On a street corner in the suburbs outside Cleveland we found ourselves down
to 1-percent of battery capacity. So we had no choice but to knock on the
door of the first house we came to, and opportunity answered in the form of
a sweet-yet-terrified octogenarian with a crazy Kaiser Wilhelm accent and
her hair done up in corncob-sized rollers. No doubt the translucent plastic
half-dome hairdryer she was sitting under before we got there draws more
current than our bikes. Anyway, after Brian charmed her (which I found
subtly disturbing enough that I’m still shaken) she let us plug into an
outlet on the side of her house long enough to get us downtown.
Enter your name and we'll write it on the Brammo Powercycle that we're trying to give to the President.