Colorado in late September. Two best friends, a comfortable motorhome, two bicycles, mountains to pedal up and peak Colorado color. Life is good.
We startled at the flash of a photographer in the middle of the 3,000 foot tunnel before realizing it was Bob, giggling and testing the features of his new camera. Stopping at Frostburg for the night, we enjoyed some trail side pizza—delivered to Turtle in the parking lot—as Mike’s treat.
There have been a very few times in my life when time seemed to slow, if not stand still, and this was one. I could see the car headed for us broad side, in slow motion, too late to brake, to late for our acceleration to help. Neither the driver or us even considered involving the police: He because he was Brazilian and has known all his life to distrust them, and we because we had been warned not to involve police in anything, not even an injury accident.
I hurried Bob along, holding my oversized chocolate cookie, as the stranger called out “I won’t hurt you!” Suddenly, Bob turned sharply and defensively and soon learned the man was just asking for food. He gave over some of his cookie and the man thanked him. Now I know why we haven’t understood people who we thought were asking for money. I’ve been trying to figure out how people can afford to eat here and now I feel really bad that we’ve been ignoring them.