Somebody in our building has an electric bike. A homemade one. It’s a women’s bike with four motorcycle batteries on a plywood shelf over the rear wheel, solar panels in place of a rear rack, and a charging system that involved a cheap digital multi-meter secured to the handlebars with packing tape – not duct tape; packing tape. The wiring appears to be something salvaged from a lamp. I have no idea how the owner got permission to use one of the charging stations in our garage, or how he or she has not yet thrown the breaker repeatedly.
(Of course, it’s not all bad. It also has a Louisiana licence plate hanging off the back and beads wrapped around the down tube. Because, why not?)