Among the things that make me believe in a higher power with a playful sense of humor is the frequency with which roofing nails, sheetmetal screws, horseshoe nails, really big staples, small brads, nice brass screws, petrified thorns from the Crucifixion, inflation needles, self-tapping screws, bolts, stalactites, baby narwhal tusks and jagged chunks of who-knows-what wind up embedded in my rear motorcycle tire. In all the years I’ve driven four-wheeled vehicles, I think I’ve had one holed tire. On motorcycles, though, with their rear tires offering up a way smaller and harder-to-hit rounded target, foreign object debris puncture remains the leading cause of death. Why is that? I can only conclude it’s because nature loves a challenge, and because the man, woman or children Upstairs like to fool with those of us brazen enough to interface the world on two wheels even more than they do normal people. There is nothing random about it.