John Benenate

October 24 2007
Cool and part Sunny

Saturday at 1:00 in the afternoon we gathered at the
corner of SW Park and Jackson Street.
People of all ages and cycling styles began to show
up. They lined out in front of the beautiful PSU
Native American Community center. Itself, a memorial.
"Is this the ride for Brett?" they asked.
Gathering together a group, they began to share who
they were, and why they were there.
"I was hit last September" said a computer innovator
with Apple, "they just cut me off."
"I know, I was hit last summer and I haven't been the
same since," said a non profit executive.
"I just want to pay my respects to Brett," said a
Beaverton shop mechanic.
I said, while half falling off my handcycle, I was a
Directeur Sportif of a team, including children, and
it was my job to make sure people didn't die in the
streets on my rides. I told them I was at the
crossroads and didn't understand whether it was reason
or bravado, or just my minivan that helped me keep
beginners and veterans alike, alive.
I told I could feel the cycling community at a zenith,
and something had to be learned this time. I wanted to
knwo what it was.

We slowly rolled out down the park blocks, but we lost
a couple of folks who turned back almost immediately
because they felt weird in the pack and with all cars
and people downtown.
Two of my dear friends, and teammates, the men of
O'Brien were along, Dad on his bike and Danny on the
tag-a-long. Danny is 7. They were the first who I
asked, " let me know if I am doing a memorial right."
"A women new to PDX said, " I would have walked
through there if it wasn't for this little group."

We breezed past Lincoln HS, over the freeway, down
14th Street.

At the head of the descent, I slowed and came to a
stop just before the group arrived at the first Ghost
Bike at the corner of Burnside and 14th. It was the
memorial for Tracey Sparling. She was the art student
who was taken out by a concrete mixer truck turning
right.

Some of us drew close, while others kept their
distance. Everyone was quiet and introspective. While
viewing the memorial, pedestrians and car traffic took
notice of us.

One women walking with her children suddenly
recognized her friend in our group. Happy and
ebullient she walked right into our little circle and
threw her arms around her friend before she suddenly
realized she was amidst a somber observance.

Rolling on, it was hard to get the whole group through
a light for a while. We waited diligently.

When we began to climb up the hill over the Broadway
Bridge, the sun came on, an people were playful again.
One of BBC's big cat 2s came up and let me grab on a
seat stay for a tow up. We soon arrived at NoPoBiWo
and then slid into The Fresh Pot.

While ever slow and protective of the whole group, we
avoided running hard down Alberta to CCC and the
Mercede/Haberman art mural at the Francis Restaurant.

Favoring momentum, and not using yo mentum in front of
the police station, I crossed MLK like a shot.
Floating the neighborhood with greetings to all , our
mission was public. But, trying to make our way to
Brett's east side employ, I got a flat.

After the patch and a dollar to boot, we regretted
deciding to forgo the place he was so well remembered,
and go instead directly to the memorial on Greeley.

We all were glad we did. Our energy was changed.

It was a shrine. There was art, sculpture and a black
profile of a sprinting racer on the concrete wall, and
photoson the pole, and flowers, and cards, and more.
There was a 1st place medal from the Short Track
Series.

He was loved. It was obvious.

Greg O'Brien said " Hey john look," as he pointed out
where dually truck wheels made there mark on the
sidewalk as the trailer had been dragged across. There
were many marks - it looked like nothing special -
like it happened all the time at this140degree corner.

"This looks dangerous as hell," another said "there is
nothing a person could do here once the truck started
over."

In WWII we had a "war effort," one woman said, "with
Victory Gardens and War Bonds. Now with young men and
women dying in some far desert for oil, it seems
ironic we are running over the only Americans engaged
in a daily action most akin to a war effort. A daily
effort to get those troops back home safe."

"We all need to be more compassionate to each other on
the road," a man in our group said, turning away from
the memorial.

"The lines won't protect us," said a Portland Wheelman
in wool who had just ridden up.

"We have to think this one all the way through this
time and learn," said the woman.

I was feeling at peace,(bonking) and felt we
accomplished what we could, so I bid everyone who was
coming, depart, and the rest, "adieu."
I hope we did it right Brett, and learned what we
should. Thank you for the ride. We'll try to carry
what you have given us, forward.

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