I learned some sad news the day I wrote my previous post. A woman had been killed by a driver while she was participating in the Tripleshot CrossFondo. The news article a co-worker showed me on his monitor mentioned it was a woman in her 40s. I ran down to the bike shop to ask a colleague I knew had volunteered at the event if he knew who it was. Several of the ladies I ride with are in their 40s. Hell, I am a female rider in her 40s! (Only Danica texted me in a panic to see if I was still alive.)

I recognized the name. It wasn’t any of the ladies in the WhatsApp group I belong to, but it was someone I’d followed on Strava for a while. I was sure our paths would eventually cross. But now she is gone, and the cycling community is devastated. Several of the ladies I ride with knew this woman personally. I didn’t feel better about it not being anybody I knew: this was downright awful news.

I was still processing the news when I wrote the October 21st post. Later that night, I lay in the dark next to Jordi in my bed, and tears escaped the corner of my eyes. I’d taken a break from cycling to give myself time to heal from the trauma of my accident, and now it had been reawakened. I got lucky and walked away from getting hit by a car, fucking up my mouth in the process. And this poor woman didn’t make it.