Meanwhile, my running group, not noticing that I am frozen with terror on the rocks, crosses the stream and disappears. I start to get a little panicked because I'm going to get lost if I don't keep up. Then I see this guy come back and start crossing the rocks towards my side, and I'm thinking, oh maybe the trail crosses back this way, so I don't have to cross at all. No such luck. He was just coming back to help me across. I didn't recognize him, so I knew this was his first run with us. Anyway, this guy holds my hand as I cross the rocks, shaking like an idiot, and he is simultaneously making fun of me and reassuring me along the way. It takes us about fifteen minutes to cross what took everyone else about thirty seconds. I am too scared and grateful to be embarrassed. As we get to the last of the rocks, he turns back and holds his hand out one last time so I can step onto the bank. "What's your name?" he asks. Then he tells me his.
The set up was perfect. It was one of those accidentally romantic scenarios, one of those stories you could exaggerate to your kids, you know, and tell them, "When Daddy and I met, he carried me across these dangerous river rapids." And if there was any justice in the world, this guy would have said to me, "My name is Michal or Peter or John. I have a job, and I like to run. Would you like to go out to dinner sometime?" But no. This is my life. So what I got was, "I'm Bucky from Kentucky. You can just call me Bucky. Hey, do you have facebook?" Then he grinned at me to show me a large gap where his right front tooth should be. My savior was Bucky from Kentucky with his
I don't mean to sound ungrateful, I was very happy he helped me across. I just think it's funny how nothing ever works out the exact way you think it should. I guess in reality, there are only two kinds of guys: the guys who help you across rivers, and the guys who have all their teeth.
