A teenage girl, maybe fifteen or sixteen, crouched by the rear tire with a tire iron in her hands. She was crying. And she kept looking over her shoulder at the dark woods behind her like something was coming.
I’ve been riding for thirty-eight years. I’m sixty-three years old, a retired firefighter, and I’ve seen enough scared people to recognize pure terror. This girl wasn’t just frustrated about a flat tire. She was absolutely terrified.
I circled back and pulled onto the shoulder about twenty feet behind her car. The moment my headlight hit her, she jumped up and held that tire iron like a weapon. “Stay back!” she screamed. “I have mace!”
I killed my engine and held up both hands. “Easy, sweetheart. I’m just here to help with your tire. I’m not going to hurt you.”