The guy in the court always waved as he drove past in his mini cooper or on his motorcycle. I can’t say that I knew him well, but in the past year we have spent quite a bit of time shooting the shit (so-to-speak) curbside. Our topics of discussion varied from dating to death, and we always had a good laugh pushing each other’s buttons.
I remember last November, after I took a tumble on my long run, meandering over to ask his professional opinion on my wound. He was a paramedic turned techie. We talked injuries and how those who didn’t understand our love for running, or in his case motorcycles, continually dished out encouragement to give it up. We both agreed that the danger in giving up was greater than continuing to chase our passion.
This guy, having suffered much loss himself, knew that sitting on the couch would only let depression take hold of him. He knew the risks involved in motorcycle riding and, in his case, racing. As a paramedic, he’d seen plenty. But he swore that if he died doing what he loved that it would be okay.
And so with much sadness, I remember his words and wave good-bye to my dear neighbor and friend. I will surely miss your friendly wave and shooting the shit with you.
Photo: Is not actually him but a friend of his racing in Ireland.