RA isn’t just another boutique brand welding round tubes into a frame. It’s the product of years spent chasing a feeling — one I couldn’t buy, so I built it instead.

I started in 2017 with a few hand tools, a corner of a freezing shed, and zero budget. No investors, no shortcuts. Just an idea I couldn’t shake and a stubborn refusal to settle for “good enough.” I didn’t come into this from design school or marketing — I came in through riding. A lot of riding. I’ve raced, crashed, pushed past the edge, and kept going. I know how a bike should feel — and more importantly, how it shouldn’t.

​

So I taught myself everything. Machining, welding, CNC programming, fixturing, stress analysis, geometry theory. Not from books — from trying, breaking, and trying again. I didn’t want to rely on catalog parts or pre-made “framebuilder kits.” If something didn’t exist, I designed and built it. If it broke, I figured out why and made it better. These bikes have been tested, broken, rebuilt — over and over — until they didn’t.

​

"There are no Chinese whispers here. No rider feedback to designer to engineer to production manager to factory to accountant. It’s just me."

​

I’ve done 36-hour shifts in the workshop, wired on stubbornness and tea. I’ve had months where I couldn’t afford a new gas bottle for the welder, so I machined small parts until I could. I’ve chased tolerances in the thousandths, fought with warped tubes at 2AM, and questioned the whole thing more times than I’d admit out loud. When the prototype cracked. When the mill kicked and snapped an Endmill I couldn’t afford to replace. When people told me — kindly or not — that it would never be more than a hobby.

​

But that feeling — that moment when it all works — it never let go.

​

These tubes carry stories long before they ever became part of a bike. Profiles developed decades ago — for aircraft wings, race car chassis, suspension arms — because they worked.

 

Some of those shapes were born in the arms race of early 20th century warfare, others in motorsport’s golden age. The top tube on the Bergsra? Originally developed for the Maserati 250F. Proven profiles from places where failure wasn’t an option — a profile refined for strength, lightness, and feel long before carbon and computer models took over.

Still drawn today, still formed by a small handful of UK craftsmen using original tooling over a century old — the same tooling used for aircraft and racing icons that came long before bikes like this were even imagined.

​

But this isn’t nostalgia. This isn’t retro. This isn’t steel for the sake of being different.

This is steel chosen, shaped, and tuned with intent — to flex where it should, to hold its line when things get rough, and to feel calm when everything else is moving.

Stiff where it needs to be. Compliant where it matters. Balanced. Planted. Alive.

​

It’s steel, yes. But it’s the kind of steel that carries stories in every profile, every bend, every detail — and it's been pushed a lot further than most builders are willing to go. Not to prove a point. Not to follow fashion. But because I need to know.

Because I want to ride it harder, push it further, and still trust it to bring me home.

​

"This isn’t built for #steelisreal. It’s built for the ride."

​

And I didn’t get here alone.

My family have backed me from the very beginning — not just in words, but with real belief, real support, and everything they could give. They never asked “why,” only “how can we help?” And I’ve leaned on that more times than I can count.

​

Friends didn’t just cheer from the sidelines — they rode early prototypes down serious trails, gave honest feedback, and took a chance when I had nothing but a raw frame and a promise. Some were the first to buy frames when I needed it most. Others chipped in with parts, tools, or just a hand when something heavy needed lifting or a problem needed solving.

​

People in the industry — builders, riders, engineers and even the biggest corporations — gave me time, advice, encouragement, or opportunities they didn’t have to offer. And the MTB community as a whole… obsessive, passionate, generous to the core — they’ve welcomed me in, challenged me, and kept me going when the self-doubt crept in.

I’ve built these frames, yes — but I’ve also been lifted by good people, every step of the way. And I’ll never forget it.

​

This isn’t a sales pitch. It’s a note from the shed. From the edge of the map.

From someone who couldn’t find what they wanted, so made it themselves.

​

If any of that speaks to you — You’re probably the kind of rider I’m building for.