Showing posts with label in memoriam. Show all posts
Showing posts with label in memoriam. Show all posts

August 19, 2023

B is for Bob

The last time I saw Bob, he needled me (as he was wont to do) about retiring. Little did we imagine that the door would close on my professional life four days later, or that he would be gone in less than four months.

Bob had retired before I'd met him, and he was a poster child for early retirement. From my perspective, he was unambiguously making the most of his time on this planet.

It was a fluke that our paths crossed. Back in 2005, I started chatting with three cyclists at a rest stop during the I Care Classic. I'd been tailing them, as we were riding at a similar pace. The very next week, I was surprised to find them at the Foothill Century and we exchanged contact information. Thanks to those encounters, I was drawn into a circle of East Bay cycling friends that included Bob's wife.

In 2011, Bob and Pat persuaded me to join them on one of their frequent European cycling tours. We summited the Stelvio, Gavia, and Mortirolo passes in the Italian Alps, and I was hooked. I would go on to share more adventures with them in Austria, France, Germany, Italy, Liechtenstein, and Switzerland.
Before we gathered to pay tribute to Bob today, a group assembled to honor his memory with a bike ride. (I'll note that the route, intentionally or not, traced the outline of the letter B.)

There was a thread in the stories people told at our celebration of Bob's life: “I'm not sure Bob liked me, but ... ” was the common lead-in to some thoughtful or kind thing that Bob had done. He could be gruff, but ... yes, he liked you.

Bob's brother shared a sentiment that hit home: Your life isn't about how much time you live, it's about how you live your time.

You lived your time well Bob, and you deserved more of it. We miss you.

June 24, 2023

Honoring Steve

Today's ride honored the memory of a friend's husband, suddenly and unexpectedly lost earlier this year.

Our easy East Bay route included a stop at a park with a unique playground—designed for children with special needs, featuring play areas inspired by regional landmarks. Imagine a swing designed to accommodate a wheelchair!

There was a strong turnout (43 cyclists), and our leaders were attentive to keeping us safe and on track. Being unfamiliar with the area, I appreciated that (despite having a detailed route to follow).

A celebration of Steve's life followed; the luncheon included his favorite dishes—his family joked that he'd always made the menu selections.

My connection was with Judy, Steve's wife; we'd first met at a cycling event 18 years ago. So many members of their cycling club rose to share stories about how kind and thoughtful he was: graciously sweeping group rides, encouraging riders during their low moments, fixing their bikes.

I recalled a moment that Judy shared with me recently, when she arrived at a cycling event and learned that one of the organizers had forgotten his helmet: She reached into her car and pulled out a spare. “Steve always kept a spare helmet in the car,” she explained.

I can't think of a better way to honor his memory. Be kind. Be helpful.

May 21, 2022

Remembering Steve

The last time someone asked me about Steve was the day he drew his final breath. At the time, I had no idea.
Ride leaders have their own styles, and I liked Steve's. It wasn't long before he recruited me to co-lead with him. At first he wanted to pre-ride (!) every route we mapped out. That was too much for me, and I managed to persuade him that we might not need quite that level of preparation.

He also shunned offering route sheets, insisting that without them the group would need to stay together. True enough, but that locks everyone into the pace of the slowest rider; I suggested that we would attract more riders if the jackrabbits could dart ahead and wait for others to catch up. He was also insistent that we plan our lunch stop for noon—later than that and he would assuredly be grumpy.

Steve had a silly sense of humor. I don't think we ever passed a horse without Steve asking “Why the long face?”

We rode thousands of miles together, and led nearly 60 rides over the course of nine years. One of my favorite memories was the day we took Caltrain to San Francisco, where we would join a group to ride across the Golden Gate Bridge and onward to Tiburon. It was Steve's birthday, and he had “permission” to ride so long as he got home in time for dinner.

I boarded the train a couple of stops before he would; I festooned the bike car with crêpe paper streamers and brought mini-cupcakes to share with all. As we arrived in San Francisco the conductor announced the last stop over the intercom, adding a spirited “And Happy Birthday, Steve!

After Steve retired, we rarely rode together—he shifted to weekday rides and focused more on achieving milestones than riding socially. Then he disappeared.

