My red badge

I was surprised to end up with a red arm band at the Ride of Silence tonight. When I arrived at the sign-in table, the woman asked if I'd ever been hurt on a bike. I'm pretty sure I responded with a mumbled "gurf?"

She asked again, "have you ever been hit by a car?"

"Yeah, but I was 12. It was more than 30 years ago."

"You get a red arm band," she said as she tied it around my left biceps.

I noticed that nearly every one else had a black one.

I pulled my bike to the back of the line. The people next to me told me riders with red bands were supposed to go to the front. I said I was happy where I was.

My justification, which I summarized for them even more briefly, was that it was an accident caused by me exercising the judgment of a harried, distracted 12-year-old. I was late for school and I almost avoided being perpendicular to the car. He clipped the back wheel. The driver stopped and I popped up and apologized. I hope he still doesn't have nightmares. My bike was slightly bent but I still rode to school. When I got home I'm pretty sure I stashed the 10-speed in the basement. Since I rode some days and walked others I don't think loyalty to walking was noticed from that time forward. And when you're 12 and late for school and you know that you dashed out in front of the car, that you got hit is the sort of thing you might neglect mentioning to your mom, especially when you can pedal away.

The ride tonight was good. I never ride that slowly — in places 7 mph — but it felt nice to be in a low, low gear spinning behind the other 86 riders. The five miles took about 35 or 40 minutes. Befitting its name, the ride through Research Triangle Park and east Durham was very quiet.

The ride home was in some ways better. I pulled Patrick, who was riding a folding bike, south along Davis Drive from RTP to Morrisville. What impressed me was that on a folding bike he could stay close enough that there was pulling to be done. One of the things I got from Patrick was perspective about red bands. He asked about my red band and then told me about his. He got whacked by a car probably about 20 years ago and landed on his head but everyone was able to walk away. He didn't realize until later he had a separated shoulder. But that's not why he was on the ride. He told me he rode because of a guy named Al Johnson, who made the ride with us tonight. Al damn near died after a bike wreck in Virginia some time ago that included weeks in ICU and, not suprisingly, months off the bike. Even though I never, ever want anyone to clip my back wheel again — or to cause it — I think it's understandable that I'm glad not to be Al. And I don't ever want to be. Let's just hope I can size up a situation better at 44 than at 12.