He Has My Back

“Ray, you don’t look like you belong on a bicycle; you look like you belong on a horse.”

The words belonged to my cousin Sheryl, at whose El Paso house my friend and I were staying on the eve of a 400-mile bicycle relay.

Sheryl was right. Ray’s large frame, combined with an equally large handle-bar mustache, belongs in a world of cowboys and motorcycle riders.

Certainly not in my world, but we are friends. Close friends.

Not sure why. Ray’s a working man, at home with a hammer, a welding torch, a lariat. The only tool I use with any success is a ball point pen.

Maybe it’s our shared love for cycling and hiking and the adventures they bring our way. But it’s more than that.

I like Ray because I trust him. Like when he kept his pickup between me and oncoming traffic during the bike relay. Or when he once offered to go along on a peak climb just because he didn’t want me going alone.

Ray is on my list of close friends because he does what close friends do for one another. He has my back.