I'd reach out to him periodically, letting him know that club members were asking about him. It would be some time before he was ready to tell me that he'd been diagnosed with Parkinson's and that he'd probably had it for years before being diagnosed. I thought back to a ride we'd co-led in 2014. He'd introduced me to that route, yet when we stopped at an intersection on the return, he didn't know which way to go. After that, we led only one more ride together.

Steve was a model ride leader: Thoughtful, patient, kind, encouraging. At his memorial service today, friends and family members filled in more pieces of his life story. I recalled words that had resonated with me at another memorial service a few years ago, exhorting us to stay present in the lives of our friends, to ensure that they can see how much we treasure our friendship. I am sad that Steve had isolated himself from our community, but he did not want his diagnosis shared. I know that his cycling buddies would have enjoyed spending time with him much more than memorializing him.

I will always cherish the memories of the adventures I enjoyed with Steve, and in that sense carry forward a thread of his life in mine.

April 30, 2022

Remembering Doug

I was surprised, two months ago, that Doug didn't join us when we rode to remember Jon. Doug (sporting a Death Ride jersey) is the taller guy on the right in the photo above, taken at the site where we would later erect the Ghost Bike in memory of Jon.

Doug was a cut above—in 2019, he completed five double-centuries (those are one-day, 200-mile rides), distinguishing himself (yet again) as a California Triple Crown winner. I am not in that league, so I would rarely find myself sharing the road with Doug.

I hadn't known that health issues had led him to scale back his cycling—and that he was taking it easier, riding on weekdays—until the day he collapsed, at the top of a familiar short climb he'd ridden countless times before.

Thirty-nine of us came together for a modest ride at a gentle pace, in memory of Doug. A few of Doug's treasured jerseys had been gifted to some of his friends, who wore them proudly today in his memory.

And so, we keep rolling forward. For me, merely 36 miles with less than 800 feet of climbing today. But I will never forget Doug protectively trailing behind me on Airline Highway the day we captured that photo.

February 16, 2022

Remembering Ellen

The chapel was filled with Ellen's family and friends and colleagues. They shared stories and memories of a woman who was involved with her community, warm and friendly and generous and kind, a strong and accomplished athlete.

Monks chanted and sounded bells in a Buddhist ceremony before leading a procession to say our last farewells, each of us tucking a white rose beside her.

Ellen's broad smile radiated from every photo on display. Another cyclist pointed out details I would have missed in a large poster that we'd seen at Sunday's memorial ride: The photographer reflected in her sunglasses. The lacy pink shoes on her feet. She would often forget her cycling shoes but do the ride nonetheless, he explained. [Note for non-cyclists: that's quite challenging, our pedals are not designed for that.]

A dozen or so of us cyclists assembled at the rear of the funeral procession. Our spirits were lifted when one remarked “Ellen would have loved this, that we were sending her off on our bikes.”

I regret that I'd never met her; I nearly turned out for a ride she led a few weeks ago, but the group was doing a long training ride and realistically I wouldn't be able to ride at their pace.

In the final ceremony before Ellen's cremation, the bells seemed to fall into the rhythm of a heartbeat. A beat that grew slower, and slower, and then ... silence.

This line from a poem by Mary Oliver echoes in my head:

Tell me, what is it that you plan to do with your one and precious life?

While we have the chance, let's (all of us) do more.

December 20, 2018

Ghost Bike Dedication

Winter rains have started to green the hills, but today the sun shone upon us.

We gathered in memory of Jon. His wife and son, his friends, members of his congregation and our bicycle club, and the folks from the ranch who graciously gave space on their land for a ghost bike.

Memories were shared, prayers read, tears shed.

From there we rode the familiar Cienega Loop in the unfamiliar direction (northward), rolling in at 33 miles with 1,480 feet of climbing.

In the afternoon, we bore somber witness in the courtroom at the final hearing. When Jon's widow read her statement about the impact of Jon's loss on their family and the community, it was as though everyone in the room froze in place: no one stirred, no one made a sound. The judge, having accepted the defendant's plea of “no contest” to the misdemeanor charge for killing Jon, sentenced the driver to a jail term of 150 days. He will return to his life. To his wife. To his children.

Jon is gone forever, and we will never know why.

September 4, 2018

For Jon

The day was clear and although it warmed up in the hills south of Hollister, somehow there was a refreshingly cool breeze. This is how Jon would want to be remembered, we said, riding our bikes in the golden California countryside.

