As I wandered through the aisles of the convenience

She was softly sipping a Blue Slurpee and reading Iron Horses Magazine. I whispered softly in her ear, "Are you going to pay for that? This ain't no LIBRARY!" Then our eyes met,

and I knew she and I considered "Zen and the Art of Motorcycle Maintainance" the holy book of our existence. One week later I'd quit my job and we were on winding down Route 66

on 1 WW2 BMW with a side car, with the original German Army paint job. Not a beautiful bike but serviceable and tough. I drove and she maintained the bike and we both Zen-ed out on

the blurred scenery as it rushed passed. There was always a certain bliss to riding long distances on an old motorbike. And the hemmorhoids.

didn't bother him, even on the bumpiest of rides. All that was needed for happiness was the feel of the road beneath his two wheels and the wind through his bristly moustache.

This was the mustached ride that he called the "flying carpet." The wind that tickled his fancy mustache was super gusty because it came from

the electromagnetic waves commonly known as sun flares. Usually, winds that developed out of sun flares are also charged with tiny radio-active particles, which is why his mustache

was singing to a crisp. The magnetic flux which guards planet Earth had finally disintegrated. Solar radiation bombarded the planet and shut up all our wars and bigotry because

we're cool like that. Yeah! We don't need the end of the world to straighten ourselves out. But since the end of the world is here anyway, mgiht as well do the Time Warp again.