Pedal to the Mettle: WWII B.S.A. Airborne Paratroopers Bicycle, ca. 1940s

Friends and associates alike have often heard Dorset Finds prattle on about the WWII-era BSA Paratrooper bike, a rare and somewhat mythical piece of militaria that folded, attached to a parachute-equipped commando and jettisoned from carrier planes over occupied European territory. The search for a clean, original example over the past few years has met with several dead ends, but finally, it’s proven fruitful.

Possessing equal parts design ingenuity,  a great story (a lost tale of badass-ery to rival any since) and machismo — servicemen used parabikes to chariot their female acquaintances du jour — this collectible is worthy of significant praise.

B.S.A. (Birmingham Small Arms and Metal Co.) was founded in 1861 as a munitions manufacturer and supplier. Most of the company’s revenue was derived from government contracts, for supplying rifles throughout the Boer War, WWI and WWII. Though orders from the governments of Turkey, Russia, the Netherlands and Portugal followed, B.S.A. diversified into bicycles in 188o — and later, motorcycles — in order to remain competitive.

British and Allied forces adopted the Airborne Paratrooper bike during WWII. Photographic evidence demonstrates their use in large-scale landings, including the D-Day invasion at Normandy in 1944 and the Battle of Arnhem later that year. It was highly advantageous for soldiers to land already carrying their transportation, as they conserved energy by not having to walk the great distances from town to town. Rifles could be stored in the bike frame, with the rider’s supplies stowed on his back. Each bike was fitted with a tool bag and tire pump for repairs on the go.

This example features its original B.S.A. leather saddle, unrestored military green paint, pedal bars, lamp bracket, grips and “war grade” Michelin tires. The frame hinges at two points in the middle where the bike can be collapsed. Large wing nuts make for easy locking and unlocking of the frame. Original decals, including the B.S.A. logo of three crossed rifles, are clear and sharp.

Special thanks to The B.S.A. & Military Bicycle Museum and the Old Bike blog.

A Bank Statement: Book-Shaped Money Bank, ca. 1920s

In the first half of the 20th century it was common for independent banks to encourage the opening of new accounts by giving away promotional book-shaped money banks. The thinking was that inspiring clients, particularly children, to fill these small units would result in similar behavior in terms of depositing one’s savings at the local bank branch.

Constructed of a steel box with a lockable door panel and bound in embossed vinyl to create a book-like cover, this piece would go virtually unnoticed on a bookshelf… in an era when people could manage a whole shelf of books.

Though relatively easy to come by, money-bank books generally have considerable wear to the corners and outer casing. The key is usually missing, making it more of a display piece than anything functional. Remarkably, this example is in exceptional condition, with its key and original packaging intact.

Toledo Uhl Draftsman Stool with Japanned Finish, ca, 1910

It’s always a pleasure to unearth a Uhl Toledo piece, but it’s all the better finding one that’s rare or unusual. Regardless of whatever poor state the item arrives in, its restoration can lead to further discovery. With dozens if not hundreds of variations that existed within the product lines, the desire exists to seek out something that you’ve not had before.

Early Toledo products received a copper oxidization treatment to the steel, known as japanning. This effect of marbling matte black with the sheen of copper was popular during the turn of the twentieth century.

Aside from the japanned steel, there are other characteristics this stool possesses that set it apart from its descendents. Rather than using a sprung lever arm, one adjusts the height by swiveling the seat up and down. The footrest ring is a strap of steel, rather than a thick wire, as it appeared in subsequent designs, and the wood is more substantial due to the lack of a metal support framework.

Turning Cart Wheels: Rolling Tool Cart by Lyon, ca. 1940s

With each passing month, the depth of tools that Dorset Finds accumulates increases. Some are acquired out of necessity, and others because they just look so damn cool: worn-down wooden handles, stained from the hands of previous craftsmen; steel, flattened and grooved, and possessing a patina that comes from decades of age.

If every task has its corresponding perfect tool, then where do these tools go when they’re not being used for their intended task? Our suggestion is that they be placed in a rolling tool cart like the one pictured, a piece manufactured in the 1940s by Lyon Metal Products Inc. The convenience of having a plethora of tools at your fingertips can’t be underestimated.

These heavy-gauge steel carts have rolled themselves into the home environment for some time due to their durability, versatility and functionality. Commonly, this item is repurposed as a media stand, kitchen island or bedside table. A single rolling tool cabinet can bear more than a few hundred pounds, which may be irrelevant to most applications, but having that level of strength is never a drawback. Neither is the ability to padlock the front to keep others out of your drawers.

Turn on a Dime: J. C. Turner Dump Truck, ca. 1930s

An appealing aspect of seeking out unusual items is gaining insight into a previous era through its objects. Consumer demand evolves, as does the ability of manufacturers to cost-effectively produce the lines they build, market and distribute. As a result, we can backtrack to the demise of products that were weeded out due to the natural selection of the marketplace.

At a time when U.S. manufacturing had not yet been siphoned away by the war effort of the 1940s, or outsourced to cheaper overseas production locations, a multitude of companies such as Marx, Keystone, Buddy L, Structo and Wyandotte, to name a few, created large-scale steel toys. Today, if similarly substantial mass-produced toys exist, chances are they’re plastic.

The John C. Turner Co. of Wapakoneta, Ohio, was established in 1915 and specialized in flywheel friction steel toys. The pictured example, a classic dump truck, still retains much of its original paint finish, which covers the automotive-grade steel used to construct this piece. The correct wheels and functioning lift mechanism just add to this 27-inch-long behemoth.

There Is a Light That Never Goes Out: American Fixture Co. Lamp, ca. 1920s

Hunting for and acquiring unusual industrial lighting is the name of the game at Dorset Finds. After unearthing models by several manufacturers, the discovery of a new player in this arena is always thrilling and… illuminating.

The American Fixture Co. of Milwaukee produced a staggering array of arms for its patented lamps, each incrementally longer than the last. The company believed that making innumerable variations of its lighting gave clients the greatest opportunity to create customized fixtures based on their exact requirements.

The pressed-steel arms are joined by what is perhaps this design’s most interesting characteristic: double-jointed knuckles — backed with wing nuts — that allow for maneuvering each segment forward, backward and side to side. This range of movement, along with the primitive materials used, gives this piece a Metropolis-esque quality. The pictured example has four sections and 10 knuckles, affording the lamp enormous flexibility and reach.

I Am the Resurrection: Toledo Draftsman Stool, ca. 1930s

There’s a certain deliberation process that unfolds before undertaking a laborious project that has the potential for minimal payoff. The resurrection of an object due to the mismanagement of others is a commitment financially, physically and, more specifically, psychologically.

This Uhl Toledo Draftsman stool is a rarity, and not just for the clown makeup it was dressed in when acquired. While drafting stools with standard seats can be found without too much sweat, an example with a round seat and backrest is far more scarce.

When confronted with such a butchered piece of iconic 2oth century design — masquerading as some sort of oversize children’s candy — the biggest question that goes through one’s mind  is whether it’s worth the effort in unwrapping its outer layer. Once the restoration commences, there’s no turning back.

After all, is it the clown that we dislike or is it the clown’s brightly colored exterior? Next time you see one, throw some paint stripper on him and perhaps you will be given a pleasant surprise, as I was with this stool.