View of golden, oak-studded hills from Cienega Road, San Benito County, California
I rarely crossed paths with Jon; he was an accomplished long-distance cyclist, with tens of thousands of miles and 44 double centuries safely behind him. We did ride in the same group in January, when he turned up for a shorter ride (which he, of course, extended).

Before we set out on our bicycles this morning, eight of us made our way to the San Benito County courthouse to be present for the arraignment of the driver who killed Jon on February 19. The driver wasn't there, but we were. His attorney responded to the judge with a plea of “not guilty.” Of course, the man is guilty of taking Jon's life. The legal system must determine whether he is guilty of the precise charge that has been filed against him.

Looking back at the shimmering golden hills, Cienega Road, San Benito County, California
There is a beautiful sheen to the hills when the light strikes them just so.

We climbed Cienega Road from Hollister to Paicines and turned south onto Highway 25. Nothing stands out about the place where Jon lost his life that day. The roadway has no shoulder, but there is ample visibility: that stretch of road is razor-straight. It can be an easy place to drive very fast.

At the future site of a ghost bike for Jon Kaplan, Cienega Road and Airline Highway, Paicines, California
Thanks to the owner of the Paicines Ranch, we expect to place a Ghost Bike nearby, in Jon's memory.

The other riders in our group are much stronger than I am; there were at least two who have completed multiple double centuries—including one rider in the Triple Crown Hall of Fame. On our return to Hollister, I motioned that they should pass me as we approached an uphill grade on Highway 25. “No, this is fine,” they said. And I understood. On this road, on this day, they were my wingmen.

I dug deep on that hill, and managed to average 13.2 mph overall, climbing 1,560 feet over 38 miles.

Know that we will return, and that we will never forget.

June 25, 2016

Remembering Bill Davis

I opened the email message and burst into tears. My heart raced, my stomach knotted. I felt sick.

The life of my friend and colleague, Bill Davis, had been ended by a reckless (likely impaired) driver.

Bill was riding his bicycle with a friend on this sunny summer Saturday in Boulder, Colorado when a woman swerved her multi-ton SUV into the bike lane and killed him.

She then fled. But she was caught. Reportedly, she has been guilty twice before: injuring someone while driving carelessly and driving while impaired. Fines, community service, and probation didn't dissuade her from doing it again.

It is unspeakably horrific to see the photo of Bill's twisted and shattered bicycle. I cannot begin to imagine this experience for his family. His three children have lost their daddy, his wife has lost the love of her life, his parents have lost their son, his siblings have lost their brother. All of us have lost a friend.

For the love of humanity, for the love of daughters and sons, wives and husbands, mothers, fathers, sisters, and brothers:
Don't drive drunk.

Don't drive if you're impaired in any way, shape, or form.

If you see someone who shouldn't get behind the wheel, don't look the other way. Take their keys. Get them a ride home.
Bill Davis in his signature floppy hat, volunteering his wrenching skills for Bike to Work Day in 2008.

June 11, 2016

No Words

This might have been a story about another beautiful day spent cycling with friends.

A story about my uncertainty about being able to bike 53 miles and climb 5,400 feet, with tired legs and woozy head. Insufficient calories, or feeling the effects of Tuesday's blood donation?

About the friendly cyclists who chatted with me as we climbed Old La Honda.

The fox that darted across Pescadero Creek Road.

Cyclist adjusting his bike at a Fixit station, Pescadero, California
The Arcangeli Bakery that is so welcoming to cyclists they've installed a Fixit station behind their shop.

View of coastal hills and the Pacific Ocean, Stage Road near San Gregorio, California
The clear view to the coast from Stage Road.

The welcome sound of water flowing again in Tunitas Creek.

The riders who will crowd this route tomorrow for a charity event.

Young redwoods joining a circle of second-growth trees, Tunitas Creek Road, near Half Moon Bay, California
The exuberance of young redwoods.

Normally, there is little traffic on Tunitas Creek Road. After being passed by one Highway Patrol car and two San Mateo Sheriff SUVs, I was concerned.

One of the Sheriff SUVs came back down, slowly, lights flashing. Only to turn around and return, slowly, lights flashing.

