Share the road

It was about 4:00 one late spring afternoon and I was driving casually up a country road, on the way back to town after doing a soil stability analysis on a rural site. I was coming up on a bicyclist headed the same way, half watching him/her to be sure I wasn’t crowding the rider with my F250. The rider was wearing one of those tight, ugly unisex cycling outfits, and I had given up checking out cyclist’s rear ends after a couple occasions of discovering, on passing the rider, that the cute butt at one end of the bike had a beard at the front. I’ve got no problem with gays, but I’m not and I can’t help it if I found the experience disturbing. I stuck to watching them just enough to be sure I was sharing the road fairly after that.

I had just swung out to pass the rider with plenty of space when a black and white blur flew out of the roadside bushes and hit the front wheel, sending the rider ass over teakettle. I slammed on the brakes and turned to see a big, ugly dog snapping at the downed rider as he/she tried to fend it off with the bike from a sitting position. Well, that’s ridiculous; I grabbed my hawthorn walking stick from behind the seat and jumped out, waving and yelling. The dog turned to me and got a couple good whacks in the ribs before it put its tail between its legs and ran off yelping. I turned to the rider.

“You hurt?”

I looked a little closer. Definitely female, even under the eyesore cycling outfit. She pulled off her helmet, releasing a tangled mass of strawberry blond hair, and looked up at me.

“Scraped up but nothing worse, I think. Where did that thing come from?”

“Must belong to one of those hillbillies out here. Let me help you up.”

She started to take my hand and then winced.

“Darn, my hands are really scraped up.”

“OK, let’s try it this way.”

I held her upper arm to keep her steady as she picked herself up. She took a couple steps and then staggered, almost going down, and I threw an arm around her waist. Not a big waist, I noticed in passing. She let me take her light weight.

“You hit your head or something?”

“No, I think it’s just adrenaline aftershocks. That was scary.”

“No kidding.”

I dropped the tailgate and half lifted her onto it.

“Just sit there for a few minutes and get your bearings. Let me see your hands.”

She held them out. Both palms were well scraped up, with a couple fairly deep cuts that looked like they had gravel in them. Nice hands otherwise, long fingers well cared for.

“I need the first aid kit. Sit tight a second.”

When I came back I noticed a line of blood running down her leg. Potentially attractive legs under better circumstances.

“Looks like your knees took a hit too. How do they feel?”

She swung her legs a little.

“Just scraped and bruised, I think.”

She sucked on her lower lip. Cute gesture on her.

“I’m really putting you to a lot of trouble here. Don’t you need to go someplace?”

“What am I going to do, leave you ten miles from town injured and with a busted bike? I work for myself so there’s no one tracking my time. I’ll take off if you insist but I wouldn’t feel right about it.”

She smiled. A smile that should be registered as a lethal weapon, even through the streaks of mud and sweat across her face.

“I appreciate it, believe me. I just hate to be such a bother.”

“Forget it.”

I pulled the Leatherman off my belt and folded out the tweezers.

“Let me see those hands again.”

I quickly removed the gravel and applied Neosporin and a bandage, and then did the same to her knee.

“You’re pretty good at that.”

“I was a Devil Doc years ago. Once you’ve learned to deal with IED injuries a scraped hand is pretty easy. Ready to walk to the door of the truck?”

“You don’t have to do all that.”

“Like I said, I can’t leave you out here stuck. Go hop in.”

She carefully walked to the door of the truck, keeping one hand on the side for balance, while I tossed her bike in the back and climbed in the other side.

“First things first. Hi, I’m Ben McLoughlin.”

She started to stick out her hand and then thought better of it.

“Jill Williams. I’d normally be glad to meet you, but this way of doing it is painful.”

“Hope it doesn’t happen often- at least the bike wreck part of it. So, Jill, should I take you home or to the doctor’s office?”

“Home would be great. I just want to get cleaned up and get some rest. I live over on Decatur Street.”

I tried to make small talk on the way, but she was obviously worn out and struggling to hold up her end, so I let it go and finished the ride in silence except for the directions to her house. She lived in a small house in an older but comfortable part of town, and had a Miata parked in the driveway. She lifted herself out of the truck gingerly, and I climbed out my side.

“Where do you want the bike?”

“Just set it next to the garage for now. Look, you’ve been really great.”

“No problem.”

“Well, thanks again.”

For the last half of the ride I had been debating whether to suggest that I’d like to see her again.