We rode as we typically do, like people possessed, like men and women who love to ride bikes fast. We went North, then West, then North again, finally turning south on Green Bay Road. We cut back east on Winetka Rd, hitting Sheridan just in time for everyone's favorite hammerfest, the Baha'i temple sprint. We turned on Sheridan, and I remember that one of the guys who is not the strongest took a really long pull for the good of the group, and then fell off when we got to the hill, he burned his match so the rest of us could shine bright. I had ridden with him before, and was probably exchanged first names sometime last summer, but we reintroduced ourselves. His name was Mark V.
Tonight I went on my typical Wednesday night date, a group ride with the CCC. It was typical in pretty much every way except one. I screwed around waiting until the last minute to get ready and get out the door, I arrived at the start about a minute before the group rolled out. This ride was different because Mark V. was not there. He passed away this week from a sudden heart attack. He was only 43 with a wife and two young boys left behind. We rode in his memory, in his honor. We poured one out for him at JJ Peppers, and then gathered at a local bar to reminisce and to find comfort.
I have been struggling for 30 minutes trying to find the right words to close out this post. And now I realize there are no words to say. I can't help you grieve, I can't help you understand, I can't tell you why he has fallen beyond the thin veiled curtain that separates life from death. The world lost a father, husband, friend and cyclist, a candle sitting next to an half-empty box of matches has been snuffed out, and there is no reason for it. There is no answer to the ultimate question, only silence.
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