Headwinds

The first few years I knew Jeff, I was terrified of him. Now, of course, it seems ridiculous- being afraid of the man that cut rides short to save street crossing turtles, or made the family "Jeffy Joes' for dinner. But then, as he rolled up to my first wednesday night ride decked out with zipps, and tattoos of hunting tigers, I held my breath.

Who are these people?

I was new to cycling. I had just gotten into racing and had heard there was a group ride leaving from dousman on wednesdays. I didn’t not know about bib shorts and there may or may not have been a visor on my helmet. When the ride began, it was hard. Unbelievably hard. I spun and spun until I got dropped, took a shortcut, got back in, and then got double dropped. Standing around after the ride, my legs burnt. My throat ached from breathing. I was rolling around debating how to get my sorry butt home when I made eye contact with Jeff. My face grew red. I tried to look the other way, but is it ever a good idea to run from the guy with stalking tigers tattoos?

He started towards me. I knew he was going to talk about the ride, tell me I shouldn't show up next week, that this group was too fast, too experienced, that I was wasting my time.

But instead, "Is this your first ride?" "Well nice ride. We'll see you next week."

And like that, I felt welcomed into the cycling community. A spandex clad ambassador opened the door for me into their clicky toe, muli-colored group.

Thanks to Jeff, I was one of countless.

But I guess that's the thing about Jeff. He was always the first to make someone feel welcomed. He had so much passion for what he did and so much love for not only his friends and family, but complete strangers that he went out of his way to help anyone, anyway. He was a nice person. The real nice, that if I can just try to emulate, I'll be doing better.

And now, it seems like the grief won't ever stop. It's the little things, of course. I can't believe we won't see Jeff roll up to a ride wearing full finger gloves, red shoe covers, and just a skin suit, rolled, cuffed and tucked in. I wish I had smiled when Jeff’s eyes would widen and he'd bite his tongue as he tried to keep from telling me my jersey and shorts didn't match. (I know Jeff, I just didn't do laundry, again)

Or Tatum. Jeff loved that dog so much. It breaks my heart to remember the way he'd alternate between kissing "the best little girl in the world" and feeding her powerbars because he wanted her to be ripped.

And all those early spring rides that were completely miserable. Cold, long, boring. 5:30 in the morning. I would ride behind Jeff for hours, counting down the time before I could go back to sleep. I never told you this Jeff, but I get it. Those morning rides were so beautiful I can’t even explain. Helium skies high above the new day and sunbeams that fell like anchors from the sun, solidifying us in its warm. I would understand if you wanted to keep that sunrise to yourself, but you always let me come with.

Jeff's service is going to be huge. If half the whose lives he touched showed up, that tiny Cudahay church will be packed. But grief is a measure of how much we loved. And all that greif, that love, won't fit inside the church. It will melt through the windows and pour out beneath the doors. That love will flow out into the world and sink deep into the soil. It will fill the trees and give energy to each blade of grass. It will evaporate into the air and swirl into the wind. That love will pour like sunbeams, and we will breath it. Into our bodies and back out into the world, our own selves not only matching this world but blending with it. Seemlessly and beautifully. Harmoniously, in a breath. Beacause in that grief, that love, there is celebration of a beautiful life.

When riding, Jeff used to tell us that “a headwind is our friend. I’d always laugh because, no, they really aren’t.

But riding today, I felt the wind. Warm wind. Not a note of winter. The kind that fills you with summer evenings and wednesday rides. And I could feel you, Jeff, riding with us again, making us stronger. I could feel you in the sky, more blue than October should ever be. I can hear you in my bike, in the shifting of gears, the clicks drifting up to the heavens and filling out space. I could feel you in the sun that tattooed patterns on my skin. I could feel you in the wind, pacing, rythmic. And for the first time, Jeff, I felt stronger in that wind. For the first time, I believed in those headwinds. In this headwind. Thank you Jeff, for everything. We will all miss you.