...and so, as poetry would have it, there was poor old Mr. Mag, bowed down trying to find the valve on his flat rear tire, alone on the edge of the highway, in the rain, and in the dark. He cursed as he skinned his knuckles on the tire iron, and cursed again as his nitro-glycerin tablets fell out of his pocket and clattered away into the black, dark, lightless, night... when who should happen to come cruising by...