"My wife's in labor!"

I had always wanted to be like the men in the movies who, at some urgent point, get to exclaim to a stranger: "...my wife's going into labor!" For Arthur's birth, I got that chance. I wish it had been a cop in his squad car, but it's hard for me to get pulled over on my bicycle.
After that initial adrenaline-jolting phone call with Sally on that fateful morning, I notified my supervisor and quickly tied up all my loose ends at work - ready for a few days off. It had rained that morning, so before slinging my bag and heading out to the bike rack, I had to don my rain gear, barely dry from my commute in just 2 hours previous. Working the bike lock and fastening my front wheel was like playing 'Operation' with sausages for fingers. As soon as I mounted my Bianchi, I knew something was wrong. There was a notable resistance coming from the bike and the back end felt a little 'wobbly'. Sure enough, I had a flat tire. Of all the days! Splashing through downtown's puddles I jogged my bike, holding the saddle as I ran, to the local bike shop a few blocks away. At 11:07am there was no other customer in the store. I was welcomed with
"Hi, how's it goin' today?"
"Well, OK. I have a flat tire...and I'm in a bit of a hurry...my wife's going into labor!"
"Oh boy! Let's get it in this stand-"
He threw it into the stand, clamping it by the seat post as on we chattered. The mechanic was clearly 'frazzled' by this unusual pressure to perform quickly. He shot off a slurry of abbreviated questions - straight to the point:
"How did it go flat? Was it a 'pop' or a slow leak"
I informed him it leaked over the course of 2 hours - the amount of time I'd been at work.
"Are you going to the St. Cloud Hospital?"
I let him know that yes, we were going to go there, but that my wife was at home, which is just over a mile, and I should probably go there first to pick her up.
The mechanic filled my tube with air, gave it about 2 seconds to show any sign of leakage and quickly asked,
"Do you want to try it just like this? Do you think you'll make it?"
I thought so, so I gave him the nod and out my bike came.
Before I knew it I was running red lights in the deserted downtown streets, climbing curbs, and making my usual way through parking lots and alleyways to Broadway, which takes me most of the way home. My whole exchange in the bike shop probably lasted about a minute but I'm sure that mechanic loved that he could tuck that story away in his back pocket for some lull in that evening's conversation with friends. Then again, he still doesn't know if I made it home on that tire or not - maybe he won't be telling anyone.
And that is a little piece of the story of Arthur's birth.