"What's that bike doing in the house?"
a shrill exclamation shot across the kitchen.

I grasped for low hanging defensive fruit and shot back
"what's a dinner dish doing in our bedroom?"

Neither here nor there, but expedited my passage to the basement.
(a duh, it's coming in the house so I can work on it, but I'm in slides so I didn't want to walk across the lawn to the hatchway).

What do do when the Governor has struck the fear of god into all around you?
Convert your bike back to singlespeed of course.