There, but for the grace of God, go I

I can be a superstitious fellow. I throw a pinch of salt over my shoulder. I carry an umbrella on threatening, but not-yet-rainy days, and I "knock on wood" (or my forehead, which is much the same substance) when appropriate.

On rides, I have my superstitions as well. I like to wear my socks just so and I always check my front wheel's quick release after starting the ride.

And when I see roadkill, I always state purposefully, consciously, and honestly: "There, but for the grace of God, go I."

Seriously. I do. Always.

The Risks We Run

If you ride a bike, you will fall. It's a universal truth, like taxes. And death.

And if you ride a bike, you risk your life.

In the United States, fewer than 1,000 cyclists are killed each year.** It's not a big number. Yet, it's no consolation for the families. Numbers are cold, and all-but-meaningless. It's like when the doctors assign you with a 97% chance of survival. It means nothing—if you are in the other 3%.

We know this. It's a knowledge that resides deep down below, in that inner space where we contain our fears, dreads, and apprehensions. Sometimes it surfaces, like great cetacean breaching, disturbing our placidity with a crashing, splashing, distressed anxiety. Then...quiet once again.

We don't like those waters. We fear swimming within them, so we suppress our fears and move along.

To do otherwise would paralyze.

The Tragedy within Pelotonia 2010

A rider died.

A Reynoldsburg woman riding in the Pelotonia bicycle tour died Saturday after being struck by a vehicle in Hocking County, the Ohio State Highway Patrol said.

She had a name: Michelle Kazlausky.

She could have been any one of us.

But...They Did Everything Right!

A trooper was directing traffic at the intersection at about 2:15 p.m. with his marked cruiser's lights on, Norris said. He motioned for the pickup truck driven by Ervin Blackston, 57, of Rockbridge, to stop, but the pickup truck continued into the intersection.

Norris said Kazlausky realized the truck wasn't going to stop and tried evade by ditching the bike.

"So the bike slides one way, she's not on it. She slides another as an evasive action," Norris said. Blackston also swerved to avoid the crash, Norris said, missing the bike, but hitting Kazlausky....

Two physicians and a nurse were at the intersection along with a Pelotonia care vehicle, which follows the route to provide support and emergency aid, he said.

No matter what we do, how we plan, or how we prepare, the scythe will cut when the scythe will cut.

We have no control. We have no say.

When It's Time, It's Time

I suppose that is the message, the take-away, the lingering thought: when it's your time, it's your time.

It's stoical, but what else is there?

How else could we get back on our bikes for the return trip—knowing that we would pass through that intersection?

How else can we continue to ride, to pursue our passion? We have responsibilities. We are sons and daughters. We are husbands and wives. We are parents and grandparents. We are friends, lovers, and everything in-between.

Yet, when it's your time, it's your time.

Michelle—“Shelli” to her friends and family—was a mother and a daughter. She was a friend to many. She was described by Tom Lennox (Executive Director of Pelotonia) as: "a compassionate staff member in the rapid response lab at University Hospital East and a caring coworker." She knew the risks, and she rode.

Nagging effects of carpal-tunnel syndrome and a spill two weeks ago didn't dampen Kazlausky's enthusiasm, friends and family said yesterday.

"She still came to work, even with broken bones in her face," said Dr. JoAnna Williams, director of pathology at University Hospital East, where Kazlausky worked.

She had fallen during a ride two weeks prior to Pelotonia. She broke bones in her face. Most certainly, she knew the risks.

Yet, she rode.

We Ride On

Yes, she rode. As do we all.

Knowing what had happened, and what could happen, I rode. My friends rode. Their friends rode.

We rode.

We knew the risks.

And I will continue to ride.

I cannot live in fear, awaiting fate's next great blow. And I will not ride in fear. Riding is my passion and my freedom. I ride to live.

I never met Shelli, yet I know her...a little. She lived with purpose. She was a a thriver. She knew the risks; yet, she rode.

And by riding on, I honor her.

So, I will remain my superstitious self. I will still pinch salt, check my quick release, and all the rest.

And when I see death, I will always state purposefully, consciously, and honestly: "There, but for the grace of God, go I."

**Resources for that <1,000 cyclists each year statement...

• Helmets.org (Based on CDC data)
• Edgar Snyder & Associates (yep, ambulance chasers)
• Ken Kifer's Bike Pages
• Bicycle Universe