Were they searching for a fugitive? Were we in danger?

Someone has marked the road to indicate distance to the top. 10km, 9km, 8km ...

I rounded a bend and there were so many emergency vehicles it was hard to make sense of the scene.

Paramedics. Two ambulances. SUVs. Patrol cars. Many officers standing in the road.

A bicycle resting on the ground, a rider's helmet placed carefully on top.

A cyclist who, like me, had set out to enjoy a challenging ride on a beautiful day.

My thoughts turned to a poem by W. H. Auden, Musée des Beaux Arts: “ ... the sun shone as it had to ... ”

I dismounted and passed with head bowed and a heavy heart.

Before I reached Skyline, a black van eased its way down the hill.

Before I reached Skyline, there were suddenly sirens. A Sheriff SUV had flown up the hill, lights flashing. At the top, a chaotic scene. Paramedics busy with a motorcyclist on the ground.

I chose a gap and picked my way through the debris. Before crossing Skyline, I looked carefully in both directions. Then, I looked again. And again.

There are no words for a day like this.

June 27, 2015

Can't Go Home Again

As I made my way through Germany, Austria, and Switzerland over the past few weeks, I always found a church to light a candle in memory of Mom. She would have liked that.

Now it's time for one last visit to Mom's house, to help with sorting and sifting through the things she collected and treasured over a lifetime.

The finality is inescapable.

She downsized some 18 years ago, and I had not visited our old neighborhood since. Seeing our former home was as disheartening as I expected. The lawn and landscaping had been ripped out. The canopy of the once-towering silver maple tree had been lopped off, four feet of the dead trunk left standing.

On the spur of a moment, I visited the cemetery. Crabgrass has taken hold on the patch of bare earth above her.

Later, I honored our routine with Manhattan clam chowder for supper, tea and a black-and-white cookie. (Two delicacies uncommon on the West Coast.)

How I'd dreaded the day I would face this process: what to keep, what to toss, what to surrender forever to strangers in an estate sale. I think she'd be disappointed in my choices, for the things of highest value to me are sentimental.

Front of hand-drawn card, Happy Mother's Day.
I found a Mother's Day card I'd drawn for her, in pencil, maybe around age seven. The paper is folded in fourths, just so, like a regular greeting card.

Inside of hand-drawn card. "Dear Mother: I love you very much. I hope you have a very happy Mother's Day. Love, Your Daughter. XOXOXOXO"
But it's the P.P.S. that makes the card:

Inside of hand-drawn Mother's Day card: "P.S. I love you very, very, very, very, very much. XOXOXOXOX"
P.S. AGAIN
THIS IS THE RUFF COPIE.
I'M SORRY, BUT OUR CLASS DIDN'T BEHAVE.
SO WE DIDN'T HAVE ART.
I browsed through the albums she'd filled with photos and postcards from trips she'd taken with her friends. Lined up together on a bookshelf, it was sad to know that she hadn't opened them in years. I wish I'd pulled them out during a visit and helped her relive those moments.

Dad's been gone for 30 years, and it took some time for her to weather that loss. I found two newspaper clippings, carefully preserved: essays by widows on the topic of living alone. “Women can learn to like living alone,” published about two years after he died. “Gathering the courage to live your life” ... published 20 years after he died.

She didn't share her thoughts or feelings with me, and she didn't keep a journal. It broke my heart when I found two longer entries in her “birthday book,” a special datebook where she recorded the birth (and death) dates of friends and family:
My husband who I loved more than anyone else died at 9:00 PM, Age 58
Three days later:
Hon - Laid to rest as I watched with a broken heart and all my love.
She's gone, and I feel like I didn't fully know her.

Hers was always a world of worry. In the kitchen, where she would see it throughout the day, she had hung a framed quote I'd given her (attributed to Mark Twain):
I've had many problems in my life,
most of which have never happened.
“Be careful,” she'd tell me at the end of every phone call. “Be safe.”

Wish you were here, Mom.

May 17, 2015

Remembering Mom

Mom and me at a London Pub, 1995
The inevitable day comes, when mother and child must part forever.

Two months ago, Mom was tottering about independently at home. Her memory was spotty and the family was wary, but she was determined to live her life on her terms (and frightened of the alternatives).

None of us had a clue that really, she was terribly ill.

