You think you know what you're doing until you realize you don't. This is how it started that morning for me. My bike had been in storage for nearly six months, and it had been close to a year since I'd actually ridden the thing. All I wanted to do was put my bike together so I could pick up a moving truck without having to bother anyone.

After picking up the bike from storage, I parked my car in the spot just outside the gate to my apartment building, which would make it easy to switch out with the moving truck for loading. I popped my trunk and began to pull out pieces of my bike. First came the front wheel, which I set on the asphalt against my back bumper. Then came exhuming the heavy mountain bike frame. I struggled slightly, but in less than a minute I had both pieces resting outside my car.

All I needed to do was roll the wheel into the slot, tighten the quick release knob, and reengage the wheel with the front brake. I held the front of the bike up and rolled the wheel into place, only it wouldn't quite fit. It seemed to be a millimeter too big, and I just knew that if I kept trying, it would eventually fit. I was wrong, but I wouldn't realize this on my own.

To prolong this realization, I decided to start over. I set everything up the same, expecting different results. I moved the bike frame this way and that, upside down, side to side, to and fro, still with the same results. I huffed inaudibly under my breath, attempting to avoid attracting attention to myself. And I just as I couldn't bare to struggle with it any longer, I saw man approaching just within my peripheral vision.

He stepped in cautiously, intrigued by my struggle with the bike. Just as I finally forced the axle into the prongs, he asked, "You got that alright?"

The man introduced himself as Larry, and gave me an opportunity not to judge a book by its cover. He was wearing baggy, dirty khaki cargo pants held up by an old belt and a grungy, torn t-shirt that likely fit him well when he had a place to eat and sleep every night. His teeth were yellowed, aside from the front one that was missing, and he sported a 9:00 shadow of stubble. He wore a red baseball cap with headphones over the top, the left headphone over his left ear and the right one slightly off so he could hear my reply.

"I think I've got it," I said with an accomplished smile. I turned my head in pride, only to see the wheel pop out and back onto the ground, rolling to a stop at the bumper of my car. "Crap."

With a playful smile, Larry was careful not to laugh. He was poised and non-intrusive, yet authentic and real. His smile was not belittling, simply an acknowledgement of the situation. Larry seemed genuinely concerned with me getting my tire to fit onto my bike, and I was captivated by the fact that I was not weary of this man offering help, and invited him to do so.

He immediately noticed the problem with my tire: there were no bearings on one side and only four on the other side. He forced the wheel on and pushed the wheel back and forth between his fingers to show me that the bearings helped stabilize the tire so it wouldn't wobble all over the place while I was riding. It was not safe to ride like this. I felt like such a girl; how could I not know this?

Larry told me of a bike shop just down the road where I could take it to be fixed for about $5. Which was great, except I wasn't willing to give up my parking spot. I made him an offer to have him take my wheel and $10 to the bike shop and fix my wheel, and he could keep the change.

He seemed almost dumbfounded that a woman on the street with money in her pocket and a place to call home would trust him not only with money, but her property as well. As I recounted the story to a friend later in the day, she snickered, "So you gave him $10 and something to sell and expected him to come back?" I laughed and smiled, thinking how it all turned out.

Larry returned in less than an hour with my wheel fully functioning. He even put it on at no additional charge. When I asked if the money I gave him was enough, he pulled the $10 bill from his pocket to hand it back to me. The parts had only cost him $3 and he had the change in his pocket, so he didn't need the $10. And now I was dumbfounded.

This homeless man offered to help a stranger on the street who offered him money, spent an hour out of his day to help me, paid money out of his pocket that surely didn't come from a steady paycheck, and didn't want to take the money I'd already promised him: the money already in his hand.

I held my hand out to shake his, telling him to keep the $10 because he'd earned it. But I didn't mean the money; I meant my trust. This man made me rethink my views on the homeless. If I had judged this man based on his appearance rather than his character, I'd probably still be outside struggling to get that wheel on my bike.

Without even knowing it needed restoring, Larry brought back my faith in the human race. Things don't always work out the way I plan, but they seem work out when I have faith in the end result and simply let go of the details.