5/31/2010: Remembering

Today marks the 5th anniversary of Scott Kornfield's untimely death. A truly sad day for those of us on the team and in the community who knew him.

I'd like to recall a fond memory, which occurred a couple weeks later. A woman who was moved by the tragic story organized a 'Ride of Silence' for Scott. Meeting out at the Seagate building north on 95th, the 10-mile route traced a rectangle along the rolling roads out there. The pace was very pedestrian - we covered the 10 miles in about an hour. When I stopped at one point on the ride and looked back, I was amazed at how long the procession of riders was. It extended for literally a half-mile or more. A few of us estimated that somewhere around 500-600 riders of all walks of life showed up.

When it was time to start the ride, I gave a short speech and then we rolled out of the parking lot. Riding in silence, aside from being a challenge, ended up being cathartic. I did my best to find a bunch of different people and do nothing more than wave at them or share a quick squeeze of the hands before moving on. At the end of the ride, people milled around, chatting about Scott, about life. Remembering. I hadn't planned on riding at all. I hadn't been back on my bike since Memorial Day. But, when I heard Scott's widow was going to ride, I felt I had no choice. If she was going to be there, then I was definitely going to be there, too.

As Lori and I prepared to load our bikes back on our bike rack, Andy Johnson came up. He said that a small group of guys was going to ride back to Louisville and asked if I wanted to join them. I really didn't. I looked at Lori. She gave me a look of encouragement and a gentle nudge. So I said OK. It wasn't that far; I'd be back home in about 40 minutes or less. We set off at an easy pace and meandered our way to the Diagonal, by Airport Road. As we turned south on the Diagonal, Andy came by the slow-moving paceline on the outside, passed me by, looked over his shoulder and gave me one of his looks that said, "C'mon, bud. Hop on my wheel. This is what you're meant to do. Enjoy THIS!" My brain threatened to analyze, but I shut it down cold. I reacted.

I jumped out of the paceline and sprinted up to Andy's wheel, then past him. Then Mike Hogan came by me, and someone came by him. And the race-pace echelon was underway. Metaphorically, I felt released, like I had just shrugged off a stack of 45-lb freeweight plates. The liberation of that moment was indescribable. Still is and tears well up in my eyes, even now.

When Lori had picked me up at the site of the accident and we prepared to drive away, a female state trooper stopped us. Lori rolled her window down and the trooper asked us if we wanted my bike. It was still where I had thrown it down in the middle of Hwy 36. Through the windshield I stared at it like a zombie. Lori put the car in park and retrieved it. It then collected dust in the garage until the 'Ride of Silence'.

I have to give Andy a deep and heartfelt "thank you" for that day. He knew what I needed more than I did. He single-handedly sparked the ember to rekindle my passion for riding. I'll never forget that.

Thanks, Andy.

Nate