One month ago, she was in sub-acute care and we were exploring those alternatives. Assisted living ... with memory care now, or in the future?

Two weeks ago, she was in the hospital and we were preparing to move her to a nursing home (her worst nightmare). She was upset that her fingernails were a mess—she loved her manicures. I did my best to trim and file them.

Four days ago, we placed her in hospice care. I did my best to hold her when she cried, and not to break down at the same time. Once, she managed to lift an arm, reaching to comfort me back. How not to break down, then?

This afternoon, I was standing over her when she suddenly opened her blue eyes wide. Could she know, then, that she wasn't alone?

Tonight, I was stroking her hair when she took her last breath.

I regret not having more photos of the two of us, sharing good times.

Mom at Macy's Thanksgiving Day Parade, 1992
Of carefree days at the beach: Dad would meet us there, after work. He'd wear his bathing trunks under his suit and pick up a barbecued chicken for a picnic supper.


Of Scrabble games: Mom couldn't keep score last December and tired after two games, but she still played some darned good words. The words—not the numbers—were the challenge, for us. How many hundreds of boards did we fill, over all these years of my life? She never minded that I outscored her virtually every time.

Mom in Monterey, 1989
Of trips we took together: Florida. California. Thanksgiving weekend in Manhattan. England. There was such joy in her smile.

If you don't have an advance directive or a living will—or whatever it's called where you live—you should. (Mom did.) She didn't want to live with dementia, or to linger in a nursing home for years. Her last days were not without suffering, but that time was mercifully short.

Now, there are only memories.

May 25, 2014

Remembering Evi Nemeth

Evi gave me the Milky Way.

By day, we gathered at the university for a small technical summit. By night, we gathered high in the Colorado mountains. The skies grew dark and the telescope came out. Having spent virtually all of my life on the crowded east coast, it was a wonderment to see so many stars. Too bad about that thin cloud smeared high across the sky, I thought.

The Milky Way.

Sign board: May 2014. Happy Birthday Evi! Thank you for bringing us all together today! We love and honor you always!
Today we came together to remember Evi; a birthday barbecue, with tubs of ice cream but necessarily without the guest of honor. She affected the course of so many lives; the room overflowed with former students, colleagues, family members, neighbors, and fellow sailors—friends, all.
Here, there, and everywhere
View of forest, distant mountains, and snow-covered peaks under layered gray skies in Colorado.
Stories were told and tears were stanched. Some colleagues shared the clever not-quite-layover they arranged to be there, saving a few bucks in the process; it was just the sort of deal Evi would have contrived, they laughed. I made some new connections. Evi was our common thread; she would have introduced us if she could.
Knowing that love is to share
Twenty-six years ago, I met Evi when I took a course she taught at a technical conference. The more I learned, the more I realized I needed expert help to design the local area network in our new building on campus. Would she be interested in a contract? She bid not only the design, but the installation as well. We could not begin until construction was complete and we were cleared to occupy the building. Evi flew out with her son and a handful of students; I recruited my brother. We worked furiously through the weekend. When the faculty and graduate students moved in on Monday morning, there was at least one working network connection in every office.

The lifelong connections that resulted were the greatest value.

I wasn’t sure my brother would remember Evi. I was visiting him last June when I got the news. Evi is lost at sea, I told him. “No!” he shouted at me. “I just saw that story! That was Evi?”

Of course he remembered her. She was not a forgettable person.

I had last heard from Evi the year before. A friend of hers had forgotten his email password; she reached out to me to reset it. [sudo vi /etc/passwd … ah, if only it were that simple.] I tracked down the instructions for the process he needed to follow, and they were grateful when it worked.

Pellets of hail on a red carpet and a wet deck at the Colorado Mountain Ranch
The skies darkened. A massive bolt of lightning streaked in the distance. Pellets of hail dotted the deck. The sun came out, and as I drove away, an old Beatles song started playing in my head.
I will be there everywhere.
Aspens lit by the early evening sun on Gold Hill Road

May 18, 2014

Josie

Letting go is the hardest part.

Josie, December 2006
I promised myself that I would not go to extraordinary lengths to prolong her life. To do otherwise seemed selfish; she would rather be curled up in a spot of sunshine at home than being poked and scanned under artificial lights in a strange lab.

