The Forgotten Father of the 24-Speed Bicycle

Most people can’t name the person who invented the 24-speed bicycle. That’s because history doesn’t officially credit a single person, but my great-grandfather – George “Plonky” Parkinson from Blackpool in the North East of England – built one with his bare hands.

Plonky, as everyone affectionately called him, was a skilled bicycle mechanic. He serviced the Blackpool bobbies’ (police officers in England) bikes before World War Two, and at 75, welded together the frame of a prototype 24-speed bicycle in a tiny shop in South Bank, Middlesbrough. According to a local Evening Gazette clipping titled “Gearing Up for a New Bike” by Jane Jackman, he made it using only British-made parts and hoped to partner with Raleigh – a British bicycle manufacturer. It was a time when 10-speed bikes were common and 18-speeds were just emerging on the market. A 24-speed? That was visionary. That was Plonky. He believed his bike would be “the bike to beat all bikes.” 

Today, Raleigh is part of the Accell Group – a European conglomerate – but it remains headquartered in Nottingham, where it was founded in 1887. On its official website, Raleigh proudly calls itself “a well-loved part of British history.” Yet, in the historical section, there’s no mention of lesser-known innovators like Plonky – those who quietly worked behind the scenes to push the industry forward.

I never got to see this bike, but on a visit to Canada, Plonky gave me my first British pound, and with it, something more. He handed me a story. A story of England – a country far from my own – and how his bicycle invention helped change the world.

This sparked my love for bicycles as well as writing articles, sharing stories of others, and being inspired by them. Plonky was proud of his country, and even in his later years believed wholeheartedly that he could accomplish anything. He wasn’t a dreamer; he was a doer. He invented a bike that, as he said in the Gazette, “It’ll climb any mountain in the world, and I hope it’ll help put some life back into the British bicycle industry.” 

That quote is how I live my life. I will climb any mountain, constantly pushing myself: pitching, writing, putting my voice out there, hoping that with my own sense of national pride for my new country, I’ll find success too. Maybe I won’t be a household name, but if I can make even a quiet mark, like a whisper carried down through the years, then I’ve honored Plonky’s legacy and begun building my own.

That legacy followed me across borders. When I moved from Montreal, Canada to Venice, California, I had to leave my Raleigh behind — shipping was just too expensive – but I never let go of my obsession with bikes. I collect them. I ride daily. Every time I shift gears, or taxi down a runway (after all, flying is like biking), I think of my great-grandfather. He gave me an appreciation for the precision and trust it takes to control a machine in motion.

Mr. Parkinson was the man who helped change biking forever, though his name never made it beyond the local paper. Still, his legacy lives on. Not just in the stories we tell or in this article, but in our family — a family of cyclists who still builds bikes with their own hands.

Just recently, a family member traveled to Greece and, inspired by that same spirit, built his own bike from scratch. It wasn’t out of necessity; it was out of love. That drive to create, to tinker, to push what’s possible – it runs in our blood.

A search at my local library and online the invention of the multi-speed bike is murky. Bicycle historians like Frank Berto (author of The Dancing Chain) documented the evolution of derailleurs, and while there are countless patents and prototype mentions, there’s no singular credit for the 24-speed. What if the man responsible was Plonky quietly working in a shop in Middlesbrough, and just didn’t have the funds or platform to register a patent?

Plonky’s story isn’t just about gears. It’s about innovation lost to time and class. About working-class brilliance that didn’t make it into corporate archives. It’s about a man who didn’t need fanfare, he needed someone to believe him. I do.

I’m digging deeper into the archives, speaking with bike historians, and comparing technical specs to his build. I found a copy of Bicycle: The History by David Herlihy, which lays out a clear timeline of cycling innovation. I’ve also explored the Retro Raleigh site – a curated digital archive of Raleigh’s most iconic bikes. Like much of my research, the story remains unclear and elusive, with many others searching for the same answers. 

I’ve yet to book a trip to The Bicycle Museum of America, or connect with Raleigh’s heritage department, but I’m hopeful they can verify just how early, and how unique his design truly was. 

Even without official credit, I know the truth in my bones because I knew the man. I knew that trust and the innovative spark in his eyes that still lives on through each of us.

I’m on a mission to get his name out there. If you're a cycling expert, collector, or historian, I want to hear from you. It’s time George Parkinson took his place in cycling history, not as a footnote, but as a father of the modern ride.

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