Going to Paradise

Its hot, so I turn around and decide to do a shorter bike ride by going around the loop next to the Bay, where the wind will cool me down. About two thirds done, I hear the familiar sound of experienced gear clicking behind me, and I know I have a biker on my back.
Competitive cyclists, especially bike racers, have tight social protocols. We don’t wave or get friendly with other cyclists. Just pass. Check out the lycra, recognize one of our own, and a snapped nod of the helmet gets one back. Done.
The guy behind me starts to pass.
“Hey, how’s your day going?”
“Fine”.
Not one of us. One of us doesn’t say anything when passing.
He’s in front now. He’s a big guy and has on a killer design racing jersey for a team in Tennessee. He’s got legs, so he has to be training.
“My day is going great now that I have a wheel!”
I jump on. Who am I kidding? I’m coming back after too long off, I’ve been working hard at it, but no way am I going to stay with him. Unless he just got here from Tennessee and doesn’t know Paradise Loop. I’ve got the tight turns and gear shifts down from hundreds of training rides and it’s my only chance. He looks back regularly to see if he’s dropped me yet, lets up a little, I am still a foot off his wheel, and we're still at a good pace. I guess this won’t be a hammerfest, so a conversation starts as we roll.
“No, I live in Mill Valley, not Tennessee. I raced with them until my accident.”
“Road race or criterium?”
“Neither. My and my buddy were sprinting, I went down, the pavement hit my forehead first and missed the helmet. It was bad for a while. My wife kept asking if I would live. That’s all she asked.”
“How did she cope with one kid and another on the way?”
“She was calm. Didn’t freak out, just kept asking if I would live. I’m getting my conditioning back though, but no more racing.”
“Yeah. I was lucky for the ten years I raced, so I quit while I was in one piece. So, did you have that Ah-ha moment people talk about after you recovered and realized you were still here?”
Whatever he said to me, I honestly don’t remember. I think his actions for the rest of our ride just overwhelmed whatever came out of his mouth.
Along the bike path section, its cluttered with joggers, dogs, kids, baby strollers, old people, other cyclists – he slows down the pace, which I have learned is a sign of higher intelligence. Training with hammerheads that just yelled everyone out of the way was the life I lived.
But this guy – he was strangely different. He actually had what seemed like a deep five second conversation with every human he passed.
“Hey little buddy, move to the right. Yeah, that’s good.
Coming through folks. How’s your day going?
Hang right there sweetie, we’re passing you on the left.”
It’s like the whole world was his kid or his relative. I wasn't prepared. Never had I ridden next to anyone like that who took competition seriously.
We split in Mill Valley. He went home to his still pregnant wife and his still successful software company and still alive and still on the bike.
I rode on without a thought, an emotion, an anything. I was just in awe as the awareness of my blindness to people now hammered itself into me.