A cycling story: out for the second training ride of the day when Fat Boy Slim clad in tight hi viz lycra pulls alongside. Looking down at my Brompton he condescendly says, nice, but rather heavy, bit expensive, they’re not really a road bike. His machine he explained was custom built, shitsue gearing, kryptonite frame, bullshit brakes and helium filled tyres (whose going to have the last laugh?). He raised himself out of his razor saddle revealing too much of his sweaty derrierè and wobbled off into the distance. The bit was between my teeth, you don’t dis a Brompton. He glanced nervously over his shoulder when he realised I was still there … downhill he had the legs on me (metaphorically of course …) but uphill I was faster on the gears and hauled him in … on the second hill I took him on the crest (ooh Matron) and on the next downhill I shouted, I’m home you fat w****r and braked hard to turn into a random farmyard. Well, ok, I didn’t actually say that but collapsed breathless in some farmyard which was mercifully deserted. Hope you’re still enjoying your bike