The Rocket Pub + the Ultimate British Challenge, the Brompton World Championships
A personal story about a Commuter Bicyclist Race in Kings Cross
Anyone who taken a train out of Euston Station knows that the departing vehicles don’t move nearly as quickly as jet-propelled ones. But before the Space Age, they might have seemed so. The Rocket was one of the last (non-brewing) Firkins, a chain of mostly brew pubs that offered cask ale — a traditionally produced, super-fermentated, unfiltered, unpasteurized and naturally carbonated beer stored in, duh, a cask. Through a number of business transactions, Bass Ale eventually acquired the majority of the pubs. But prior to that, Firkin pubs issues a "passport,” in which would be travellers would obtain a stamp from each pub visited, as well as public transport directions to the nearest pub. Some people would complete the Firkin Crawl (visiting 12 pubs) in a month, maybe a year, and thus get their Free T-Shirt. But the English with their extremities: the goal soon became to complete a Firkin Pub Crawl in a day.
The pub must have promised too many shirts, as the Firkins Chain closed in the UK in 2013 — cask ale lovers thought all was lost. A year laster, The Rocket appeared, a striking pub with a Grade II Victorian exterior built in 1899 by Shoebridge & Rising for Cannon Brewery. Although the pub is three storeys, it is set back from Euston Road with single storey extension of one bay. The top floor of the pub has an attic storey in large Flemish gables, with one that features a carved plaque of the sun rising over the sea. It is inscribed "Rebuilt 1899".
Truest Test of Englishness? The Brompton Championships
There exist few tests of true English assimilation: engaging proper weather talk (and owning an enviable umbrella); downing five pints of Newkie (Newcastle) Brown Ale without falling over; and picking a football team and sticking with it through relegation. Anglophiles who have not successfully achieved the normal bona fides, might choose the competition route, thus becoming champion cheddar-rollers, torch-bearing Bonfire associées or bog snorkellers.
But above all other contests, one stands alone: assembling and riding as fast as possible the tiny-tired, two-wheeler with the super long seat pole on an improvised track in the area surrounding Kings Cross train station. And do it all in “fancy dress,” King’s English for “costume.” In other words, becoming a Brompton World Champion.
Desperate American expats do desperate things.
New Yorkers once regularly rode Bromptons, renowned for their compactness and portability, especially on commuter trains. But ultimately they just didn’t look cool, making them unideal for any self-respecting Manhattanite, Brooklynite or even Queens commuter — forget about the Bronx — to coast anywhere in public. Thus, Brompton has one tiny store in SoHo, while in England, the 50-year-old brand is a household name.
That still doesn’t make them easy to ride, let alone race.
“The Brompton is actually nimble; its tires are wide, giving it a lot of ground to grip; they can accelerate really quickly,” says Man of the Purple, a mechanic, cycling advocate and owner of at least two Bromptons. By this time, however, Purple Man didn’t have to do much to convince a certain American journalist who had never ridden, let alone, folded and unfolded a Brompton, to compete in its commuter-bike championships. She had just come off a three-week ban from her tennis club for “being rude.” A transformation was needed.
First, came the fold-unfold practice. A true Bromptonite can do it in about 25 seconds flat. Fail in this element, and one might as well call it a race. “Last year, we watched some poor man get looped twice before he could even get going,” says Man of the Purple’s partner of more than 20 years. “But he didn’t give up; we all cheered.” After a few running starts in Purples’ family kitchen, this journalist could assemble hers in about two minutes, at best. “Just practice ten times before you go to bed tonight,” Purple’s wife says, “and you’ll have it down, no problem.” The fear had already been planted, however. Would this New Yorker ever fit in with the English?
The next barrier: fancy dress. Costumes of English school boy, French baker and Peaky Blinder were ruled out, as neither a prep school-patch, a beret, nor a set of braces and a bow tie could be procured in time — even from a school uniform shop in Islington’s Chapel Market. “We have a strict school-only policy on those,” said a friendly, if unhelpful, employee at Rough Cut Casuals, the merchant of nearly 50 local academies’ regalia. “You have to have an ID.” With’ “Man of the Purple’s” matchy-matchy ensemble of purple vest, hat, shoes, sunglasses and Brompton threatening to take yet another English award, a “tennis numpty” getup was thrown together: white shorts, white West Side Tennis Club branded polo, white Queens Club branded cap, two vintage racquets in a backpack and white Stan Smiths. Job done.
Lastly, the race. Tennis white donned, racquets in pack, menacing look tested, the tennis eejit, Man of the Purple and Purple’s partner made their way on Saturday morning toward the Brompton booth at Coal Drops Yard, the former industrial compound redesigned by Thomas Heatherwick into a massive outdoor dining, shopping and working complex right off the Camden branch of houseboat-laden Regent’s Canal. “I’m not sure a big loop for Brompton bicycles was in the works for this place when they redesigned it,” mused Man of the Purple’s partner.
While race bibs were acquired and pinned, and chips zip-tied to Brompton forks, all manner of Bromptonites strolled by: Mr. Banana and Mrs. Orange; the HMS Brompton with midriff-centered, cardboard-made ship; Union-Jack top hats and tails; Where’s Waldos; German Ricola men in Lederhosen; and a personal favorite, a luchador with his luchadora ready to wrestle for the finish. Each surveyed the roughly .75-kilometer track, which had to be looped five times in the assigned heat, then settled in for the wait, while offering opinions on the £2,999 special edition Tour de France Brompton, which one could use to “Allez, Every Day!” No self-respecting Englishman cared too much for it.
Finally, Heat Nine was called. The tennis numpty set up her borrowed and folded Brompton, lined up with the office workers and Willy Wonkas, and waited for the emcee to yell “Ready, Steady, Go!” Remembering Pedal, Handlebars, Seat and Frame (PHSF) ,she nonethless faffed with the clamps, and was the second to last off the line. Recalling Man of the Purple’s words the night before, however — “there’s something that I see in you that other Brompton riders just don’t have” — the tennis numpty kicked her aggression acquired riding New York City streets into high gear, passed another middle-aged women in suit and flats and a heavy-set newspaper boy to cheers of “Go Wimbledon!” By the time the fifth uphill was tackled in first gear and the finish line crossed, tennis numpyt had channeled all the Taxi-dodging and pedestrian-swearing into an age-group-appropriate first-place finish, certificate to prove it. The Man of the Purple, who came in a respectable top-20, was chuffed — maybe a little gobsmacked. Word is still out from the Home Office.
