Iters restores vintage bikes in Bordeaux, part by part, and documents every restoration. Here is why this project exists.
I'm a developer by training. I spend my days in code — and I have always needed to tinker on the side. To handle something that pushes back, that has weight, that no Ctrl+Z will undo.
Iters started with a conversation. A friend was telling me about the bike he wanted to build, part by part. I was looking for something new. The idea of a coffee bike shop followed shortly after, and before thinking about a shop at all, I wanted one simple thing: to build my own bike. Everything else grew from there.
Where does the name come from? When it came time to name the project, every idea we liked was already taken. Iters came from somewhere else: it's an inside joke between founders, the kind that starts in a group of friends and appears in no dictionary. We pronounce it the French way. No Latin etymology, no brand mythology: a private wink, kept as is.
Why old bikes, when buying new is so easy? Everything is designed to push you that way. But there are thousands of bikes already built, waiting to be put back on the road. Steel frames that are thirty years old and have thirty more in them. In a world producing and discarding at this pace, starting from what already exists is the only thing that makes sense to me.
Then there's the less reasonable half: the urge to create. A restored bike isn't just a repaired object — it's one that was chosen, stripped, sanded, rebuilt. Somewhere between mechanics and art.
Why a website, and not just a workshop? I have always wanted to bring people into my projects, to see further than a starting point. A workshop alone is one room and two hands. A website can become a place where a shared passion gathers — a real identity, not just a storefront. That's why Iters isn't only a catalogue: every bike keeps its logbook, and every step stays attached to the bike it belongs to. What was done doesn't vanish into a feed.
The community logbooks are the part I care about most. The idea is simple: everyone publishes their own restorations, step by step, and we learn from each other. Back to something plain — the spirit of the old forums, when you looked for an answer and found someone who had taken the time to document everything.
At a time when AI takes up an enormous place in our lives, mine included, spending an afternoon sanding a frame by hand is not a step backwards. It's a counterweight. The pleasure of making beautiful things by hand doesn't automate.
The goal, eventually, is that coffee bike shop from the very first idea: a place to drink a coffee, see bikes brought back to life, and talk mechanics without an appointment. The website isn't a placeholder until then — it's where the community is built first, and it will still be there once the doors open.
If a bike is asleep in your garage, publish its logbook in the Community, even if the restoration is barely starting. And if you'd rather ride away on one already brought back to life, they're waiting in the catalogue.