a couple of years ago I went for a very cold morning run down to Brighton with Manotea (for those of you that know him). We were heading up a long slope south of Faygate, and the road was covered deep frost. Our 23C tyres went slippy, grippy, slippy, grippy every half revolution, but we found it easy to maintain our balance. The effect was comic, but it had the unfortunate effect of convincing me that I was The Man Who Rode on Snow. Ah! Hubris!
I've just been over to see my mother, who is effectively trapped in the house. I went to cheer her up, and to ensure that the thermostat was set to a decent temperature (the elderly tend to think there's a war on when it comes to central heating). I decided that TMWRoS could get over the hill on a Brompton. Hahahahahahahahaha!
I put the thing in the kind of gear that only a Brompton has, and twiddled. Our street was fine, other than the wazzock in the DynoRod van following six feet behind me, and the main road was clear of snow. But then my whizzo plan, to ride in the ruts left by cars, turned out to be not so whizzo. There are four ways to come off a Brompton, and I'm now skilled in three of them. Only the over-the-handlebars somersault remains to be conquered. Those little tyre hit a bit of frozen snow and whip the wheel sideways. Off we go to the left. Off we go to the right. And how about a nuts/handlebar conjunction? It shall be done.
I met a cyclist coming the other way, wheeling a fixie. We exchanged a few words, and I trudged on. Eventually a path of clear tarmac opened in a rut, only to narrow, and then disappear, taking with it my dignity. Another groin/handlebar meeting, made all the more exquisite by my feet sliding forward on the snow until I was in a sort of pennyfarthing dismount postion with the saddle pointing at my arse.
All very humbling. Tomorrow it's the hybrid. I'll report back.