Ride of Silence Irvine Images

The Ride of Silence inspired me to write a poem, and to bring along my camera to record the event, and share it here.

In this post are the rest of the photos and, with the 3 posts I've written I hope to bring to you some sense of the power, and emotion, of all the Rides of Silence held that Wednesday evening, from Orange County to Europe, to Asia, with the last being held in Hawaii, 3 hours after the one I rode in.

As we rode out everyone was somber, and serious, some wearing black armbands, or headbands, in honor of friends, and family, killed in encounters on the road with a motorist, and some, like me, wearing a red band, to signify being injured in such an encounter ( I STILL have a brown bruise/scar on the back of my left leg, between my knee, and ankle, from an ecounter with a speeding truck, too close to the curb, at Brookhurst/Adams in Huntington Beach, a couple of years ago, that left me black and blue up, and down my left arm, and leg, for days. )

As we rode along Alton Parkway cars of every make and model, busses, and trucks, passed us by, or waited at busy intersections as Irvine Police stopped traffic, when we had green, until the last of us rode thru.

David Whiting, the Outdoors Columnist of the Orange County Register, has been all over the story of safe cycling in the OC, for the past year, and he attended the ride ( Wish I'd spotted him so I could say hello! ).

This morning he wrote a column that captures the spirit, and emotion, of the event through the experience of one rider.

As the twilight slowly melts into darkness, Nancy Barrans finds herself thinking about a miracle.

Perhaps it is the wind. Perhaps it is the silence, an invisible force of it’s own on this night with 150 cyclists gathered and no one talking, just the soft hum of pedals and wheels.

Or perhaps the feeling that a miracle is in the air comes from the spirit of community, plainly visible by the long string of gently blinking red tale lights from the line of cyclists if front of Barrans.

In her mind’s eye, Barrans’ brother, a professional cyclist killed by a truck driver in Montreal, will be standing there at the end of this Ride of Silence...

Robert Brisson, 43, will be whole again, strong and lithe like he was before the 18-wheeler hit him on Oct. 20, 2006, destroying his body beyond recognition, identifiable only by the tattoo on his hip that he and his wife each got when they celebrated their 40th birthdays.

Always punctual and known for his gentleness and generosity, Robert will wave to the 150 cyclists as they finish this 9.7 mile ride, pulling into the outdoor court at the Irvine Civic Center.

Barrans and the other cyclists ride slowly and with purpose along the San Diego Creek bike path. They pass the brightly lit baseball fields in Barber Athletic Park. By the time they pull into civic center’s courtyard, they ride under the same canopy of stars seen by other groups on this night.

But there is no miracle this night, at least not for Barrans, who never got to hug her brother goodbye, who never saw his body in a casket, who still hopes the hit and run driver will turn himself in.

Barrans coasts to a stop and sobs, alone for a moment in the crowd. Within seconds, Maud David, a fellow French Canadian who has made a home in Orange County, gently rubs Barrens’ shoulder, the two of them straddling modest blue bicycles.

David has more to say, but this part of the article is a far better accompanyment to my photos than anything I could come up with on my own, and I thank him for sharing this story with his readers.

I rode in the back of the pack so as to best capture images of the ride that visually explained the journey, and as I road along the Bike Trail, in its peaceful rubbing of shoulders with nature, passing shopping centers, and ballparks, walkers, joggers, and the occasional cyclist going the opposite way, I felt a peacefullness, and calmness, that seemed to affect everyone around me as we breathed in the air, and took in the sky,and stars, above us.

We don’t usually think about becoming members of a community when we take up a sport. We develop skills. We learn to handle the equipment. We train. And suddenly we discover we are members of a tribe.

I recall Barrans’ soft, French-accented words, about her brother, "I think maybe he’ll be there. But he wasn’t there."

Or was he?

Returning back to where we began I did not see any spirits of cylists lost, but I have no doubt that they were there, at the side of their grieving friends, and loved ones, in silent thanks for our tribute.

I was approached by Barbara Tomita, and invited to join the OC Wheelmen contingent at a local eatery for an after ride meal, and it was a pleasant hour where I got to meet other members of this club I joined a few months ago.