I rode by once; rang the bell, “on your left”, four riders just chugging along and at the front this sweet whip. I pointed on my way by, “cool bike” and kept going. At the coffee shop, a student of mine and I chat – the kid is on a ride with the family from Nova Scotia, we shoot the breeze, go to mount up and… whoa! The bike again! It’s dad’s – I get the story: brought here when they moved from Sweden, “in true Ikea fashion it came in a flat box”, he dug the colour because his folks had a Saab the same mocha shade when he was a kid. It’s fully tricked out with a butt buster for a saddle (“they told me after 2000 km it’ll start to mould to the shape of my rear!”) and vintage looking front and back carriers. What seems to be wood burnt into the front picnic box is the kind of bike it is: Stalhasten. “Steel horse” he says. I raise my fist and YES! He smiles at me from under his handlebar moustache: better than any fistbump.