1,000,073 miles apart

This is the scenic 15 mile Ojai to Ventura bike trail. It's quite different than the Ballona Creek Bike Path I have ridden regularly for the past 35 years or so. 

What the O2V trail has in the way of aromatic eucalyptus trees and bucolic scenery, the Ballona Creek Path has in runoff sewage water, busted shopping carts, and endless encampments of homeless people living underneath an overpass. 

Additionally, the O2V trail is smooth and paved with latest in asphalt technology and is a joy to pedal on. The Ballona Creek Path has remained choppy and chock full of potholes since the very first day of my virgin ride. A time when I had hair, muscular calfs, and the aerobic wherewithal to go 50 miles at a clip.

The differences couldn't be any starker.

Oh wait, yes they could. 

Because while riding the O2V trail, about 5 miles up and 2 hours of walking distance away from the nearest bike shop, I got a flat tire. Never a fun experience but also not one I was unaccustomed to. Unfortunately, the tires I had recently installed with a total bike refurbishing are called Gator Skins, and like the name would imply they grip onto the rim like a famished reptile snagging a tasty, slow flying pelican.

After much cursing and cajoling, I finally unleashed the flat tube from it bondage and carefully replaced it with a new $20 tube. Then like Ahab fighting the great leviathan, I fought mightily to get the damn Gator Skin back on. Only to inflate the new tire and watch it go flat, AGAIN.

This is where the contrast between the trails becomes even more evident than the smells and sights which define two distinctively different parts of Southern California.

As my friend watched and giggled as I struggled to change a tire and salvage what was left of my masculinity. Then a young man, let's call him Brennan, because that's the name his parents gave him,  coming from the opposite direction, literally stopped in his tracks to offer us assistance.

Stranded, with not a clue how to resolve this awkward situation, I reluctantly agreed to let Brennan have a go at it.

He too had a fitfull struggle to remove the once-already-removed Gator Skin. Unlike me, he insisted the best way to replace the tube was to unhinge both sides of the tire wall. OK, I thought, who am I to argue with a complete stranger taking time out of his pleasant Saturday ride to assist two hapless seniors. Or, more accurately, one hapless senior and one bemused spectator.

Brennan's meticulous operation took considerably longer than mine. But we were convinced this strapping young man knew better. But he didn't. Because when he was done, he was considerably less marked up with bruises and cuts (I now have 'old man skin'), but again the new tube went flat.

He could have left us in the shade of a crooked eucalyptus tree and said, "good luck" but he didn't. 

Instead he called for his wife to bring the truck around to a service road that ran parallel to the path and gave us a lift, with both our bikes, to the nearest bike shop.

It was by far the most generous, thoughtful deed of unselfishness that I have witnessed in a very long time. 

Perhaps it was the universe's way of repaying me for assisting a sad, drug-hazed Latina girl with bleach blond hair just two days earlier and forcing her to accept $20 dollars (unsolicited) so she could get a meal for herself and her poor little doggie.

As he went back to his truck, I said, "let us buy you a beer. Or two." 

He politely declined and said, in typical Brennan fashion (though we had only spent an hour and a half together), "thanks, I can't, but have a great day and please pay it forward."

Consider it done Brennan.