BiKing

When I ran into him, it hardly seemed real. He was finishing up repairing a flat tire on the bike trail, when I pulled over to help the stranger.

“No, I’m good here, baby. Thank ya though, man,” he said. His voice was oddly familiar, as was the flip of his grey hair; a startlingly handsome dude, probably in his early eighties. As I prepared to leave, I eyed him with suspicion. Sensing it, he said, “Hey man, can we keep this meeting between me and you?”

“No problem,” I said.

He finished up, and pedaled away, humming “Don’t be Cruel.”