Back in the Saddle

Bike tuned-check.

Tires pumped-check.

Shoes-check.

Gloves-check.

Sunglasses-check.

Water-check.

ID/cash-check.

Inhaler-check.

Phone-check.

Helmet-check.

Greg (my dad’s colleague, friend and riding partner) just spent the past hour helping me get my bike ready to ride.  After seven months dormant in the basement it needed some tender loving care.  Now my bike is ready, all the excuses are gone, but I am still not sure.  I watch as Greg gets on his gear and feel my heart start to beat a little faster.  I have my jersey on; the one dad bought me two days before he died at the Pro Cycling Challenge Finish.  It is my first official riding jersey. That day I finally felt enough like a rider to let him buy me one.  I stand there realizing that I never wore the jersey on a ride with my dad.  My heart beats even faster.  “Here we go,” Greg says as he clips into his pedals.  I put my right leg over my bike and hear the click.  Carefully, I push off hoping the whole time that I can get my left foot clicked in without falling and ruining any chance I have of biking again.  I am glad Greg is here.  I had thought I wanted to do this alone, my first real time back in the saddle, but Greg knew better and I am relieved that I am taking off with him. 

We make our way through the neighborhood as we head out to our pre-determined destination.  The first hill arrives and I brace myself.  By the end of last summer I was cruising downhill. I will just take it easy today.  Greg stays close; he looks back and checks in.  Images of my dad race through my mind; the last time I rode this way, it was him in front of me checking in.  I focus on the road and the light ahead.  It is refreshing to feel the bike underneath me.  We ride and we chat.  We take it easy. Easy is what I need and Greg allows it.  I play around with my gears; re-familiarize myself with the workings of the bike underneath me.  We make it to the Bear Creek bike path.  Greg reminisces about the hundreds of rides he rode with my dad on this trail.  I listen, understanding that this is just as tough for Greg as it is for me.  He has continued to ride, but riding with me to where we are headed, it is a different kind of ride.

There it is, we are heading under Sheridan, just a moment longer.  We slow our strokes and without words stop when we see it.  We know where it is, because there is a break in the fence on the other side of the path where pedestrians can enter the trail.  I look down and see the ribbon I tied in the tree a few days after he died. I put it there so others that wanted to come and spend a moment could find the exact spot.  The ribbon had the words, ‘son and brother’ but they are now hard to read. We rest our bikes against the green fence.  Carefully, we make our way down the side of the hill to the wooded part of the creek bed.  Greg goes over to the Livestrong bracelet that David had nailed into the tree.  You can still read his words, “Ride on Danno-We love you,” but the wind or a squirrel has ripped part of it.  I mention to Greg that of all the places dad could have fallen he picked one ugly part of the bike trail.  Directly behind the King Soopers, nestled between the exit ramp from Hampden onto Sheridan, littered with dumpster trash.  Greg laughed that my dad loved all parts of this trail, even the ugly ones.  We pick up the litter and head to the dumpster.

       “Let’s go to King Soopers and get some flowers,” says Greg and I nod in agreement.  He hands me a twenty and I go in and pick out some gorgeous sunflowers.  As we lay the flowers over the place where my dad was found I feel a surge of emotions.  Greg says how happy my dad would have been on his bike on a beautiful day like today.  I notice the bushes all around are blooming with these beautiful white flowers and agree.  Even though I tell myself that he is there, in this moment with us, my heart aches because he is not standing there too.  I confess to Greg that my worst fear was that my dad was found face down. The police report confirms in fact he was.  I now understand that it is actually a beautiful thing that he was found that way, it means when he fell he was already gone.  I try not to picture it, but my brain does not listen.  We talk about the three people who called 911.  The blessing it was that he was not in his truck on 6^th Avenue or sitting at the kitchen table.  He was happy, on his way home from work, favorite tunes playing in one ear, doing the thing he loved most. 

When we sense it is time we head home.  Getting closer to home means my out of shape legs will need to get me back up the Garrison hill.  As we work our way up, I remember the first time I did it with dad.  He told me to save that smallest chain ring just in case I needed it at the very end.  Today, I made sure I did the same.  I can hear his voice cheering me on, “Come on Jenny Wacker, you got this.”  "Slow and steady" he said, "one stroke at a time."  Today I conquered my fear.  I got back on my bike the way my dad would have wanted me to.  I may not be chasing his ‘booty’ this summer, but he will be there.  I will see him on the road and hear him in my head cheering me on.