The Flat Tire

When I was eleven years old, I had an old road bike that I found in the back of the garage. There happened to be a fabulous rectangular configuration or roads in our neighbourhood that made for the perfect circuit, complete with hills, curves, and straightaways. All summer long I rode this circuit, over and over again, and it was the beginning of what would become a life-long love affair with movement as a tool to discharge the intense emotions that had been building up inside of me since I was very young.

One day, my front tire blew out, and I sadly walked the bike back and leaned it up against the house, at a loss as to what to do.

Weeks later, I ran into one of my friends’ fathers who lived nearby, who asked me why I didn’t ride my bike anymore.

“It’s got a flat tire,” I told him.

His eyes registered surprise, but he calmly replied: “You go get your bike and wait for me at the end of your driveway.”

I had no idea what we were going to do, but I trusted him, and followed his directions.

Minutes later, he pulled up in his station wagon, and I watched as this man, who was a virtual stranger to me, put my bike into the back, and motion for me to get into the passenger seat. Together we drove to the local service station and stood side by side as the mechanic fixed my tire. After my neighbour paid for the service, we drove back up the hill where he dropped me off at the end of my driveway.

Up until this point, I had assumed that life was difficult, that problems had no solutions, and that everything took a really long time to happen.

That neighbour didn’t just fix my flat tire that day; he showed me a whole new way of looking at the universe, one that I would remember and tap into for the rest of my life.

Why my own father didn’t fix my tire, is a whole other question.

If you’ve read All That Glitters, you have a beginner’s understanding.

By the time you’ve read my next book, you’ll wonder why I’m not in a psych ward.