There’s something undeniable naff about folding bikes. Endearingly so, maybe, but naff nonetheless.

Naff. Naff. Naff.

I suppose, before I go any further, I should come clean here and confess that my feelings towards folding bikes are more than somewhat coloured by the fact that, when we were children, my sister had one. It was a real horrorshow of a bike – some sort of Raleigh, its cream finish offset delightfully by the white wall tyres on the tiny wheels. It had moulded plastic handlebar grips that after ten minutes of riding made your hands burn as if you’d been holding a pair of curling irons. It was hard to make “go” because the lever on the Sturmey Archer was stiffer than a teenager at a women’s beach volley ball tournament and even harder to make “stop” thanks to brakes that had so little power, pulling the level felt like you were pressing a wet sponge against a jelly. It also had a basket.

And worst of all, my sister – being 2 years older than me – used to regularly kick my arse on it.

So, there, now you know.

Shockingly, despite this naffness – and my deep psychological scarring – the folding bike is now more popular than ever with 60, if not 70, percent of all doorways on trains into London currently blocked by a folding bike. All of which might be a pain for those commuters without their right trouser leg tucked into their socks, but is great news for the granddaddy of the folding bike - Brompton.

What’s not quite such good news for Brompton, is that the folding bike’s image problem is compounded by the fact that it’s also British built – a fact which essentially uses the unstylish, yet powerful, thumb of bad taste to shift the bike’s Sturmey Archer hub of naffness into third. Because, and I’m wildly generallising here, British manufacturing has struggled to do the whole “cool” thing making everything seems to be a little bit, well, naff.

But before you tut-tut and tell me I’m “Bally well out of order, old chap”, it’s not just me. Look! Alexei Sayle thinks so too:

“If the British had invented the Walkman, it would have been a teak box, covered in leatherette, with the headphones out of a Lancaster bomber”

Maybe it’s our pragmatism that makes us place function over form. Maybe we’re too rational and not emotional enough. Maybe we genuinely would rather be Richie than the Fonz. Whatever the reason, while we were out taking “country jaunts” on our drab Pashley’ Roadster Classic:

Our European neighbours, the Italians, were knocking out things of beauty like Coppi’s 1952 Bianchi:

Hey, You There! What Are You?

But in the midst of all this naffness, almost behind our backs, something unusual happened. Something completely unexpected has happened. Something involving Brompton turned out to be *cool* – the Brompton World Championships.

As you can imagine, these *cool* Championships weren’t held in Britain. The first was held back in 2006 in Barcelona by the Spanish importer of Bropmton bikes. And despite not being able to find any reports or pictures, I like to think that each and every one of those taking part were nonchalant chicos who whilst racing through the exotic streets of Barcelona each offer a casual “Hola, guapa!” to every girl they pass. Sounds like a reasonable, yet in no way over glamourised, and highly plausible description of events, doesn’t it?

Anyway, whatever actually took place in Barcelona, Brompton liked what they saw enough to bring the event back home to Blighty. And, would you believe, in the process turned the World Championships from something that was exotic and cool into something slighly less so:

After You. No, After You. No, No…

With its strict dress code of shirt, tie, and jacket the Championship was moved to Blenheim Palace – the home of the most British of Brits: Winston “Bloody British” Churchill – making it a Spanish fantasy no more but a quintessential British affair. A celebration of our spiffing British eccentricity.

Of course, in reality, it’s also a cynical marketing ploy by Brompton – preaching their “brand messages” to the converted. Quite literally peddling naffness to people who are quite literally peddaling naffness. But we’re all too terribly, terribly  British to mention that, aren’t we?

Maybe the quirky rules, the location, and the prospect of another day away from the family is a spot on recreation of your average Brompton rider’s experience of community by train/bike – but it’s not mine. So here are a few ideas I’ve had to make the event a little truer to the my train/bicycle commuter’s experience:

• Before the race, the competitors are held in a cramp, smelly, and searingly hot compartment with their face pressed into a stranger’s armpit for 45 minutes.
• Instead of clapping and cheering on the participants, the crowd geer and throw insults at the riders as they pass.
• Taxis suddenly pull out into the path of riders at various points around the course.
• The event is only held if it’s raining.
• To win the race, each competitor MUST hold a door open for someone – even though you’re the one with the bike – AND have shouted “Wanker!” at someone along the course regardless whether it was actually them in the wrong or not.

Let’s hope they bring these in for the 2010 event to make it proper British, innit?

Don’t I Know You From Somewhere?

Bringing a bit of the Spanish cool to last year’s Championships was ex-Pro Roberto Heras:

What was most startling about his participation in last year’s event is just how much of an improvement to your performance an effective doping programme can really make. With it, you can win a Grand Tour, with out it, you can only finish 2nd in a fold-up bike race.

And speaking of recovering drugs cheat not performing at their best, Floyd Landis finished 25th in the recent Tour of Utah:

After being beaten by Utah Jazz’s Deron Williams in a pre-race publicity time trail, Floyd Landis carried his form into the race proper, finally being beaten by 24 other riders. Jolly good show, Floyd.