The Stylist: shopping for a beautiful bicycle

There, on a head-high rack, was a magnificent machine in an unusual coffee colour. It bore, in curly script, the name “Surly”

A couple of weeks ago my friend William, one of the most fashionable men I know, turned up at a party carrying an unusual accessory. Hanging by his side as insouciantly as the latest bag from Dolce & Gabbana or Louis Vuitton was a foldaway bike by Brompton. Clearly he had joined the ranks of the two-wheel brigade that has invaded our cities over the past few years.

Unless you have been living under a rock, you will have seen them — the smart commuters on their hybrids (part mountain bike, part road bike), the scruffy messengers on their battered fixed-wheel urban steeds (no freewheel, just keep those pedals turning) and the legions of Sunday racers who, come Monday, have swapped the picturesque climbs and sweeping curves of the countryside for dodging traffic on their lightweight, state-of-the-art machines, still wearing their brightly coloured Lycra.

And what of William with his folding Brompton? If you are what you ride, what does this piece of kit say about him? Well, to my mind these portable cycles are the preserve of the unhurried, sharp man about town. Like the big, majestic Pashleys that look like something on which Sebastian Flyte might have wobbled around Oxford with Aloysius sitting on the handlebars, Bromptons are not about speed but about empowering you to glide from A to B in a stylish, unflustered way.

Of course, there have long been fashions in bicycles — ask any BMX-mad teenager — but there is a greater romance at play here than a mere passing trend. Sir Paul Smith, our most celebrated menswear designer, once told me that his boyhood idols were the riders in the Tour de France, men such as Fausto Coppi and Jacques Anquetil, who brought European flair into his very English childhood in Nottinghamshire. It was as much the idea of these swashbuckling, super-fit speed merchants as William’s genteel accessory that prompted me to visit my local bike shop at the weekend to see if I could find something that would suit me.

It didn’t take long. There, on a head-high rack, was a beautiful machine in an unusual coffee colour. Unusual, too, was the name on the frame, rendered in a hand-painted style: Surly. It had drop handlebars with black tape round them, wide-ish tyres with tread, and no frills.

I asked one of the assistants who or what Surly was and instantly he took on the appearance of a zealot. I was told that Surly is a US company that makes bikes out of steel that are tough. They are versatile, he said. He rode one: “I used to have 12 bikes, now I have one.” And they make models that like to be loaded up: “Every week we sell one to someone who is about to go around the world,” he said. Essentially they are bikes with no spin. “This is the kind of bike your grandfather would recognise.”

I understood. The brown one on display looked and felt a lot like the racer I had as a child, but lighter. This was called a Cross Check and was something of an all-rounder. Also in the range are models such as the Long Haul Trucker, designed to carry lots of stuff over long distances; the Steam Roller, a single-speed fixed-gear street bike; the Karate Monkey, a single-speed mountain bike; and the Pacer, a sleek road racer. All these come as complete bikes but there is a lot of room for customising.

I went for some test rides. Surly frames are made from a high-strength, low-alloy steel with a great strength-to-weight ratio. They are not as featherlight as those made from carbon and aluminium but the steel makes them more comfortable and forgiving to ride, especially on city streets.

So I got one: a brown Cross Check from the guys in Bloomington, Minnesota, and headed for the park feeling like a 14-year-old again. Few things in life can turn back the clock so effectively.