The theft of the scooter was hard to take, as I had grown fond of every last detail of its tiny Italian 50cc frame, even of its various imperfections and foibles (the top speed of 32 mph, wind-assisted; the battered right wing mirror that would occasionally work loose of its casing and fall off at traffic lights; the steadfast, proud and thoroughly Latin refusal to as much as countenance emerging from hibernation until mid-February).
Quite apart from the emotional fallout from the crime, there was the vexed question of how exactly I was going to get Frankie dropped off at school at 10 to 9 and still gain the far reaches of Manchester's fashionable Westside before mid-morning. The straightforward purchase of a replacement scooter seemed somehow callous and disloyal, and recollection of our chequered history with car ownership (tyre blow-outs at 80mph in the fastlane, with a baby in the back seat; doors half-ripped from their hinges by latenight vagabonds; £300 garage bills for sudden, absurd ailments; panicked calls to the AA to have them rescue us from suburban carparks by hooking out our locked-in ignition keys with a coathanger) made the discussion over splashing out on a cheap hatchback a short one.
And then- the answer came to me in a flash. A couple of weekends ago, and for the mere outlay of a sum equivalent to the going rate for a 10 year old Peugeot 206, I rode home from the bike shop in Rusholme with... one of those ingenious Brompton folding bikes- a tiny-wheeled vision in cobalt blue.
And I must say that after two weeks of riding, the move is still looking like a masterstroke, even if the bus authorities did see to very slightly alter their timetables the very day after I bought the bike, meaning that instead of the pre-imagined leisurely pedal down the cycle track from school to Westside-bound bus stop I'm faced with a daily offroad timetrial that Bradley Wiggins himself might baulk at, if in some parallel universe he found himself employed as a midranking public sector official in suburban Manchester. So far I'm performing at Olympic levels- nine X41 buses caught out of 10, including at least two photo-finishes involving tiny Brompton wheels screeching to a stop just as the double-decker prepared to pull away, followed by sub-10-second fold-ups under the dourly quizzical gaze of Polish employees of the Stagecoach corporation)
The opportunity for that precise sort of carry on is of course at least part of the reason for the price-tag. Ownership of a Brompton allows the owner- by the simple expedient of mastering the folding and unfolding techniques- to perform outlandish feats of urban theatricality, which if carried out with just the right combination of efficiency and flourish may elicit open-mouthed responses from passers-by (an old bloke in Birchfield Sainsbury's: 'Bloomin' Eck Son- I've seen everything now!) and frank admissions of admiration from work colleagues rendered delirious with envy (Jose from the Stretford office: 'Aye that's all right, but I bet you look a right spanner riding it down the A56...') .
So- not recommended for the shrinking violets among us, perhaps, or for any of us who don't want our commuting choices to elevate us, even if just until the novelty wears off, to the status of minor celebritites. But- for now at least- the Brompton lifestyle comes heartily recommmended. Come back in the springtime for an update on this very urban love affair (or, if we have a particularly harsh winter, for an intermittently-used folding bike of iconic British design, offered for quick sale at a realistic price, due to imminent purchase of sensible hatchback with one careful owner and full service history).
Which is it to be? Place your bets (and frank admissions of envy) in the comment box. Thank you and good night.
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