There I was, gliding from Waverton toward Cremorne on a Lime e-bike like a silent, motorized god of the asphalt. I had a date with a cinema screen and the smug satisfaction of someone who wouldn't have to find parking. But then, I hit the invisible border of Mosman.
Suddenly, my high-tech steed didn’t just slow down; it went on strike. I glanced at my phone, expecting a low-battery warning, only to be greeted by a digital shrug: "E-bikes are prohibited in Mosman. Also, you cannot park here." The logic was staggering. I couldn’t ride it, but I couldn’t leave it. It had become a 25 kg paperweight that I was now legally obligated to escort. I spent the next kilometer performing a very sweaty, very loud "walk of shame" across the suburb, providing the local residents with a comprehensive masterclass in creative swearing. Why the GPS waited until I was deep in the "Forbidden Zone" to shut down is a mystery known only to God and cruel software engineers. By the time the motor finally hummed back to life, I’d missed the trailers, the opening scene, and any shred of my dignity.
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