From Richard Morgan:

My friend and I worked out that a Piano is basically a bike. They both have wheels and pedals, and could easily be converted for steering. You'd have to hook up a computer to the keys, so that when you play the higher notes you turn right, and left for when the lower notes are played. Steering could be achieved by a rudder placed at the back of the piano, which would have a board affixed to the underside of it so that the stool could be used to sit on.

Mind you, speed could be a problem, and going on a motorway near suicidal. (Unless you played the Minute Waltz over and over and over.)

From Lisa Chabot:

You also pretty much have to replace the wheels--a half mile on outdoor asphalt will do those puppies in.

From Scott Dorsey:

The mechanic shook his head. "There's a crack in your block that goes clean through the soundboard. We can order a new engine from Steinway but it's gonna cost you big."

From Eamon Daly:

"umm, hon? can you pick me up?"

"jesus, sweetheart... another flat?"

"yeah. thirty-seven of 'em."

From Ilana Stern:

I remember my first crash, back when I was twelve and I'd finally convinced my folks to buy me a piano. I promised I'd wear my helmet and practice every day. It only took three weeks before I started experimenting, getting reckless, playing with scary, exciting chords.

I'd gone out on a Saturday morning, full of cheer and energy, and come back slinking. I held the sheet music in front of me, to hide the scrapes and bruises, but Mom was too wise to be fooled. "What happened, honey? Are you all right?" Her words were solicitous, but her tone was sharp; I was in trouble.

I burst into tears. I didn't want her to take my piano away from me. Slowly I dropped my hands; she could see my scraped knees, the blood on my elbows. She grabbed the music, looked at it, and frowned. "Arpeggios on the hill? Now, you know you're not allowed to do that. To your room, young lady."

They didn't take it away from me, and for that I was thankful. But for two solid weeks my mother insisted on accompanying me on her worn-out old clarinet. How embarrassing.

From Crisper Than Thou:

Ah, yes, how fond are the memories of losing my virginity in the back of a Baldwin upright parked out by Scout Island at the lake; the radio was playing the latest Peugot racing engine sounds and the moment was right.

From Soren Ragsdale:

You are the driver. It looks like a bright, sunny day. Perfect for playing. But watch out! What would you do if the conductor gave you THIS time to play in?

From Scott Dorsey:

Wanna drag, man? Eight to the bar.