The metal contraption sits in my closet, taunting me. Four hundred dollars of medical-grade disappointment. A knee brace so uncomfortable, so robotic, that I've worn it maybe three times since purchase.

"Waste of money," I could say. "Doctor's advice that led nowhere."

But that would miss the beautiful truth hiding beneath my frustration.

That useless brace sent me to a clinic I'd never visited. At that clinic, I met David during what should have been a routine fitting. We started talking. One thing led to another.

"What do you do for exercise now that you are injured?" he asked.

"I bike," I said.

His eyes lit up. "Cool. Me too. Where?"

"Walnut Creek."

"No way, that’s where I bike regularly!"