Latvia might not be the first country you think of when it comes to cycling but during the 1920s and 1930s, the number of bicycles in Riga was increasing faster than its population.

Much of this was down to Gustavs Erenpreiss, whose innovative and durable designs were favoured by everyone from housewives to Latvia’s 1936 Olympic team. In 1937, Erenpreiss shifted his operations to an enormous purpose-built factory, amid forecasts that there would be five times as many bicycles in Riga by 1990.



However, this all-too-brief golden era came to an end in 1942, when the Erenpreiss factory was taken over by the Soviets, who eventually used it to produce mopeds. Erenpreiss himself left for Germany in 1944, and died in exile 12 years later, having never returned to his homeland.



Gustavs Erenpreiss in exile in 1955. Photograph: Erenpreiss

The Soviets finally left in the early 90s but when I visited Riga recently, I was surprised to find that, some 20 years on, many Latvians are still coming to terms with their freedom; attempting to recall and revive a national identity that was long suppressed, and finally facing up to decades of suffering and humiliation.



The guides at the notorious KGB building, opened to the public only last year, told me that they are still reconstructing the events that took place there, from the often harrowing testimonies of former prisoners who have screwed up the courage to revisit the site of their incarceration.



And 10 years ago, acting on his lifelong obsession with bicycles, the great-grand-nephew of Gustavs Erenpriess decided to strike his own blow against Latvians’ collective amnesia, by bringing the old brand back to life.



I met Toms Erenpreiss at a party following Riga’s annual Tweed Run.



Toms Erenpreiss, great-grand-nephew of Gustavs Erenpriess. Photograph: Stefan Jacobs/Erenpreiss

Toms is almost entirely self-taught. He restored his first vintage bicycle at the age of 12, and has spent the intervening years poring over books and websites, and picking the brains of Latvia’s few surviving bike builders. After serving his apprenticeship by restoring over 100 bicycles, he designed and produced a new range of Erenpreiss bicycles in 2012, combining his great-grand-uncle’s tried and tested methods with modern innovations such as a Sram 2-speed coaster brake. They sold out within three weeks.

The new bikes are manufactured in Taiwan, with the Riga operations devoted to restoration, so in some ways Erenpreiss HQ is very much as it would have been 60 years ago. Sales manager Ance Pudāne led me into the bowels of the workshop, where racks of ancient dust-covered bicycles hung from the walls, waiting to be dismantled for parts, and neatly labelled shelves and drawers bulged with rusted handlebars, forks, cranksets, hubs, contorted leather saddles, and everything else that might possibly be salvaged from a 70-year-old bicycle that has spent the last few years in someone’s attic or back garden.



Ance, who is also a restorer with a degree in metalwork, explained that some of the parts they receive are so corroded by long neglect that they fall apart when she tries to clean them. Usually the team will wait until a project comes in – often an original Erenpreiss – and then ransack their extensive collection to identify and refurbish the parts that will restore it to its former glory and, most importantly, get it back on the road.

Of course the Erenpreiss team are setting themselves a high bar. Many have remarked that, if Toms has done his job properly, the bikes now flying in from Taiwan will last as long as their 1930s ancestors. Ance led me over to a display of these recent arrivals.



“Do you want to ride one?” she asked. Of course I did.



One of the modern Erenpreiss models, the Paula. Photograph: Erenpreiss

I was given a sleek – and surprisingly light – bicycle with a step-through frame and swept-back bars wrapped in soft brown leather. Since I generally ride a road bike, the first few seconds were alarmingly wobbly, and a few people smirked as I swung my leg over the saddle, rather than demurely stepping through the frame as nature and Erenpreiss intended. But then I was off, flying along smoothly, comfortably and speedily, bumping gently over the cobbles that still line the streets of Riga, marveling at how little, really, the bicycle has changed in all those years – indeed, how little it ever needed to change.



• This article was amended on 7 May 2015. An earlier version referred to the KBG, rather than KGB building.

