Life per Gallon

Yesterday I went for a bike ride. At one point, I was pedaling up McLeod Road, inching my way up the hill, when I caught up with a man on the adjacent sidewalk. He was wearing a yellow Pearl Izumi vest — ah, perhaps a cyclist? — and walking with a cane.

I looked over, smiled, and said, "You want to race to the top?"

We both paused in our climb and introduced ourselves.

"Hi, I'm Fred." 

"Hi, I'm Sarah." 

Fred reached into his belt bag and said he had a book for me. 

I was confused. A book? For me? 

He handed it to me. 

I looked at the cover. "Life per Gallon." There was a photograph of a cyclist touring down a road, and beneath it: "Writings of Frederick Su." 

Ah, Fred was giving me a book he had written. 

We exchanged a few more words, I thanked him for his book, and then we parted ways. As he started up the hill again, I dismounted my bike to tuck the book into my pannier. When I looked up, Fred had already reached the top of the hill and disappeared around the corner. 

Last night, I started reading Fred's book. Within the first seven pages, there was mention of Bikecentennial — the 1976 ride that gave rise to Adventure Cycling Association — and June Curry, the famous Cookie Lady from Afton, Virginia. 

Curiosity kept me turning the pages. I read the entire book, cover to cover, before I feel asleep. 

By the time I finished, I felt as though I knew Fred. I knew his cycling stories, his struggles and triumphs, the places he'd been, the people he'd loved. More than that, I had a glimpse into his rich and profound interior world. 

I haven't been able to shake how strange our encounter was. I'm not entirely convinced I actually met Fred yesterday. 

I mean, what are the chances? I randomly say hello to a man walking up a hill. He happens to have written a book. He happens to have a copy with him. And he happens to give it to me — a book filled with stories and people and places that feel so deeply aligned with my own. 

Maybe it was just a coincidence. 

But it's things like this that leave me in complete awe of life. 

Thank you, Fred. Whether you're real or not.