BiG CiTy

Death on a Bicycle

It was getting to be about dusk as I pedaled my way home from the train station. The sun was melting into the sea's horizon, the wind dropping to a whisper at my back. The air was cool and delicious, like that first lick of ice cream on a hot summer day. It's my favorite time of the day to be on my bike.

I was enjoying the moment when I sensed someone coming up from behind me. It was another rider, a young guy on a Masi. He was in full kit, except he wasn't wearing a helmet. We exchanged greetings and destinations. He said his name was Brian. "I've never ridden at night before," he said. "Wow, this is great."

We chatted amiably until we approached the spot where a cyclist had been killed. Long gone was the roadside memorial -- the flowers, the jersey, the testimonials on computer printouts, the flywheel off his mangled bike. But I knew the spot well. Just like I always do whenever I pass this point, I slowed, sat up and crossed myself the way I've seen Sammy Sosa do it as he steps up to the plate. I'm not Catholic, but I figure it can't hurt.

Brian freewheeled till I caught up.

"A rider was killed back there," I said. "He was hit by a drunk driver at 6 o'clock in the morning."

"Wow, no shit?"

We talked about our own near-misses and crashes. He hit a car that had made a left turn in front of him. I'd hit a jaywalker. We both had been pretty lucky so far. Then we started talking about other people's crashes, and for the next 10 miles that's all we talked about.

"You hear about the guy in South County, got creamed by a truck a couple of weekends ago?" he said.

"You mean Diamondback?"

"You knew him?"

"Nah, but I know some of the guys he rode with."

"What happened?"

So I told him the story.

Diamondback rode with a small group loosely affiliated with Bicisport bicycle shop. No one knew his name or anything about him. He just showed up one Saturday morning and latched onto the group. They called him Diamondback because that's what he rode--a Diamondback. There was a tinge of disdain in the nickname. No one really liked him because he was inconsiderate and reckless. He'd do stuff that would nearly cause crashes, like riding up hard behind someone till wheels touched or zigzagging through the paceline, forcing other guys out into traffic. Finally, the group decided Diamondback had to go, so they elected my friend Richard to tell him. But instead of confronting the guy, Richard scribbled a Dear Diamondback note on a scrap of paper and left it on the windshield of Diamondback's car.

Diamondback may have been dangerous, but he knew when he was not wanted, so he stopped showing up. On occasion, the group would spot him on the other side of the road heading in the opposite direction. Each time he would shout a curse at Richard. "FUUUUUUUCCCKK YOOOOOOU RIIIIIIICHAAAAARD!" his voice trailing off in the distance. After a while, Diamondback disappeared. Somebody heard he'd moved away.

Some years later Diamondback reappeared out of nowhere and began riding with the group again, as if nothing had happened. By then the group had changed. Richard had moved away, and so too had a couple of the other guys. Diamondback was still dangerous, though, still reckless. He hadn't changed. One Saturday morning, the group was out on its regular ride. Diamondback was at the tailend of the paceline as they made a left turn at an intersection. Everyone made it through the light except Diamondback. But instead of stopping, he hammered through the red and was struck and killed by a truck.

"That's why I don't run reds," I said, as a signal up ahead turned amber.

"Yeah, me neither," Brian said.

Then, as if to negate any notion that we might be cautious, saftey-conscious riders, we both jumped out of the saddle and sprinted through the intersection, making it to the other side just as the light turned red.

Now you might think that the topic of conversation would've made us a little sad or at least paranoid, but actually we were like two little kids swapping stories around a campfire. Just a couple of blokes on bikes, enjoying the evening air and the comaraderie in what can be a singularly solitary pursuit.

Finally, we came up to my turnoff, so I said goodbye.

"Nice talking to ya," he said.

"Same here."

"Keep the rubber side down, bro," he said.

"See ya around."

But I never did run into him again.

originally posted 5.21.04

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