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A Fred's-Eye View: That one-in-a-million risk

Published: Jun. 7, 2005

U.S. Highway 36 cuts a straight line across the grassy eastern toes ofthe Rocky Mountains as it heads north from Boulder's overgrown outskirtsto the sleepy town of Lyons, Colorado.The rolling blacktop is the main vein between Boulder’s busy streetsand a twisting maze of lightly traveled farm roads to the north. It isalso is a starting point for host of narrow canyon rides that twist theirway high into the snowy Front Range. Needless to say, it’s arguably themost popular stretch of road for area cyclists and is regularly cloggedwith two-wheelers of varying shapes and sizes.Like most area cyclists, I cannot fathom how many times I have foundmyself spinning along U.S. 36 between Boulder and Lyons – enough to makethe 15-mile voyage seem as routine as the drive to work or a trip to thedownstairs bathroom.I can visualize minute aspects of the journey’s scenery in my sleep– from the placement of lone cottonwood trees to the hundreds of prairiedog mounds dotting the side of the hogback. Because of  that familiarity,U.S. 36 is often my “daydream” stretch of road – it’s flat and familiarenough to turn off the senses and let the mind delve deeply into yet anothergreat bicycle-induced thought.Last Thursday morning I was once again on U.S. 36, riding quickly withhopes of making it home in time to wolf down a bowl of Fruit Loops beforework. This time, however, the ride was different. My senses were tunedfirmly on high. I kept my wheels as far right as the wide shoulder– broad enough to comfortably accommodate several cyclists riding abreast– would allow me. My ears perked up as the rumble of every approachingengine, and I blew a sigh of relief as each speeding car barreled by.After all, it had only been three days since Scott Kornfield, a localtriathlete and Cat. 3 racer, was struck and killed by a speeding SUV onthis very stretch of road. Like me, Kornfield was squeezing in a ride inthe early hours on a road that had lighter-than-usal traffic because ofthe Memorial Day holiday. Like me, he was riding in the apparent safetyof delineated shoulder and was paying attention to traffic.
 
I passed by discarded shards of police caution tape and a small clumpof purple flowers on the opposite side of the road demarking the accidentsite. Images created by the newspaperarticles immediately flashed through my mind: an oncoming SUV pilotedby a sleeping driver veers sharply from the opposing lane as if to pass,but continues directly into the bike lane and straight toward me.It’s a chilling image – one that will likely play over in my mind, notto mention the minds of many local cyclists, every time our wheels spinalong our once-beloved U.S. 36.
 
Countless roads like U.S. 36 exist nationwide – busy stretches of semi-ruralasphalt where cyclists and motorists appear to coexist in a harmoniousrelationship made possible by a white line and steady steering hands. Theseare the roads that we cyclists often take for granted as being “safe.”It’s on these roads – and trails, for that matter – where we are at ourmost confident and carefree. We let our guard down. We relax.We ride these stretches hundreds of times a year without problemand know their wide shoulders like the backs of our hands.  We expecttrouble from the crazy clogged streets of the city or the steep windingmountain passes, but not from the wide open stretches of highway, wherean approaching motorist could easily spot a cyclist from miles away. Itdoesn’t matter how fast they’re going – if they can see you, you’ll befine.Right?The unfortunate truth is that the "safe" roads and trails are wherethe odds turn against us. Cyclists and autos can only obey the human rulesof the white line so many thousand times before these rules are inadvertentlybroken by mathematical inevitability. Order becomes disorder, and the “one-in-a-million” accident occurs. In an instant of pure human operationalfailure, the delicate relationship can be shattered, and the cyclist –ill equipped without a V-8 engine or steel exoskeleton – is the big loser.I remember a similar tragedy a year ago in my former hometown of SantaCruz, California. Robert Jones, captain of the UC Santa Cruz police force,was out for an afternoon spin on his brand-new Kestrel. He decided to takehis new purchase for a ride up Highway 1 to nearby Davenport – a ride hehad probably completed a hundred times before. The 25-mile round trip isa favorite of Santa Cruz cyclists, and not solely for the awesome viewof the cliffs above the Pacific – although the road is busy with road traffic,it boasts a sizable shoulder and a totally open vantage for motorists.But in an instant of human carelessness, Highway 1 lost its appeal tonearly every cyclist in town. A teenager driving an SUV was momentarilydistracted, veered into the bike lane and slammed into Jones from behind,trapping him beneath the car as his bike was smashed to bits. Jones escapedwith his life, however he was sent into a coma for several months and isincapacitated for life. It was several months before I could venture backon that stretch of pavement.Stories like these put a scare into individuals, but they lack the weightof first-hand experience. The dangers of cycling could be discussed atlength for hours without serious impact on a cyclists’ opinion –usuallyit takes a near-miss or a solid hit to convince someone that the sportshould come with a “can cause serious injury or even death” label.I remember my hit like it was yesterday. I was clawing my way up a steepgrade outside of Felton, California, when a zippy black Honda sideswipedme, bending my pedal and sending me flying into a bush. I pulled my batteredbody back onto the road and rushed up to the stopped car to give the driveran earful of the most heinous expletives my furious mind could think up,only to have the wind sucked out of my raging sails when an 80-year oldgranny rolled down the window to ask if I was okay.I was okay, but only because I was lucky. I came away from the experiencethoroughly convinced that every car on the road was controlled by my species’most incompetent specimens. It’s easy to never leave the house withouta bike helmet with this train of thought.That’s why I can’t help but feel a tad frustrated when I look on theroads and see scores of cyclists opting for the “European” sans-helmetlook. This is the ultimate metaphor for overconfidence and hubris in thesport. A helmet-less cyclist is akin to the individual riding on U.S. 36thinking that every car will always pass by safely and without harm. Thewhite line will do its job again and again, and the hands of every driverwill be steady as she goes.The sight of a nattily attired cycling team riding matching zippy bikes,wearing matching shoe covers and all sporting matching helmet-less gelled-hairheads makes me want to vomit. Euro' look? Even the Euro's don't do it anymore.It’s a look that says one thing: There's nothing up there to protect.Of course, all of the protective clothing in the world of organizedsports couldn’t have saved Kornfield from a runaway SUV, and I doubt RobertJones could have avoided being hit even had he donned a suit equipped withneon lights and blaring sirens. But their tragedies should be a lessonlearned for every cyclist who spins along road or trail. Cycling is inherentlyunpredictable, dangerous and influenced by countless factors beyondyour control. You might not be able to prevent the one-in-a-million accidentfrom happening, but you had better make it your life’s goal to preventthe others.Be careful out there.