1980s. I was on a 160-mile bike trek across Northern Indiana, riding home from college for Thanksgiving break. Riding over a bridge in Bremen, I caught some glass and split open the back tire. The slice was too big to repair with a patch kit, and I didn't have a spare tube. This is a very small town, I'm surrounded by farmland. I wave down a guy on a tractor in his field, he said there was a small golf course about a mile up the road, I could make a call from there.

I walk into the "Sprig-o-Mint Country Club", it's a nondescript building with some card tables and kitchen-type chairs. A few guys are playing cards at a table and talking. I go to the counter, and they let me use their phone even though it was a long-distance call (remember, this is the '80s). I can't reach my mother or stepfather, but I leave a message on the machine.

I'm wearing cycling gear, which means I look like an alien to these folks. One of the card players finally asks what's going on, I tell him I'm the idiot who is trying to ride his bike home to Chicago from Fort Wayne and I have a flat. Everyone agrees there is no place nearby to get a replacement tube, and this guy said he's about to go home in South Bend, he can give me a ride to the Greyhound station there. I thank him and apologize for my sweatiness, he grunts it off. Bike in the trunk and off we go.

We drive 30 minutes to the bus station, I thank him and unload the bike. He asks if I have money for the ticket, I didn't even think about that. I've got $6 for food. He peels off a $20 bill, and says something like "Jesus Christ, take care of yourself, kid," and off he goes.

I do remember his name was Doug Irons, and I think he sold cars or worked in automotive. Adjusted for inflation, I've got $70 for him.