Well, the Dahonites are mainly ordinary schmoes who get on quietly with their lives, going from A to B, and trying to avoid things like maintenance and people skidding about on 16" rims. The Bromptonauts, on the other hand, deserve praise for riding those funny little bikes with the itty bitty wheels, pausing only to pick up the many parts which fall off. This is why crowds of urchins gather to cheer them along. Every ride on a Br*mpt*n is an adventure, spiced with the possibility of wobbling under a bus. The crowds you're attracting are gathering to watch the carnage, like vultures, and pluck trophies like folding pedals from your gory remains.
Moultoneers, on the other hand, are a peculiar lot. You need to own a beard to join the Moulton Club, or at least be thinking of getting one, and have an attraction to real ale, with bits of twigs and leaves in it. Being rich and nerdy also helps: The club magazine recently ran a lengthy feature on The Many Kinds of Pivot Grease and Moulton-erds often pay £3000-£4000 for antique 'rare' rust-buckets with a letter S stamped on them, bikes which are mainly holes held together by the original paint. It's all quite terrifically gripping and yet, utterly baffling. Moreover; even the new bikes cost more than a set of gold teeth. It's because they're hand made by bloke called Bert or something, instead of being nano-meter robot-welded in a Taiwanese factory, like proper bicycles.
Yessir, the Cult of Moulton is a dangerous sect to join. Within a month, you're denouncing your family, reading strange old texts about 'leading link suspension', and being sucked into an annual pilgrimage toward Bradford on Avon. Then you start reading wack-a-doo 2000-word features on molybdenum disulphide grease.
Just say No. Get a Dahon. You know where you are with one.
