What made you start riding fixed?

Why? Why? That's a question I can't answer. All I can do is tell it straight from the heart.
It was 1969 and I was living with a hippy chick by the name of Chrysanthemum Starlight Wild Horse Groovy-Moon in San Fransisco in Amerika. Me and Chryssy (as our love grew, her name shrank) were holed up in a cold water flat in the Heights. It was the fag end of the sixties, the death throes of peace and love. We still wore flowers in our hair but they were wilting. Keroac had moved in to real estate, Ginsberg talked only of starting up a dry cleaners.
One day we went walking, the peach-blue sky and golden ocean soothed our souls. The moon shone at midday.
Coming back from that walk on the wild side we popped in to Beautiful Pete's for a Ploughman's. The dude was out of cheddar. The omens, the omens.
When we got back to the brownstone Chrissy caught her loonpants on something sharp in the dark hallway. By the light of a joss stick we could see it was some kind of tripped out bike, some Gandalphed velo. What was it? No brake, no gears. No gears? Man that was far out.
We lugged it up the six floors to our pad. Something about that bike had captured our souls. We set it in front of the altar in the bedroom and sat, in a circle, staring silently at this revelation, this velorevalation. Deep down we both new that things would never be the same again and that this lean metal stallion would tear our love apart, break it in a way that could never be fixed...

...but that was long ago.
Last I heard Chrissy was going by the name Ghug-It and dancing in bars for small change and cuddles. Time plays a tune which only the deaf can hear.

That's all I can say.
Why? Why? Go ask the moon, go ask the stars, go ask the wind.

Daddy?