Rider Down

Three miles into my training ride this morning, a firetruck passed me going up White’s Hill, sirens blaring. At the summit of the hill, a bicyclist was down. The firetruck was parked skewed across the road to stop traffic and paramedics were strapping the guy to a backboard. There was a car. It did not look good. A cop was letting through all of the cyclists clustered at the top of the hill. As we passed him, he kept repeating “bicyclist accident” as though we could have missed this alarming and sobering fact.

When I see someone in trouble like that, my nursing instincts kick in. Despite the paramedics present, so clearly better qualified than me to tend to the guy on the ground, I have a strong urge to stop and help. Instead, aware that in that situation I was just another passerby, I passed by on my bike, whispering wishes for his wellbeing, freedom from pain, quick recovery. May you be back on your bike soon, my friend.

Sure puts a dent in the ride, to see something like that and be reminded of the fragility of our wellbeing as we share the road with 4,000-pound chunks of metal travelling at fifty miles per hour. I rode on, grappling with my fear for my own safety; with the fear I had been feeling when I woke in the night about attempting a 60-mile training ride solo; and with the general sense that I experience in my work as a hospice nurse that life is only loaned to us for a pretty brief span of time. Everyone’s destination is the same.

But the beauty of the day, the abundance of wildflowers in the ditches, and the sun on my face and skin gradually erased the distress of seeing the accident. By the summit of Big Rock, I was back on top of the ride, looking forward to taking a selfie at the crest of the hill I sometimes drive during work hours between patients. When I took out my phone, there was a panicked text from my daughter. A fireman friend of hers had let her know there was a biker down on White’s Hill just about ten minutes after I left the house. What were the odds? I texted her back right away: I’m fine. I saw him, but I’m safe. 

And there at the summit, perfectly placed to enhance the mood of relief, was a guy in a giant clown suit. As I took my selfies, riders began to stream by in the opposite direction. Watch out on the downhill, guys, said the clown over and over. Then I spotted a jersey: it was a training ride for the AIDS ride! My Climate Ride sort of pales in comparison to what these riders do. San Francisco to Los Angeles, 7 days, 545 miles. All the way down Big Rock mountain and out to 101, I passed hundreds of them. Boy, did I feel like the one fish swimming the wrong way in the river!

There was something extra sweet about making it home after the ride today. Just the feeling of opening my gate and pushing my bike through was pretty special. Someone didn’t make it home today. All afternoon, I quietly celebrated being alive, being safe, being lucky. And then I went grocery shopping and accidentally bought a tub of Ben & Jerry’s “The Tonight Dough.” No, I am not making this up. New flavor. Caramel and Chocolate Ice Creams with Chocolate Cookie Swirls and Gobs of Chocolate Chip Cookie Dough & Peanut Butter Cookie Dough. Yeah. Good to be alive...