Zen and the Art of Evel Knievel


I should've requested the sidecar instead of riding pillion, knowing my driver's tendency for the dramatic, for near-certain disaster.  I should've anticipated riding in an asphalt bobsled, assuming it was severed from the bike itself, grinding through a parking lot filled with yellow parking lines and doomsday spectators; a helicopter capable of clocking my record speed from above.  I should have never picked up Pirsig's classic book.  I should've avoided the Phaedrus discussion altogether.  I shouldn't have mentioned that there might be more in common between author and daredevil than a first name and a love of bikes.  I should've taken my mother's advice.  My doctor's orders.  My sanity's plea.  I should've said yes to the morphine drip.  And when young Robbie wheeled a mummy-like Evel down the hospital corridor to place him in my doorway so he could chant next time, next time, it was then that I knew I should've broken my neck, too, if only to prevent me from nodding in agreement.  
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