It's hard to describe the reality of what happened yesterday. It's hard not to turn the tragedy of this unsung hero's death into some desperate, transparent excuse for introspection. I was at home, watching the italian feed of the Giro as I'm certain many of you were, casually working away on some email, or some photo, when I glanced back at the screen to see the familiar bottle-neck of cars squeezing by a crash in the Italian mountains. I pause, and strain to listen to the italian announcers impossibly fast voice, and try and figure out who was in the tangle. I am so used to seeing these crashes, and seeing tiny little men brushing the rocks out of their legs and hopping onto fresh new bikes to finish the race.
Then they showed Wouter.
I've been witness to things, either through circumstance, or though cruel morbid curiosity that, sometimes, I wish I wasn't. This was one of those times. I could tell by the sudden, uncharacteristic silence of the italian broadcaster that something was wrong.
Then the image was gone from the screen. Replaced with a shot of the ever-gracefull peloton arching and gliding through the mountains.
I still can't tell if it was the way he looked, or the fact that I knew the kit, or that I knew this race, or that I knew the names the announcer had begun to choke and whisper... but the image of Wouter Weylandt lying there on the ground is something I will never ever forget.
I can't speak for anyone but myself, but as a racer, I feel like I lost a team mate and by extension, a friend. It may sound like a horribly selfish thing to say considering what the people who knew him are going though, but it's the only way I have been able to accurately describe the kind of feeling I've had in my stomach all day.
For better or for worse, my life revolves around the 15lbs of plastic and metal that is sitting three feet away from me. I am wholly consumed by racing and training and living on my bike. I may not be a pro, or even a semi-pro, but I know that I share the same passion for my bicycle as he must have. As they all must at some point. I didn't know Wouter... but I knew him. He was a 26 year old kid, with a girlfriend, and parents, and friends, and who loved nothing more than to race his bicycle... I knew him.
The circumstances that surround his death are hard to even wrap my head around. I thought all day of his girlfriend, and what she must have been going through watching the same horrific thing on TV that I was. I thought of his parents, and what pride they must have felt knowing their son was among the best in the world, and then what sadness they are about to endure. I thought of his best friend, who was up the road unaware of his proclaimed brother's situation. I thought of my best friends. I thought of all of you, and if and how I could deal with something like this were it ever to happen closer to home.
I can't imagine how I could.
There's no bow to tie on this. No neat way to bring it full circle. I am still stunned about how deeply this has affected me...and I wish there was a better way to say it then on an unread internet blog... but I wish him, and everyone he surrounded himself with a dulled edge to this horrible pain.
I treasure you, my friends. I don't tell you all enough.
See you on Sunday.
Sam.
