... and a funeral
It was 3am on what I remember as a cool May night. I was in my car, the old Benz, driving down Rt. 2A through Minuteman park to Hanscom Air Force base, and I saw a cyclist up ahead. Multiple lights on the bike and on himself, bags strapped to the frame, rider draped lean and low over a spring headwind. He was, of course, a randonneur. This was one of the first times I'd seen one while I was driving and it made me think of just how curious we must look like when you cross our paths in the dead of night, when all sane people would still be asleep.
For the last few years, I only knew Chuck as a name on the New England Randonneurs mailing list, another one of those faces that I might sometimes see at a checkpoint for one of our rides, but always was a little ahead or a little behind me, so we never got to talking. That changed this year when Chuck had taken on the burden of organizing our 300k and was canvassing for volunteers to help out with running the ride. For various reasons partially related to the Summer of Matrimony and the Argentina trip, I wasn't planning on riding but had the Saturday free, so I wrote to him to say that I'd help out. That was how I found myself awake at 3 in the morning, driving to Hanscom. Together we signed in riders as they showed up in ones and twos; and I got to put more faces to names that I had seen online. I sat back, and totted up the registration fees as Chuck gave the riders their briefing and then sent them off. Afterwards, we split up the supplies so that we could stock the various checkpoints we had been assigned to, and I gave Chuck a ride back to his house so that he could grab a second car. On the way we talked about plans and dreams and adventures.
"I'm planning on doing the Shenandoah 1200 again," he said, "as you may recall I was in it in 2008, during its inaugural year and I DNF'ed. It was one of their hottest July's on record, and I remember Ted (one of the other New England riders who managed to be the first finisher of Shenandoah and set the course record) only managed to do it by riding at night and sleeping in the middle of the day. I couldn't finish. My feet had swelled up like melons and I had to quit. It's been haunting me ever since, and it feels like unfinished business."
While waiting for riders to show up, I spent most of that breezy May day at a turkey farm reading Cormac McCarthy and talking with the owner of the economics of preserving agricultural land. As various randonneurs arrived, I was occupied with slicing watermelons, signing time cards and giving impromptu pep talks. I remembered the route from years past and how, by this point in time, everyone had finished a century on a grueling set of rollers through Connecticut's hilly northeastern quarter; and I imagined that the headwind wasn't helping matters.
The controle was supposed to be their lunch stop and I had been stocked with deli meats, hummus, bread and snacks. I had tried my best to ration the supplies; leaving out enough to keep a selection, but holding some back for those who were further back in the pack. Still, the provisions weren't enough and with a few riders out on the course, I was starting to run low on food. Fortunately, Chuck had also given me some cash from the club treasury for discretionary purchases; and I had funneled that into cider donuts and turkey sandwiches from the farm country store. One of the last riders to arrive at my checkpoint was a visitor from New Jersey, who was anxious about falling behind the cutoff, but was appreciative that being last warranted a fresh roast turkey sandwich.
If it was one thing that Chuck and I were fond of talking about on that day, it was how much awe we had for the members of our club, both the fast ones and the slow ones. The fastest riders were almost inhuman in their ability to complete 200 mile courses with average speeds that we would struggle to maintain over 30 miles. The slowest ones were awesome in the way that they would sign up for challenges that were obviously at the limit of their physical ability, but managed to maintain a sense of determination and grit where others would normally turn to despair. We both understood how the sport was essentially a series of parallel challenges that we were all undertaking on our own, each one specific to the individual; and helping our friends succeed at these things could be its own reward.
I thought to myself that if Chuck wanted to organize more rides, I might have more fun volunteering in them than riding. He was brimming with ideas for a 1000k or 1200 to replace the defunct BMB, and he would talk about them excitedly as we drove the course. Thinking about it now, I can't help but wonder what those plans would've been like if they had come to pass.
When news had come to the club of his death, one of the steady topics was whether there would be a memorial service, and we were soon told that not only would there be a memorial, but because his family knew how much Chuck loved cycling, they also wanted us to ride to the service. So it was that a dozen of us gathered in Framingham to do a Ride of Silence to Chuck's memorial in Holliston.
It was a sweltering Saturday in July. I had taken the Club Racer out to Framingham via the commuter rail with panniers to hold my suit and tie. We were told that road bike attire was perfectly acceptable for the occasion, but there's an old Catholic choir boy in me that wasn't personally comfortable with walking into any place of worship in lycra. Most of the usual core of the club was present -- Glen, Jake, Chip, Melinda. There was another rider that I didn't recognize until someone introduced him as Chuck's brother; who had flown here from Ohio for the service and had specifically wanted us to do this ride in the memory of his brother.
Glen led the ride, as he was the most familiar with the territory, and led us through some quiet back roads that had allowed us to skip most of the traffic along Rt. 126. We turned on to the main street as we entered Holliston Center and cruised the last two blocks to the funeral home, Chuck's family outside and waving at us as we rode in. They later told us that we looked like an honor guard taking him home one last time; and I somehow think that if we had to do this again, it may be nice for one of us to be guiding one of the deceased bikes into the funeral home -- empty and without a rider.
The service itself was humbling and lovely; and in absence of getting to know Chuck better, I appreciated getting to know him through his family, siblings and friends. I only hope that he already knew what they had to say before he passed on. It always seems like one of those great cosmic injustices -- how some of us may never hear how our loved ones would pay tribute to us until after we're gone.
Other friends and colleagues of mine have lost family this year, and it feels like the sort of thing that one notices more as they get older. We spend all of our youth dreaming of what our lives are going to become and suddenly we're old and preoccupied with thoughts about how our lives will remembered when we're dead and the world has moved on.
