Oh, brakes. How much I cringe at you when I try to squeeze you inconspicuously and, instead, with your uncommonly loud squealing, terrorize some hapless pedestrian crossing the street, causing them to jump in fright.
How much, sometimes, I wish that the ubiquitous tale of the squeaky disc brake was more fantastical folklore than constant, unfailing reality.
How much I would love, sometimes, to be silent and stealthy in my stopping.
And then there are the times I cross the I-5 bridge.
Then, oh, how I love you, squeaky disc brakes!
(not so very wide!)
This bitty bike lane leaves little room for overtaking one’s fellow bridge-crossers — when you meet another stalwart crosser, one of you has to pull over, sucking in between the supports, to let the other pass. And my polite “on your left!”s, even uttered at top lung capacity, are very rarely heard over the sound of interstate traffic.
My squeaky brakes, on the other hand, almost always turn heads.
Thank you, oh squeakiest of all disc brakes, for the power to alert people to my passing.