Greg Morris designs and builds custom bicycles for the discerning cyclist.

Milholland is my mothers maiden name, a name that I have loved since I was a young boy, and one that I hold in high regard because of my mother and grandparents lives and history. It is my love story because Milholland Cycles has been shaped from years of stubborn dedication and work. It happened one file stroke at a time. I scraped together a torch set-up, a wobbly work bench, and some files, and build a really ugly work bike for my daily messenger routine. I saved money for years piecing together a shop that has had many forms. Its been over 5 years since I made my first bike (which is still being ridden today), and I have been living and breathing framebuilding ever since. I am working on piecing together the full history of my Grandparents, but here is a little slice of my memories.

My grandparents met overseas in World War 2. My grandmother Nora was part of the Royal Air force, my grandfather Gordon “Doc” was an American securing land for landing strips. Nora lived in London and was working as a Switch Board Operator during the war. She once told me in her fairytale English accent of listening to the different sounds and whistles the bombs would make while being dropped over London. One sound meant duck, the other meant run like hell (she would never say hell). I don’t know exactly how they met, but I always imagined it to be at a romantic dance for the soldiers before my Grandfather was shipped off to another mission. But whatever happened, they were to be married. Once the war ended, my Grandparents like so many war couples, had to wait to get married. Eventually Nora was able to make her way from England to western Colorado. The couple bought a small cattle ranch in a mountain town called Molina Colorado. It was a beautiful ranch, one that I spent a lot of time on as a child. The little white washed ranch house was surrounded by a full apple orchard in the south “yard”, a small cabin a few feet from the back door of the house which my mother and uncle used as bedrooms for a time and where a deer would hang for storage in the winter, and an apricot orchard in the north “yard”. I have never had an apricot taste anything like the fruit I picked off of these trees. They tasted just as sweet as apricot jam, and when my grandmother would make apricot cobbler, it may as well been crack-cocaine. That goes for the plum tree behind the cabin (which was my favorite spot to pee, and was passed down to my nephew), and the sweet and sour ancient Gooseberry bush that was past a giant Black Walnut tree and my Grandfathers crumbling work shed. I always considered Molina to be an amazing and secret place. The old timers were true cattlemen. The last of the cowboys who could still make a living as ranchers. They did not talk with fake Texas accents, in fact, they had the most neutral American accent I have heard. My mother had always described the town as very “liberal”, and I had always thought so as well. Of all the time I spent in that part of the world, I always considered the men as gentleman and the women strong and independent in nature. I never witnessed men putting down women or raising their voices. Manors seemed to be part of their DNA. The women I grew up around participated in the same hard work the men did. This goes for my British Grandmother as well, all 5’1″ and 100 pounds of her.

Although far from complete, I am going to stop here for now. I am missing too many details but now that I am finally writing about this, I am realizing that the feeling and ethics of Milholland comes from this small slice of time as a child. I witnessed strong community, beautiful land, the nostalgic smell of old leather and manure from the barn, drove the old red Ford tractor, watched dear in the orchards at dusk from the kitchen window, and got to hang out with the old time cowboys that are now history. Everyday was a work day and the people’s skill sets were endless. Gordon and Nora Milholland died long ago but I hope they understood the time they spent with me on that land are to this day, some of the most valuable memories I have. They and that place will forever be a moral high ground for me.

I will always remember that single yellow Coors can rattling in the fridge door, waiting for the occasion when one of “Doc’s” old ranch or war buddies would come over and split a beer. I think my next bike is going to be “Coors Can” yellow.

Greg