Ride of Silence
The Ride of Silence has been held annually since 2003 in an effort to “Join cyclists worldwide in a silent slow-paced ride (max. 12 mph/20 kph) in honor of those who have been injured or killed while cycling on public roadways”.
I’ve participated in the ride each of the last 3 years. The first year I participated, the ride took place 10 days after we pulled the plug on my mom. That year there were 2,500 cyclists riding in silence around White Rock Lake in Dallas. It was truly a sight to behold.
The first year I rode, I was a wreck. Not because of what the event now meant to me, but from the toll that the prior 11 days had started to take on me. A teammate suggested that our team meet for the RoS pre-ride: a shortened, “easier” loop of the standard Wednesday night training ride. I showed up for the RoS pre-ride with 2 week’s of growth on my legs and wearing one of my mom’s Lone Star Cyclist club jerseys. My camera was slung over my shoulder, sealed in a gallon-sized zip-lock baggie to keep it safe from sweat. As we started to ride, I wondered if the ride leaders would ceremoniously let me “win” the ride as a show of support.
The RoS pre-ride hurt. A lot. It was fast and into a cross-head wind. There were 3 or 4 motors at the front that took turns dragging 30 or so of us along at 30+ mph along the frontage road of I 30. At that speed, we were strung out, single file, in a right-to-left echelon. The faster we went, the more the single file line spread out to the left and into the second lane of traffic. The zip-lock baggie my camera was in was flapping crazily behind me, acting as a small parachute as it caught the wind. The sound it made intensified just how un-aero I was.
As I started to get gapped, I decided that it was ridiculous for me to hold onto the wheel in front of me by crossing the lane marker and getting in the way of the very drivers that were making the RoS possible. It was also easier to say I got dropped because I was unwilling to be a hazard to motorists than to say I was out of shape.
So, in a matter of minutes, I went from having visions of Rudy being carried off the field on the shoulders of adoring teammates to thinking I’m about to miss a very important event. Crap.
I’m too far in to turn around, so my only hope is that they’ll wait for me before they start the event. Right. Maybe the ride leaders will realize I’m not there and come back for me, then pace me back to the RoS. Sure.
As I’m pedaling along in misery, thinking what a horrible son I am, I see a lone cyclist ahead of me. He’s riding in the same direction as I am, but so slowly that it almost looks like he’s riding towards me. As I get closer, I see it’s my friend and neighbor, Mark Kuithe. When I catch him, he accelerates and we start to work in tandem, trading pulls trying to get to the RoS before it starts.
Soon, another rider comes back to us. It’s Grant Fahey, a guy I rode with when I first started racing and was a member of Mirage. He’s Australian, so I made the obligatory joke about “how do you say ‘beer’ in Australian”, and he joined in the rotation.
One more rider falls back to us, Kyle Russell. He’s a teammate and one of the strongest riders I know, even back then when he was fat. Kyle is killing himself at the front of our little group, just drilling it. Occasionally he would pull off and say that he was finished and fall in at the back of the group to catch his breath while the rest of us pulled, but he would soon go back to the front and drill it again.
Never once did we discuss what we were doing or why we were riding so hard, we just did it. It occurred to me how cool it was to have a dude that was an ex-teammate, one that was a current teammate and one that will eventually become a teammate giving it everything they had to get me back to White Rock Lake for the RoS.
We made it. Barely. I missed the start, but it takes a while for 2500 cyclists to get clipped in and going, so when I wheeled up, gasping and sweating, the caboose of the RoS was still shuffling along.
Soon, I was surrounded by my teammates. I don’t really remember where they came from or how, but I do know that I was riding with my friends.
After the 9 miles of silence, I rode through the mass of bicycles and found the Lone Star Cyclists, the club my mom was a member of. Bea pointed to the back of my helmet where I had placed my sweat covered sunglasses and told me how my mom had started to wear her glasses on the back of her helmet after seeing me do it. Apparently, she had told anyone that would listen that “this is the way racers do it”.
The effort of those 3 friends, all working together towards a goal that was never mentioned, is far more meaningful than a ceremonial “victory” of the now defunct Wednesday Night Worlds.
I’ve participated in the ride each of the last 3 years. The first year I participated, the ride took place 10 days after we pulled the plug on my mom. That year there were 2,500 cyclists riding in silence around White Rock Lake in Dallas. It was truly a sight to behold.
The first year I rode, I was a wreck. Not because of what the event now meant to me, but from the toll that the prior 11 days had started to take on me. A teammate suggested that our team meet for the RoS pre-ride: a shortened, “easier” loop of the standard Wednesday night training ride. I showed up for the RoS pre-ride with 2 week’s of growth on my legs and wearing one of my mom’s Lone Star Cyclist club jerseys. My camera was slung over my shoulder, sealed in a gallon-sized zip-lock baggie to keep it safe from sweat. As we started to ride, I wondered if the ride leaders would ceremoniously let me “win” the ride as a show of support.
