As a relatively new member of the Brompton
cult community, I still get excited when I pass another on the road, especially if there is acknowledgement or conversation. Yesterday there were both.
On the bike path downtown, I caught up to a woman in front of me. We talked about color envy (mine, for her red Brompton), saddle envy (hers, for my Brooks) and our mutual appreciation for cycling in skirts.
When I turned off the path to Canal St., I drew up behind a man with a handsome black M3L. I tapped him on the shoulder and said, “We have to greet each other; it’s a Brompton law.” He laughed, and we agreed it’s the perfect city commuter bike.
Later, I saw a yellow B folded and stashed at the outdoor café near my office, and a helmeted man lunching nearby. I caught his eye and said, “Mine is upstairs under my desk.” When it became apparent he spoke no English, I pointed to his bike. “Ah, BROMPTON!” said his dining companion with a smile.
And on the way home, a rider on a red one passed me and called “Brompton!” I replied in kind.