I knew that promise would be hard to keep.

Josie came to me in August, 1998. Losing my previous cat during a tough time in my life had made it even tougher. I couldn't imagine replacing her.

A week later, I was back at the clinic to see their kittens. I was just too sad. “What's the story with that one?” I asked.

Josie, 1998
Josie was 11 months old, returned by the family that had adopted her. Their new apartment didn't allow cats, they had said. She had been born at the clinic; someone had left a pregnant feral cat in a box on the doorstep.

Settled on my lap, Josie leaned into me, pressed the back of her head to my chest, and started purring.

Every night, she would snuggle up next to me. If she got there first, she'd take my side of the bed. More often than not, if I woke during the night she'd start up purring. When she needed some petting, she'd stretch out a paw and gently tap my shoulder or my face. Her fur was as soft as a chinchilla's.

I was reading the newspaper one day, spread out on the floor, when she trotted over and dropped a spongy ball in front of me. Did she want me to throw it? [Yes!] The more it bounced and ricocheted, the better; she'd bring it back for more. A cat who plays fetch? Sometimes the ball would go splat! in front of me; evidently it was more fun after she soaked it in her water bowl for a while.

Josie and my red shoes, September 2010
She loved shoes. Not to chew them (well, sometimes, if they had stretchy bits). She'd rub against them and roll all over them in a fit of ecstasy.

She had a couple of mystery illnesses as a youngster, never diagnosed, always cured by antibiotics. Hooked up to an IV at the clinic, she stretched her paw through the cage to touch me. “You know,” said the vet, “let's send her home with you now; I think she'll do better there.” After they shaved her belly the second time for an ultrasound, she decided it would be best never to let the fur grow back. In the winter, she would lie smack on top of the best heating vent.

Josie, July 2012
Sitting in front of the computer one night, I heard something rustle and drop. From the kitchen, she had carried upstairs a piece of shortcake in a plastic sandwich bag and deposited it next to my chair. Is this a snack for me, or for you?

Wherever I was, that's where she wanted to be. On my lap at the computer. On, or under, my chair at breakfast and dinner. Often underfoot, she forgave me immediately whenever I stepped on her tail.

She was so active and brave, I had no idea how very sick she was until there were only a few days left.

I miss you so much, sweet Josie Pussycat.

October 1, 2011

I Will Remember You

I will remember your goofy faces, your sharp wit and exquisite puns, the ease with which you would ride alongside us and snap photos—no hands on the bars. I will remember the joy of shadowing you down a curvy, unfamiliar road at speed, without a care, knowing that you would alert me to any oncoming traffic.

I remember when you flatted on one of the earliest rides I led for the club. You were the president, and a far more experienced rider than I was; I doubled back to stay with you. Never leave a rider behind. You were struggling to add another patch to your tube, on top of what appeared to be a stack of patches. [I did not laugh.] When I offered you a spare tube, you revealed that you had one. [I did not laugh.]

There are so many dimensions to a life. Today, those united in remembrance of you. Wife, sons, mother, sister, brother, college classmate, fellow fans of science fiction and gaming, former co-workers, and so many cyclists. Alternately, we laughed and cried.

We were reminded to remember the whole of your life, which was not defined by the irrevocable choice you made in a dark night of the soul.

Paul, I will remember your friendship.

In desperation, never abandon hope. Seek help. 1-800-273-8255

January 16, 2011

Tomorrow

I discovered the Low-Key Hillclimbs when the series resumed in 2006, curious to see whether they really meant that everyone was welcome. (They did.) In 2007, I rode most of the climbs, and served as a volunteer for those I dared not attempt. On the final steep curve near the top of Welch Creek, I snapped this photo of Thomas Novikoff. A gifted Category 2 racer, he finished third overall in the series that year.

From my position near the tail end of the field, I would naturally see little of the guys at the front. I would still be climbing the hill after they had finished and begun descending; many would cheer me on as they whizzed past.

I last saw Thomas on Thanksgiving Day. The interior of his car was packed, from the floor to the bottoms of the windows, with cycling gear that he would haul to the top of Mt. Hamilton for our fellow Low-Keyers. Just as he was about to pull away, I dashed up to the car with one more bag ... he snatched it through the window, mock exasperation on his face.

