One evening in the summer of 2007, I was cycling (for a change). I headed north on Route 153, taking a right on Bokum Road in Essex and following that to Route 154 in Old Saybrook. As I rounded the turn onto 154, intending to pedal past all the car dealerships and on toward Route 1, I heard the faint but unmistakable rupturing sound all cyclists dread. Something had punctured my back tire, and the air hissed from it at 120 pounds per square inch. I stopped. It was dusk. I was wearing my dark, wraparound cycling glasses with only a distance-vision prescription in them, rather than the trifocals I otherwise wear. I was not equipped for any task requiring near sight. I was rapidly losing the last of the day’s light. And I had one chance to replace my tube and inflate it because I had just one CO2 cartridge in my pocket. I blew it.
There remains considerable debate in mechanical/intellectual circles and in some of the more prestigious cycling magazines about whether my failure to inflate the tire was due to a faulty valve in the stem of the new tube – or to operator error. Let the debate rage on, and be that as it may. What matters is that I was stranded miles from my home in Westbrook. I was out of daylight and almost completely out of luck … almost.
As I knelt by my bike pondering my fate, I was bathed in light. At first I feared I’d finally pushed God over the edge. He’d finally had enough of my boneheadedness and decided then and there to take me to my reward, such as it might be. At the very least he’d resolved to just get me out of the way so other people could get on with their lives in relative peace. I was wrong. But I was close. It wasn’t God. It was one of my guardian angels.
If you’re anything like me, you expect your angels to show up with some kind of otherworldly light, to be borne on white wings, and to be accompanied by heraldic trumpets. Or, if not blaring trumpets, maybe a little harp music or something. Mine showed up with headlights. She was borne in a black Infiniti SUV. And she was accompanied by ZZ Top’s “Sharp Dressed Man,” which I, of course, took to be a heavenly sign that even angels think I look cute in spandex shorts. My angel spoke:
“Need a ride?”
I thought quickly: I’m a guy. I’m supposed to be a cyclist. I’m supposed to have things completely under control. I’m supposed to be cool …
“Yes, please.”
“Okay. Throw it in the back.”
On the way to Westbrook, I asked her if she wasn’t afraid to pick up a stranger. She said, “Well, you’re a little weird. But you’re not that strange. Besides, my husband’s a cyclist, and cyclists take care of each other.” I asked if I was taking her out of her way. She said, “No. I’m just going to pick up a pizza and take it home.” I asked where they lived. She said,“Essex.” I did some quick geographical calculations and determined how far out of her way she really was going. I felt a little guilty and thought: I guess this is what angels do.
As she drove, I introduced myself (as if she hadn’t already been given my Permanent File by The Big Guy upstairs before he dispatched her to rescue me). She said her name was Kristine MacDonald. I was expecting something a tad more celestial, or perhaps Italian, given her distinctly Mediterranean appearance. But Kristine MacDonald had a nice Scottish ring to it. So, I let it go. She also told me that, as part of her secret identity, she was a hair stylist at Essence in Old Saybrook. It made sense to me. If a newspaper reporter works as a cover for Superman, why not a hair stylist for an angel, right?
When we got to my home, I unloaded my bike and asked if she’d wait a minute while I grabbed a business card for her. Coming back out, I handed it to her and asked her to please let me return the favor if she or her husband ever needed help with anything. Kristine smiled, said, “Pay it forward,” and drove off. I went in the house, thought about the events of the early evening, pondered the lessons to be learned there from, then my memories of the evening gradually receded, as such things are wont to do … until the following spring.
On April 2, 2008, I received an e-mail. It said this:
Hi, Mark:
I just came across the card you gave Kris last summer and thought I’d see if you’re interested in doing the bike thing sometime. Hope you’re still at it.
Dave
Dave, as it turned out, is Dr. David MacDonald, an optometrist at Essex Vision Center in Centerbrook. Dave also turned out to be the husband of Kristine. I returned his note. We exchanged a few more. Ultimately we did, indeed, do the bike thing together.
All of this simply is more evidence of my charmed life. As a result of finding myself in need one summer night in Old Saybrook – caused by my poor vision on a number of fronts – I now have two good friends. I have a place to get new glasses (or night-vision goggles if Kristine has anything to do with it). I visit Essence every five or six weeks so Kristine can keep me looking tonsorially splendid. And I learned that angels collect business cards.
Dave and I don’t cycle together as often as we’d like to. We have busy lives and different schedules. Plus, he has to look out for the angel who looked out for me. It seems only fair, doesn’t it?
And that’s how we roll down here along the shoreline. I can see clearly now.
P.S. Twenty-six years ago today, I held my newborn first son in my hands. He was a little, blue conehead with thick, black hair and wrinkled ears. Today’s he’s a fine young man, as well as an inspired and inspiring basketball coach. Happy birthday, Sean. I love you.
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