Less than a mile into the trail, I crossed over a little plank bridge, over a small hump and then KERSNAP. I knew something was wrong, it just took me a minute to realize that two rather important parts of my bike had completely detached.
I didn’t quite expect to love this bike, an ‘87 Schwinn Cimarron I venmo’d a guy $150 for across the country and had shipped home. The bars looked wrong. The drivetrain looked wrong. It didn’t come with eyelets on the fork, like Cimarrons are supposed to. But once I got the thing, put it together, started bombing park trails here around Brooklyn with it, I started to fall for the thing. It felt like a tough little bastard, and I couldn’t stop trying to bunny hop it off of every curb I could, launch it off of every jump