Poke, prod, swear, drop divers tools and small parts on floor, tread in dogshit* while wearing treaded MTB shoes, swear more, get rack on Perfectly Good Gentleman’s Mountain Bicycle raised to the point where it will interfere neither with the back brake nor the BoB trailer, using bits robbed from Miss von Brandenburg when we turned her Perfectly Good Gentleman’s Mountain Bicycle into a motorbike. Rack actually a good deal less wonky than it was before too. Yay! Go me!
Gears still index! Amazeballs! Wrap gaffer tape around ridiculously sticky grip-shifter. Test brakes. Rear one fine.
Front one not fine. Lever goes to bars without slowing wheel. Mine out Stuffs, hydraulic discs for the bleeding of. Shake bottle of DOT 5.1, which makes unreassuring “I am empty” sound. By the time I get to Halfrauds, buy more brake juice and get home again I will be running short of daylight, patience and vocabulary. Decide to give up and do it tomorrow.
Arse.
* At least, I hope that’s what it is…