When your chain derails, all you can hear is the clomp-clomp of the four horsemen of the apocalypse. Shortly thereafter, you realize that they're sissies compared to you because you don't have a brake. After pulling a Flinstone style stop 2 inches past the white line that demarks the ped-X from the busy intersection (coming down Castro into Market, in my case), you come to understand that brakelessness may be for the masochist, but pain (or the potential for it) is what reminds us we're alive.

i.e. Run-on sentences mean I'm hammered and it is bedtime fo' sheezy.