I know that I will remember Chuck and will regret that he did not have more time on this world. I think that's all we can ask of whatever legacies we leave behind.
For the last few years, I only knew Chuck as a name on the New England Randonneurs mailing list, another one of those faces that I might sometimes see at a checkpoint for one of our rides, but always was a little ahead or a little behind me, so we never got to talking. That changed this year when Chuck had taken on the burden of organizing our 300k and was canvassing for volunteers to help out with running the ride. For various reasons partially related to the Summer of Matrimony and the Argentina trip, I wasn't planning on riding but had the Saturday free, so I wrote to him to say that I'd help out. That was how I found myself awake at 3 in the morning, driving to Hanscom. Together we signed in riders as they showed up in ones and twos; and I got to put more faces to names that I had seen online. I sat back, and totted up the registration fees as Chuck gave the riders their briefing and then sent them off. Afterwards, we split up the supplies so that we could stock the various checkpoints we had been assigned to, and I gave Chuck a ride back to his house so that he could grab a second car. On the way we talked about plans and dreams and adventures.
"I'm planning on doing the Shenandoah 1200 again," he said, "as you may recall I was in it in 2008, during its inaugural year and I DNF'ed. It was one of their hottest July's on record, and I remember Ted (one of the other New England riders who managed to be the first finisher of Shenandoah and set the course record) only managed to do it by riding at night and sleeping in the middle of the day. I couldn't finish. My feet had swelled up like melons and I had to quit. It's been haunting me ever since, and it feels like unfinished business."
While waiting for riders to show up, I spent most of that breezy May day at a turkey farm reading Cormac McCarthy and talking with the owner of the economics of preserving agricultural land. As various randonneurs arrived, I was occupied with slicing watermelons, signing time cards and giving impromptu pep talks. I remembered the route from years past and how, by this point in time, everyone had finished a century on a grueling set of rollers through Connecticut's hilly northeastern quarter; and I imagined that the headwind wasn't helping matters.
The controle was supposed to be their lunch stop and I had been stocked with deli meats, hummus, bread and snacks. I had tried my best to ration the supplies; leaving out enough to keep a selection, but holding some back for those who were further back in the pack. Still, the provisions weren't enough and with a few riders out on the course, I was starting to run low on food. Fortunately, Chuck had also given me some cash from the club treasury for discretionary purchases; and I had funneled that into cider donuts and turkey sandwiches from the farm country store. One of the last riders to arrive at my checkpoint was a visitor from New Jersey, who was anxious about falling behind the cutoff, but was appreciative that being last warranted a fresh roast turkey sandwich.
If it was one thing that Chuck and I were fond of talking about on that day, it was how much awe we had for the members of our club, both the fast ones and the slow ones. The fastest riders were almost inhuman in their ability to complete 200 mile courses with average speeds that we would struggle to maintain over 30 miles. The slowest ones were awesome in the way that they would sign up for challenges that were obviously at the limit of their physical ability, but managed to maintain a sense of determination and grit where others would normally turn to despair. We both understood how the sport was essentially a series of parallel challenges that we were all undertaking on our own, each one specific to the individual; and helping our friends succeed at these things could be its own reward.
I thought to myself that if Chuck wanted to organize more rides, I might have more fun volunteering in them than riding. He was brimming with ideas for a 1000k or 1200 to replace the defunct BMB, and he would talk about them excitedly as we drove the course. Thinking about it now, I can't help but wonder what those plans would've been like if they had come to pass.
When news had come to the club of his death, one of the steady topics was whether there would be a memorial service, and we were soon told that not only would there be a memorial, but because his family knew how much Chuck loved cycling, they also wanted us to ride to the service. So it was that a dozen of us gathered in Framingham to do a Ride of Silence to Chuck's memorial in Holliston.
It was a sweltering Saturday in July. I had taken the Club Racer out to Framingham via the commuter rail with panniers to hold my suit and tie. We were told that road bike attire was perfectly acceptable for the occasion, but there's an old Catholic choir boy in me that wasn't personally comfortable with walking into any place of worship in lycra. Most of the usual core of the club was present -- Glen, Jake, Chip, Melinda. There was another rider that I didn't recognize until someone introduced him as Chuck's brother; who had flown here from Ohio for the service and had specifically wanted us to do this ride in the memory of his brother.
Glen led the ride, as he was the most familiar with the territory, and led us through some quiet back roads that had allowed us to skip most of the traffic along Rt. 126. We turned on to the main street as we entered Holliston Center and cruised the last two blocks to the funeral home, Chuck's family outside and waving at us as we rode in. They later told us that we looked like an honor guard taking him home one last time; and I somehow think that if we had to do this again, it may be nice for one of us to be guiding one of the deceased bikes into the funeral home -- empty and without a rider.
The service itself was humbling and lovely; and in absence of getting to know Chuck better, I appreciated getting to know him through his family, siblings and friends. I only hope that he already knew what they had to say before he passed on. It always seems like one of those great cosmic injustices -- how some of us may never hear how our loved ones would pay tribute to us until after we're gone.
Other friends and colleagues of mine have lost family this year, and it feels like the sort of thing that one notices more as they get older. We spend all of our youth dreaming of what our lives are going to become and suddenly we're old and preoccupied with thoughts about how our lives will remembered when we're dead and the world has moved on.
I know that I will remember Chuck and will regret that he did not have more time on this world. I think that's all we can ask of whatever legacies we leave behind.