GrumpyGregry
Here for rides.
Or at least his stones.
Old beater of a bike, slack rusty chain, freewheel sounding like it is on its way out, clanking metal mudguards, no front brake, and, as it turned out, no back brake, not even a coaster brake. Rear hub no thicker than my finger and no sign of any old-skool brake built in. I looked. I stared. I looked again. In the end I did the unforgiveable and spoke to a total stranger (punishable by death in sthlm but just by deathly stares here) and asked him.
"Does it really not have any brakes?"
"No. I prefer it like this."
"What's it like to ride?"
"Great."
and then the lights at Dybbolsbro St changed and off we went, rollng down the hill on Skelbaekgade, from the station to the meat packing district (lit. trans. Meat City) where he ran the red light onto Halmtorvet at some speed.
Rather him than me.
Old beater of a bike, slack rusty chain, freewheel sounding like it is on its way out, clanking metal mudguards, no front brake, and, as it turned out, no back brake, not even a coaster brake. Rear hub no thicker than my finger and no sign of any old-skool brake built in. I looked. I stared. I looked again. In the end I did the unforgiveable and spoke to a total stranger (punishable by death in sthlm but just by deathly stares here) and asked him.
"Does it really not have any brakes?"
"No. I prefer it like this."
"What's it like to ride?"
"Great."
and then the lights at Dybbolsbro St changed and off we went, rollng down the hill on Skelbaekgade, from the station to the meat packing district (lit. trans. Meat City) where he ran the red light onto Halmtorvet at some speed.
Rather him than me.
