The Legend of Jack Lemley

The first time I saw Jack Lemley was one of those small, perfect introductions you don’t realize the importance of until much later. It was a mild Boise morning, and I was already seated outside the Starbucks at 18th and State — the one tucked into a worn strip with ivy climbing its brick, and a steady stream of regulars who never bother to look up from their phones. 

I was halfway through a dark roast when Jack rolled up on his Giant adult tricycle, pedaling in from Warm Springs like it was the most natural way in the world for an 80-something retired engineer to arrive anywhere in Boise. There was no sturdy bike rack nearby, no special accommodation for a piece of equipment like that, but Jack didn’t need to ask. He just pulled up next to where I was sitting, turned the front wheel a crisp ninety degrees, and rested both hands on the handlebars with authority — his unspoken question hanging in the air. 

“Mind if I park here?”