s constantly looking down at phones, the penny-farthing forces you to see the world differently. It’s a literal and metaphorical reminder to elevate your gaze. What if the real revolution isn’t in the technology itself, but in how it changes the way we interact with our environment? I’d bet my last coin that the next big trend isn’t going to be another app—it’s going to be something that makes us slow down, look around, and remember what it feels like to be alive.
