Yeh, I knew Zenny.

Some biker! Everything, ‘cepting the bike!
Walked in here wearing leathers, all the gear, holding a single godetia.
Every summer, he'd arrive. Sit by my old Harley, eyeing the sea... I thought.
Last time, he appeared, announcing he’d found the road to enlightenment.
That night, he stole my bike!
But my, how that Harley throttled sweetly up the cliff road to the headland; like a pair of Tibetan horns. Then, by way of the stars, carved a beautiful arc, to the ocean below.
I cried, next spring tide. There was my bike.
And Zenny? They say he became an Angel.