The Habs bike sits with the lawn mower and a bunch of junk in the basement, waiting for the next time I take it out and it tries to kill me.
This is the bike I bought for 30 bucks and restored and painted. It’s the bike from hell, Habs colours or not.
Have you ever ridden a three-wheeled bike?
The smallest bit of weight to one side and one of the back wheels comes off the pavement and the other starts to spin. Turning corners is ridiculous. I tried to swerve around a parked car, ran into the curb, which I’ve done way too many times, and hit a sign post. If you walk it up a hill, the back wheel keeps hitting the heel of your foot.
The brakes suck. I didn’t realize that until I went down a hill and across the main street, holding on for dear life as I just missed a bunch of cars with people who may or may not have been laughing.
I don’t know if they were laughing. I was too busy waiting to be splattered on a windshield.
It sits quietly in the basement now, waiting, like some kind of evil bike from a Stephen King novel.
It belongs in the basement. It scares the hell out of me.