So I'm on my way to work this morning, and as it's calm and dry, I take the Fuji, a vision in skinny flamboyant blue steel. The only noise it makes is the snuffling of its tyres on the road, and it's smoother than Valiant at a speed dating evening.
Approaching a junction with a larger lane, I see a roadie flash past, going the same way as me. OK, you're on.
He's not trying very hard, so it takes me about 300 yards to catch up on my 48 x 18. We reach the big roundabout at the same time and (for once) I time it right so I can go straight on, passing him, with just enough time for a cheery "Awright" in the least out-of-breath voice I can manage.
I exit the roundabout and the traffic lights outside the hospital are, as usual, just changing to red. I let the bike slow down, and he draws up alongside.
"Singlespeed?" he says.
And all the nightmares over getting the chainline right, wrenching up hills at 25rpm, making little kids laugh as I flail wildly downhill and the fact that the bars really are a full 7" lower than the saddle evaporate with the sweet smell of GT85 as I reply,
"Nah. Fixed."