It was a rather dreary December day in Cleveland, over thirty years ago, and I was visiting my sister for the first few days of winter break. It was my first year teaching at a boarding school and I had the next three weeks off with no particular plans other than to figure out what I was going to do for the upcoming summer.

My sister happened to have a Bicycling magazine on her coffee table and since I was otherwise bored out of my skull, I read that thing from cover to cover. I even read through the classified ads on the last few pages, which, back in those pre-internet days, included everything from used bikes, bike shops for sale, and employment opportunities.

It was that last section where I lingered, pondering first working as a mechanic in a New York City bike shop until I saw the “European Bike Tour Guide” ads and my mind started racing.

The evening light in Paris, even on a cloudy day, takes your breath away. I know I would not have visited as much as I have.

I had been a French major in college, spending my junior year in Strasbourg, France, “studying”, playing basketball, and traveling throughout Europe at every opportunity. The prospect of spending the three summer months (insert joke here: What are the best three things about teaching? June, July, and August) riding a bike across Europe was almost too much for my poor little brain to process.

Nonetheless, I picked up the phone (you know, the one that was attached to the wall) and dialed the first number on the list of the three companies looking for guides. The conversation was brief as the person on the other end of the line explained that I would need to spend the first “couple of years” leading their domestic tours and then maybe, maybe, I could lead a trip or two in Europe during the third year.

Well, the prospect of leading a group of people in and around Dubuque, Iowa was not my idea of a “fun” summer job, so I politely thanked my interlocutor and hung up the phone. Dejected, I imagined that the other two companies listed in the Bicycling want ads would be more of the same so I tossed the magazine in the recycling bin and returned to my state of intense boredom.

The following day was garbage day and my sister had dutifully taken out the recycling and the trash. As I heard the collection trucks rumble toward us, I leaped to action and ran outside. Ever since adding the Bicycling magazine to the recycling bin the afternoon before, I had pondered whether I should go ahead and call the other two European cycling tour companies listed in the magazine’s classified ad section.

The thin fresh layer of overnight snow stung my bare feet (there was no time to find my shoes) as I raced down the driveway, arriving at the bin just a few moments before the truck. I quickly grabbed the magazine and sprinted back inside.

After bringing my feet back to room temperature, I once again found the ads in the back of the magazine and called the second company that had listed an opening for a cycling tour guide. Answering machine. Undeterred, I left what I thought was a witty message and then quickly called the third number.

Even before I could get out as much as a complete sentence, I was cut off. The person at the other end of the line indicated that they had been inundated with calls about the position and were no longer soliciting inquiries.

Great.

I met my lovely wife as a result of leading my very first bike trip in Europe. Had the recycling truck beat me to the curb? Who knows?

With that, I quickly gave up on my dream of riding a bike through Europe over the summer and decided to shelve the entire plan of securing summer employment over winter break. I figured I could always return to my home town and someone there would take pity on my penniless soul. Sure, it would mean living at home again, but how bad could that be?

For the rest of winter break, I completely forgot about my big plans for the summer instead focusing on surviving my family (no small chore). Shortly after New Year’s Day, I returned to upstate New York, to my dorm and a blinking light on my answering machine (yeah, I know).

The first message was from the second tour company, the one with whom I had left a message weeks before. The owner was impressed with the “cleverness of my message” and he thought I might be a “good fit” and wondered if I could meet him down in the city (that would be New York City, for those not “in the know”).

Um, OK.

So I took the train down, met him in SoHo, chatted for about an hour, proved that I was competent in both spoken French and bicycle repair, and he hired me on the spot.

That conversation, which seems exceedingly brief now, led to nearly three decades of leading bike tours in Europe, and the interviewer, the owner of the company, became one of my dearest friends. Sure, as I got older and had kids, the trips were less frequent but I kept “a foot in the game” right up until he died two years ago.

The incredible people I have met? Like Steve and Paula Dooley of Stephen Ross Wine Cellars in San Luis Obispo (among scores of others)? I likely never would have met them and led a life devoid of interesting people.

Since then, I have pondered all that has happened since then. I met my wife indirectly as the result of a trip, which has produced my two wonderful boys. I traveled all over Western Europe, met countless wonderful people, and developed my love of wine. I likely would have never started this blog and never visited many of the most prominent wine regions in the world.

Recently, I have thought about that dreary afternoon in Cleveland and wondered how my life would have been different had my sister not had that Bicycling magazine, had I not decided to read it, and had the recycling truck come five minutes earlier. 

It just boggles my mind.

And I don’t regret any of it.

Here’s to the next 3,000 posts!

Would I love to cook as much as I do? Would I have ever heard of Tongue Dancer Wines? Who knows? Probably not. Thank you recycling truck guys for not showing up five minutes earlier.