A friend's blog had an awful post a few weeks ago. One of her coworkers had been struck and killed while riding his bike. Not wearing a helmet - which doesn't always save your life, sure, but still.
I saw his ghost bike yesterday.
This is not it. This is another ghost bike for someone else who died.
I guess I feel what it means to be a writer the most strongly when I become horribly aware of how words fail me sometimes. Or rather, how I fail the words. I fail to pick the right ones and line them up just right. To explain what it was like to see that white skeleton of a bike under that filthy overpass, cold and chained up and abandoned, with his name and way, way, WAY too short of a lifespan printed on it. And to think, oh my gosh.
I continued running my errands and saw a woman blithely biking around without a helmet. This nice middle-aged woman with her cruiser bike going to Jo-Ann Fabric. I had to look away. I just wanted to scream at her.
It breaks my heart how abandoned they are. Forever waiting for someone to come back, unlock them, and ride them safely home.