There was a time in my young adult life when I succumbed to the acquisition of what I now consider a status symbol of young adrenaline junkies. I got mine a couple years into marriage, rationalizing the "need" due to boredom in the evenings while Deziray was head-high in med school. All my friends had them...sleek, fast, dangerous. They don't call them crotch-rockets for nothing.

The agreement between the two of us if I got one was twofold. 1) I would always err on the side of caution, wearing every piece of safety gear within reason, from the best helmet, to the armored street jacket, along with boots and gloves, regardless of temperature. 2) That I would not hot-dog. No wheelies, no racing, no high-speed jollies.

The group of friends with bikes always rode in packs. You've probably seen them and been annoyed by them. There are always the ones who are out front, popping wheelies, weaving in and out of traffic, and doubling the speed of anyone else on the road. These guys were arguably, only on certain levels, the best riders. They were skilled, had been doing it for years, and were supposed to be the ones who could react most quickly to the changing circumstances on the road, even when riding at 120mph. I, a less experienced rider, preferred the latter half of the pack. I could ride at a comfortable pace, always see well ahead of me and respond as needed, but also keep an eye on the ballsy guys up front.

It wasn't until one night when my perspective of those riders changed dramatically. "The Pack" was out on a ride through a favorite stretch of road they'd ridden hundreds of times. It was well liked for its smooth surface, sharp curves, and dramatic scenery. The usual guys were out front doing their usual thing. The rider who knew this road the best was out front, pressing the limit of speed as he approached what he clearly recognized as a curve...he'd made the turn hundreds of times.

What he didn't know was what was coming around the bend from the opposite direction.

He didn't hit the car head on, but at the rate of speed he was traveling, he didn't have time to slow down to both avoid the car and make the turn. Instead, he went right off the embankment and was killed. On the road he thought he knew, at the speed he thought he could travel, at a time when just one condition made everything different.

Sure, we all knew that it was the ones out front riding that way were at risk. We dreaded the idea of it ever happening to anyone, but always knew it could happen. And sure, I rode as safely as possible, but seeing someone go down certainly refreshed my understanding that invincibility is a false notion for anyone. The reality is, even those of us riding conservatively were still a part of a risky sport. The difference, though, is that while we were all on the same road, facing the same curves, and the same on-coming traffic, we were all traveling at different speeds with different tolerance levels for the risk. The rest of us lived to ride another day, but with a certain change in awareness of what dangers exist.

I've thought a lot about that experience lately because I find myself in a pack, all riding on the same road, with the same curves, with the same on-coming obstacles, and someone may have just gone down. We're just riding at different speeds with different views of what's at stake, most of us doing everything we can to make sure this ride won't be the last.