Funny lookin', but they work

Tired of startling motorists, scaring small children and making neighborhood dogs break into mournful howls, I finally broke down and scrapped my old Kool-Stop brake pads for a fresh set of Aztecs. Those old pads were fine in warm weather but, damn, did they make a fuss in the cold. No more temptation for guys to say, "You squeal like a pig, boy."

Not that there's anything wrong with that.

The brakes on my winter bike are some old Avids that I picked up at a bike swap for a measly eight bucks, still in the box and wrapped in plastic. Apparently, the seller couldn't unload them in his shop because he couldn't find a customer who wanted anodized blue cantilevers in the age of V-brakes and discs.

But then I came along.

At the time, I was building up an old Trek as a commuter, and cheap was good. Hell, ugly was good. Why tempt bike-stealin' scumbags? (Unless you're hidin' nearby with a rifle—in that case, baiting the bastards is perfectly fine.) I like old bikes built with mixed-up parts, as long as they're good mixed-up parts and the bikes run well.

Old, rebuilt bikes have character. And behind many of the parts, there's a story to tell. The brake levers from a favorite old trail bike. The new gear rings found at a killer sale price. The used wheels purchased from a friend. That stuff means something because you scrounged for it, salvaged it, cared about it. It feels good to ride with those components, even if snobs on high-zoot bikes look down their noses at them.

Screw the snobs. You can't buy love.