I’m not so proud of the clunky hospital wheelchair I first rented on a monthly basis until, to my horror, I realized I owned it outright. Leslie had a melt-down when I admitted my mistake. How could I not know? In the middle of our ensuing fight, I remember saying, “Forgive me for not being an expert in wheelchair acquisition at 32. I am completely unprepared to deal with this disease.” We both burst into tears at that truth. End of argument; beginning of exploration.

I was thrilled with my first Quickie, a wonder in deep purple aluminum I enthusiastically purchased in 2000 when I realized I could get durable medical equipment covered. All I needed was good insurance. Luckily, I had good insurance. I loved the Quickie ethos: the name loaded with innuendo, the colors flashy and fun, the design sleek. On the long lane leading to my parents’ house outside Boston, I practiced my technique before prime time in the city. Fourteen years later, I am the proud and skilled user of a rigid frame with a flip plate for my feet and an adjustable, supportive back rest. It’s faster than anything I’ve ever powered. Negotiating the hills and curb cuts and pot holes and ramps in Seattle, it’s all about balance.

In my many years of riding wheelchairs, self-propelled, I’ve seen rapid improvements. I’ve had the good fortune to trade up every few years and the good sense to ensure that my old model finds a new owner. Wheelchairs are lighter, more comfortable, specialized, user-friendly. I feel nimble in my ride. Athletic. So I’m a savvy consumer, but maintenance is still a tricky matter. If my chair’s not fully functioning, I’m a mess

That’s why the breaks are so shocking, even though I know my chairs get a lot of wear and tear. They’ve been up hill towns in Tuscany and down dangerously steep roads in Cinque Terre. I have motored through cedar-chip paths in British Columbia and acted as a human snow plow in frigid Boston. I faced crowds at Fenway Park to watch the Sox. I braved Super Bowl celebrations in Seattle. I figured out trans-continental travel, chair intact. But my accidents have rarely happened on adventures.

This week, during my early walk with Gus on a wet, dark Monday morning, the bracket that connects the seat post to the frame sheared off. I couldn’t shake the sickening snapping sound, like a broken femur on a field of play. But no trainers sprinted toward me. Dog in tow, sans cell phone, I didn’t think I could make it home unaided. I had no leverage to push. I called out to a guy who was working on Seattle’s infamous viaduct replacement. “Can I get a favor?”

He took a drag off his cigarette and squinted, “Depends what it is.”

I pointed to my broken chair and asked him to push me home. “Close enough?” he queried when we neared my condo. I nodded. He disappeared quickly into the wind and the rain before I could give thanks. I wondered if I had conjured him.

I’m not sure when I started consciously thinking of my chairs as an extension of myself. But I remember asking baggage handlers and flight attendants to be careful with my legs as they disassembled my chair to store the pieces in the cold, cavernous hold. I’ve cradled broken parts and wheeled them to fix-it shops as if offering up my own limbs. And with the exchange, I utter a silent prayer of redemption.”Please make them whole.” Well-worn, chipped, bent, and beat up, each chair extended my horizon line, and — with the help of random strangers, loyal friends, and my true love — pushed me past limits. I feel proud, now, to have garnered the strength and support to wobble through the every-day finish lines of my life.