One of our riders, Ray Rickard from Carson City, Nevada, died last night in his sleep. From a heart attack we suspect. Peacefully we hope. And after a day of happy cycling we know (because he told us).
What can I say about a man I met for the first time at the start line in California just a fortnight ago? My knowledge of him is necessarily scratchy, built up of breathy conversations on the open road and chats over dinner. A couple of things stand out. Firstly that he loved his wife. I know this because each day he would pause to take pictures of the wildflowers he saw along the way and every evening send them to her. He showed me one such image he was particularly proud of – blue sky, orange mesa and purple flower heads. We’d taken virtually the same picture.
Secondly that he was a retired psychologist with the prison service. We talked about this as we cleaned our bikes – me with a perfunctory wipe over with the proverbial oily rag, Ray with much more care and concern. He was a meticulous man who wanted his wheels to turn smoothly. I like to think the work he did with people who fell into the US criminal justice system will have had a similar effect – smoothed their journey through life.
Life is like a bicycle. Carrying us not from Pacific to Atlantic coasts but on a fantastical journey from cradle to grave. We know that like all good rides it’s going to come to an end. Just not exactly when. Last night the big wheel stopped turning for Ray. We’ll miss him terribly. Already do. His bright orange/yellow cycling gear and upright but efficient stance made him stand out on the road ahead (and he often was ahead). We’re going keep riding to the end in his memory. Today we passed the half way point with heavy hearts. Tomorrow we have our longest slog – 143 miles from Chickasha to Mcalester. He’ll be with us every inch of the way.
