R.I.P. Gobi

Get this: the other day, I was out with Joker T. Goodoldboy and Gobi, my bike, and we went into the rocky white of the veggie-trash fields that is North of Sudan. Okay, so this was a fun time to ride because the monsoon season had not kicked into full swing and it wasn't too hot, but man, I went into this ditch, see, and it ripped the tire off of Gobi and it was an explosive bang of a thing; Gobi is lame now.

(And then we got back to the home and there were all these kids who were whining like, we want your headphoines! give up your intessi, Mage! What the Keckula?)

So we had to leave that place, man because that's just too much pressure. But we went to the bar out by the old Jackson place and they had drinks for only pennies a pop. Ho ho! That was a good old time and I forgot that Gobi was even lame but until I got on to ride home and remembrance occurs all of a sudden and with a bloody nose!
A good bike is like a wing for your soul. One wing. Can you fly with one wing? Kindof. Its a start and that's the point. So when a bike dies, like when Bike broke his axle on the dusty roads of Japan, well, its like ripping one of the wings off of your soul. Your soul should have like 5 wings: woman and warm weather and bike and God and Huckfinnism. Then you fly, man, you can't help it.