Davide la Locomotive

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A vintage French bike. A cursed seatpost. A spiral into rage, diamonds, and structurally dubious 3D printing.
This is how it began—with elegance, chaos, and a baguette-scented engineering nightmare.

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I’ve never had a seatpost fail on me before…
Well, apart from that one time I over-torqued a £300 seatpost and obliterated it.

But I thought we agreed never to speak of that again. Jeez.

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I never used to name my bikes, but I’ve decided to start.

In September last year, I bought a 2006 Look 595. I built it up, rode it for months, and then — of course — I started having issues.

This is the story of my odyssey through weird French design philosophies and infuriating proprietary seatposts.

I’ve named this bike Madame Maudite (“Cursed Lady”) — because she’s chic, agile, and temperamental in equal measure.

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French Design 101

The French have designed some incredible stuff. Citroën invented hydropneumatic suspension — self-levelling, magic-carpet smooth, and able to drive with only three wheels.
Why would you need that? Nobody knows. I don’t think they even knew.

But they’ve also designed some utter nonsense. Like a floor-mounted rubber brake pedal where you had to stomp on a mushroom-shaped squishy button to stop. Why? Because they could.

Look pioneered ski-binding-style clipless pedals. Then they moved into frame design. And wow, did they go all in.

If I had to summarise French design in one phrase:
Stylish, inventive, and often impressive-looking — but with questionable practical applications.

The mid-noughties were a wild west of carbon fibre experiments. Bike companies were throwing ideas at the wall (and sometimes their customers) to see what stuck.

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Enter the E-Post

Madame Maudite doesn’t have a regular seatpost. Oh no — that would be far too basic.

The frame is the seatpost. It’s called a seatpost mast. A short insert slides into the top, held in place with expanding elastomer wedges. It even flexes slightly — by up to 2.5mm — for “comfort.” It’s called an e-post.

Visually, it’s stunning. Seamless. Clean. There’s no visible clamp, no obvious boundary between post and frame. It looks like the whole thing was sculpted from a single monolithic piece of carbon.

Of course, this beautiful nonsense comes with drawbacks:

• You have to cut the seatpost mast to size.
• Adjustment range? Virtually none.
• Replacement parts? Proprietary.
• Selling it? You’ll need to find someone your exact size and level of French-flavoured optimism.
• Comfort? I ride a carbon fibre saddle. Pain is part of the experience. If I wanted comfort, I’d buy a Lexus.

Why did they do this?
Honestly? Because it looks cool.
And, 20 years later… yeah. It still does.

(As part of my research, I managed to uncover some “definitely real and absolutely not made-up” internal documentation from the mysterious French bike brand responsible for this design…)

Q: What if I cut my seatpost too short?
A: We’re happy to offer a part-exchange on your frame. You’ll receive full market value.
(Which is: zero.)

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The Dying Swan Seatpost

One day, I noticed my saddle slowly sliding backward — like cycling on a chaise longue.
The seatpost had started reclining, swan-like.

Inside, I discovered the topper’s carbon inner sleeve — just 1.5mm thick — had come unglued.
I re-epoxied it, set out for a ride… and made it one metre before it folded itself in half like a convertible roof.

A £300 replacement?
Absolutely not.

I wasn’t going to take this leaning backwards.

I had a 3D printer.
Some basic CAD skills.
And a truly worrying disregard for structural safety.

Q: Will you continue to support these proprietary components?
A: Of course, we will support it indefinitely. Until we change our minds.

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The Curse Takes Shape

The design was ridiculous:
Plastic wedges, elastomer spacers, a bolt torqued to 5Nm. A weird, rotationally symmetrical, rounded diamond shape — not aerodynamic, not conventional.

I began rapid prototyping:

• V1: Too big.
• V2: Tapered, still no.
• V3: It fit! But too rounded.
• V4: Sharper corners, too large again.
• V5: Perfect. The cursed diamond was mine.

Now I could begin designing replacement parts.

Q: Why are the tubes symmetrical instead of aero?
A: We wanted a bike that’s equally aerodynamic going forwards as backwards.
Also, it means every part can be installed wrong — which would destroy your frame. So don’t do that.

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Desperaflex™

A plastic spacer was broken. I re-modelled it perfectly.
Even better — I had red TPU filament. I could make my own elastomers too.

I named them Desperaflex™:
The flexibility of original parts, the desperation of aftermarket survival.

Now, onto the big one: the splint insert. It needed to:

• Support the broken area from inside
• Fit snugly into the carbon shell
• Accommodate the centre bolt
• Not explode

I iterated on it:

• V6–V7: Longer insert, refined taper. It worked.
• V8: Failed. I made the bolt hole straight — but it needed a 3° angle. Thanks, France.
• V9: Angled hole. Slotted for wiggle room. It fit. Test time.

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Ride Report

It sagged slightly. Then cracked.

Good news? Tight fit.
Bad news? Still broke.

“Everyone has a plan until they get punched in the mouth.”
— Mike Tyson

And mine just got uppercutted by a cursed carbon trapezoid.

At this point, I wasn’t sure if this was going to work.
I wasn’t sure it could work.

Structural optimism met structural reality. Reality won.

structural optimism (n.)
/ˈstrʌk.tʃər.əl ˈɒp.tɪ.mɪ.zəm/

Definition: The misguided belief that something held together by hope, friction, and questionable print settings will work perfectly fine.

Example:
“I was full of structural optimism until I heard a terrifying cracking noise and my seatpost began wobbling like a bendy straw.”

Latin motto: Spes tenax structurae — “Hope holds the structure”

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DÉGAGE™

The frame has acronyms all over it: HSCb, VHM, Compressa Carbon. None of which I understand.

So I made up one of my own:

DÉGAGE™
Deviously Éngineered to Gouge And Gatekeep Everyone
For cyclists who enjoy pain — financially and emotionally.

You wanted a bike.
We gave you a system.
And then we sold you the tools to fix it.
For a price.

But sometimes, with just enough rage and a 3D printer…
You can break the system instead.

Q: Why not just use a normal seatpost?
A: Because we wanted to reinvent the experience of rage-gluing your bike back together.

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Proprietary Euthanasia

If you’ve ever browsed eBay, you’ve seen them — beautiful carbon frames for suspiciously low prices.

The listing says: “Just needs a seatpost.”

It doesn’t.
It needs a unicorn-shaped, one-season-only, diamond-sleeved magic rod made in 2006 and lost to time.

Bikes like this are everywhere. Frames that are perfectly rideable — if only you had that one part.

Instead, they rot. Abandoned. Forgotten. Not broken — just unsupported.

But they don’t have to stay that way.

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A Love Letter in Carbon

Madame Maudite makes no sense.
She’s like a French arthouse film — full of ambiguous geometry and long, brooding silences as you wonder what’s about to snap.

She’s infuriating. She’s temperamental.

And yet, I love her.
I’m not giving up on her.

Je tiens bon.
I hold fast.
To my seatpost.
To my optimism.
To my cursed carbon companion.

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In solidarity with Madame Maudite, I think it’s time to leave you standing — and break this post in half.
Not out of necessity, but for dramatic effect.

To be continued in Part 2
(Spoilers: There will be rage. A dumbass. And a confession.)

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