The next Tuesday, I stopped them at the door. “Excuse me,” I said. “I’ve seen you both for months. You’ve got to tell me — how did this start?”
The biker looked embarrassed. “It’s nothing. I just help him get here safely.”
Richard smiled faintly. “He saved my life eight months ago.”
The biker’s shoulders tensed. “It wasn’t anything dramatic.”
Richard shook his head. “Son, you pulled me out of traffic. You saved me.”
So they came inside, and I brought them coffee. What I heard next still gives me chills.
Last February, Richard had stepped into a crosswalk near the bus stop. The traffic signal had malfunctioned. He thought it was safe. A delivery truck was barreling through the intersection. And a man on a motorcycle—this biker—saw it happen.
He dropped his bike right there in traffic, sprinted across the street, and pulled Richard back onto the curb. The truck missed them by inches.
When the shock passed, the biker asked Richard where he was headed. “To the pharmacy,” Richard said. “I come here every Tuesday.”
The biker nodded. “That intersection’s dangerous. How about I meet you here on Tuesdays and walk you across?”
Richard had thought it was just polite talk. But the next Tuesday, he showed up. And every Tuesday since.
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