Waiting for cyclists to cross the line at the snowy summit, that's Thomas striking a "thumbs up" pose in this photo by Bill Bushnell:

Our vantage point afforded a preview of the finishers. We expected Ryan Sherlock to be first across the line, but were surprised to see another rider on his wheel. How was that possible? "Who is that?" I asked. Thomas knew: "Eric Wohlberg."

A couple of weeks later, Thomas was hospitalized. A bicycle crash? An inattentive driver? No. He was gravely ill. Most of us had no idea.

He had raced up Portola Park in the third week of the series. I dragged my sorry self up East Dunne Avenue yesterday in the warm sunshine; in far less time, he had climbed it on a wet, miserable day in October. He had been eager to see Palomares on the Low-Key calendar in 2011.

Thomas kept living his life with the conviction that tomorrow would come. Racing up mountainsides. Spending Thanksgiving morning on a freezing mountaintop, cheering at the finish line.

Today there was a memorial service for Thomas at the top of Mount Tantalus in his native Honolulu. On his blog, he had quoted T.S. Eliot:
Only those who will risk going too far can possibly find out how far one can go.
Thomas, you deserved to go so much farther.

September 11, 2009

Remembering Paul Joshua Friedman

There are places I'll remember
All my life, though some have changed
Some forever, not for better
- John Lennon, In My Life
Our lives intersected only for a couple of years; sometimes, that is the natural course of a friendship. Paul left Bell Labs to study for his MBA; the rest of us kept working. He was smart, and funny, and kind.

After so many years, only a few memories remain. Meeting for brunch at The Cupping Room Cafe. Learning to see with a photographer's eye. A day at the Bronx Zoo. Evita, with Patti LuPone and Mandy Patinkin. Admiring Manhattan from a table at Windows on the World.

I do not remember when I last saw Paul.

I do remember the visceral jolt I felt that sunny December morning when I found his profile in the Sunday New York Times.

What I remember now, I will never, ever, forget.

May 20, 2009

Ride of Silence

Tonight it was time for a somber event, the annual Ride of Silence. Around the globe, at 7:00 P.M. local time, riders set out to remember cyclists who have been killed or injured by motorists; our group included 24 people. In our thoughts were six who lost their lives in the past year, including a sixth grader who was run down on the last day of school in San Jose (Breanna Slaughter-Eck), a bicycle messenger in San Francisco (Kirk Janes), and two cyclists who were victims of drivers who hit them and drove away. Laura Casey was left lying in a Richmond street, crying out for help until her life was taken by a second driver who also fled.

Closer to home, a hit-and-run driver seriously injured Ashleigh Jackson in Saratoga just a few weeks ago. What goes through the minds of these drivers? It is beyond my comprehension. Those with such callous disregard for human life, I would lock away forever. But it is not up to me, and sadly they are not always caught.

Ghost bike along Stevens Canyon Road, Cupertino, California
We remembered Michelle Mazzei, killed in 2005 by a distracted driver in Woodside, and John Peckham, killed in 2006 by a driver who was recklessly impaired in Palo Alto. Our route led to the site of a memorial for three cyclists killed on Stevens Canyon Road: Jeff Steinwedel, by the careless driver of a gravel truck in 1996, and Kristy Gough and Matt Peterson, killed by a sheriff's deputy who apparently fell asleep at the wheel on a sunny Sunday morning last year.

I will never forget these cyclists I never knew, who lost their lives on the same roads that I ride. Twenty-four hours before the deputy smashed into Kristy, Matt, and a third cyclist (who was severely injured), I had rounded that same bend in the road. Now, whenever I approach that curve, I tense up for the familiar shiver that will run down my spine. I will never forget how heartbroken I felt, after riding with hundreds of other cyclists in the memorial for John Peckham, as I sat with my lunch in a park filled with joyful children. For taking John's life, so full of promise, there is no adequate penalty.

Every time you get behind the wheel, you are responsible for the lives of people all around you - sons and daughters, brothers and sisters, mothers and fathers. Be alert. Be patient. Be responsible. Focus on driving your vehicle. Don't yak on your cell phone. Don't drive when you're impaired. Don't drive when you're sleepy. How hard can it be?

There is so little I can do, but I can hope that when we ride in silence next year, there will be no new names on our list of remembrance. And I can never forget the people we have lost.