If I drive my small family hatchback to my local tyre emporium (blue and yellow logo, rhymes with ‘chick flick’), a heavily tattooed guy rocking bulging muscles and an impressive beard will charge me as little as £49 a corner to fit it with new ‘boots’.
Yet, if I pop three doors down to my local bike shop, an impossibly skinny guy sporting a very lively moustache will charge me as much as £160 for two tyres, plus £25 each end for fitting, excluding valves and sealant. Come October, he’ll want me to switch to winter tyres too, which is almost as ruinous.
