I can feel the collective heat of the side-eye from the other adults clutching their lukewarm thermos flasks: I am that parent whose daughter, just turned twelve, is rolling up to a muddy park in the north of England on a Specialized bike that, if bought new, would cost more than my first two cars combined (true story, a Fiat Panda and a Vauxhall Corsa).
But this is the hill I will happily, doggedly, and perhaps a bit breathlessly die on: I will never buy my kid a brand-new, cheap bike.