The RoS pre-ride hurt. A lot. It was fast and into a cross-head wind. There were 3 or 4 motors at the front that took turns dragging 30 or so of us along at 30+ mph along the frontage road of I 30. At that speed, we were strung out, single file, in a right-to-left echelon. The faster we went, the more the single file line spread out to the left and into the second lane of traffic. The zip-lock baggie my camera was in was flapping crazily behind me, acting as a small parachute as it caught the wind. The sound it made intensified just how un-aero I was.
As I started to get gapped, I decided that it was ridiculous for me to hold onto the wheel in front of me by crossing the lane marker and getting in the way of the very drivers that were making the RoS possible. It was also easier to say I got dropped because I was unwilling to be a hazard to motorists than to say I was out of shape.
So, in a matter of minutes, I went from having visions of Rudy being carried off the field on the shoulders of adoring teammates to thinking I’m about to miss a very important event. Crap.
I’m too far in to turn around, so my only hope is that they’ll wait for me before they start the event. Right. Maybe the ride leaders will realize I’m not there and come back for me, then pace me back to the RoS. Sure.
As I’m pedaling along in misery, thinking what a horrible son I am, I see a lone cyclist ahead of me. He’s riding in the same direction as I am, but so slowly that it almost looks like he’s riding towards me. As I get closer, I see it’s my friend and neighbor, Mark Kuithe. When I catch him, he accelerates and we start to work in tandem, trading pulls trying to get to the RoS before it starts.
Soon, another rider comes back to us. It’s Grant Fahey, a guy I rode with when I first started racing and was a member of Mirage. He’s Australian, so I made the obligatory joke about “how do you say ‘beer’ in Australian”, and he joined in the rotation.
One more rider falls back to us, Kyle Russell. He’s a teammate and one of the strongest riders I know, even back then when he was fat. Kyle is killing himself at the front of our little group, just drilling it. Occasionally he would pull off and say that he was finished and fall in at the back of the group to catch his breath while the rest of us pulled, but he would soon go back to the front and drill it again.
Never once did we discuss what we were doing or why we were riding so hard, we just did it. It occurred to me how cool it was to have a dude that was an ex-teammate, one that was a current teammate and one that will eventually become a teammate giving it everything they had to get me back to White Rock Lake for the RoS.
We made it. Barely. I missed the start, but it takes a while for 2500 cyclists to get clipped in and going, so when I wheeled up, gasping and sweating, the caboose of the RoS was still shuffling along.
Soon, I was surrounded by my teammates. I don’t really remember where they came from or how, but I do know that I was riding with my friends.
After the 9 miles of silence, I rode through the mass of bicycles and found the Lone Star Cyclists, the club my mom was a member of. Bea pointed to the back of my helmet where I had placed my sweat covered sunglasses and told me how my mom had started to wear her glasses on the back of her helmet after seeing me do it. Apparently, she had told anyone that would listen that “this is the way racers do it”.
The effort of those 3 friends, all working together towards a goal that was never mentioned, is far more meaningful than a ceremonial “victory” of the now defunct Wednesday Night Worlds.
****
This year’s RoS was just held (May 17, 2006). They’ve decided to spread out the event to more locations so that more people could participate, which meant that there were actually fewer people at each location. To me, 2,500 at one spot make more of a statement than 5,000 people at 10.
Someone spoke into a PA system. I didn’t hear what he said, except that he was “pissed off” about this and that. Then he broke out the “someone here tonight will be killed by a motorists and won’t be here next year” card. Nice.
The ride started with the playing of bag pipes accompanied by the sound of 1000 people clicking into their pedals. Every type of cyclist was represented: racers, rallyists, recumbents, messengers, fathers and sons, mother and daughters, sisters and brothers.
I saw people riding with their headphones in, and I have to say that annoyed me, like going for 60 minutes in complete, actual silence is too much to ask.
We rode past a guy in a car who had pulled over on the side of the road to let us past. His windows were down and “Slow Ride” was blaring on his radio (someone else has had a birthday, I guess).
I rode most of the 9 miles by myself. My brother, Andrew and his son, Mitch (1 of my 2 favorite nephews) rode off and left me and Melissa un-half-wheeled me, refusing to ride fast enough to stay next to me, no matter how slowly I rode.
I wore my mom’s Lone Star Cyclist jersey again this year, along with a pair of her Sock Guy socks that have the rainbow of the World Champion scrolled across the ankle band, along with a smiley face. The jersey is made of old school polyester; thick and hot it soaks up sweat. Each synthetic thread is a sponge that first traps the moisture, then its scent.
As I rode, thousands and thousands of miles of sweat and toil started to wake up. I could literally smell my mother; riding through the hills around Joe Pool; riding next to me during the Lone Start Cyclists annual Meridian ride; riding 3,000 miles across the country; riding alone on the shoulder of highway 51 outside Granbury.
posted by daveed @ 23.5.06
1 Comments:
It just doesn't seem like a spewing of "Pissed off" and other mad-as-hell type statements is not how the Ride of Silence should be started. To me, the ride is to Honor people, not protest. The statement is made by not saying anything.
There is a time and place for everything. Ride of Silence should be a somber, thoughtful and respectful ride.
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