So it comes to this. Competition is the domain of life, an expression of all that is vital, a chance to tell the world who we are in the most visceral of ways. We know the elements required—muscle, heart, brain and bone. And yet, they are each a statement of how fragile life is.
We know the risks of racing a bicycle, of riding, itself. To reject it for its risks would be to deny ourselves the opportunity engage the world, to reject joy itself. In accepting the dangers, we concede that this world is finite, that a life lived—no matter how fully—still ends.
But not like this. Not on TV. Not so young. Not so full of promise. Not with a pregnant wife and new roles to fulfill and new love to feel.
That’s the great irony to be found in death. In a life full of choices, sometimes we can’t choose how or when we go. Not like this. Not yet.