Poor little motorcycle. You weren't a dangerously fast Ducati, built for speed. Your design, as it happened, wasn't for long cruises among wide-open spaces - yours was not the pedigree of a BMW, or even a Honda "Gold Wing." You probably never met a Harley-Davidson in your short, brief life.

Rather, all you wanted to do was be a humble little motorcycle, in the streets of Pakistan. It's not much of a life, but it was YOUR life, and I hope that, while it lasted, you enjoyed it.

People, as you know, are strange, peculiar beings. They don't change your oil, let alone put air in your tires. But you never complained about your slipping clutch, nor did you ever have any agenda other than to go, to start, to roll...

And this was your reward.

You deserved better, little motorcycle dude. If there is a motorcycle heaven, it's my hope that an adorable, svelte, beautiful Kawasaki nicknamed "Doris" will find your scars, and your humble nature, irresistible.

Ride on, little motorcycle. Those people who beat you, and set you on fire are idiots. (Trust me. I know these things.) In the end, we all live in service to our dreams, and die trying to satisfy our needs. You did both, with fine style, little motorcycle. Sorry for the pain.