Four or five years ago, I sustained a minor injury when out riding two or three streets over from our subdivision. I was startled by a car turning onto the street and managed to stop but still skinned one knee through my jeans.
I’m a fainter. It was a hot day, and the car speeding close to me on the bike gave me a scare. Black spots started interfering with my vision. I knew exactly what to do. I pushed the bike to the corner, leaned it up against the stop sign, sat down on the curb, and laid back on the grass. Experience had taught me that the spots would disappear in a few moments, and I could make my way home without any further difficulty.
In the meantime, I was pleased to note that the back of my helmet kept my head off the ground.
I had just stretched out and was beginning to feel better when a young, firm voice from just above me said, “May I help you, ma’am? I’m an employee of the Shelby County Sheriff’s Department.”
I opened one eye and was confronted by a younger version of myself. I knew she wouldn't go away until I either got up on my own or let her help me.So I let her help me. She and her teen age daughter were taking the girl’s boyfriend home. When we couldn’t get the bike in her vehicle, the boy pedaled it the two blocks to my house.
As she helped me out of the car, the young mother confessed she was a crossing guard for nearby Houston High School.