“You were only a few months old when we drove a few hours from our home in Waggaman to watch your Dad in the State of Louisiana championship,” my mother told me. “He beat everyone else by several minutes. When I say everyone was shocked, no one thought they’d see someone blow the peloton away like he did!” This was in 1989, she explained, the year of my birth, when my dad clinched the State of Louisiana cycling championship held in Hodges Garden, Louisiana, nestled on the state’s northwest border. 

My mom had sparked my dad’s passion for cycling a few years before this triumphant moment. It all began when they were newlyweds. She requested a bike, and upon receiving one, her joy inspired him to acquire one for himself. Thus, my mom unwittingly introduced my dad to the pursuit that would bring him the most joy and pain. 

Summers of my childhood were colored by the spectacle of the Tour de France unfolding on our living room screen, with my dad by my side. “See, Hollie Marie? That’s Lance Armstrong, the greatest cyclist in the world!” he’d exclaim, his voice tinged with excitement as he pointed to the TV. “He’s the guy in the yellow U.S. Postal Team jersey breaking away from the peloton! See, he’s right there!” Mesmerized, I watched the sinewy figure of Armstrong slicing through the snow-topped French Alps from our oat-colored couch. “One day, I’ll be riding alongside him,” my dad would say in his typical joking manner. In those moments, I believed my dad’s jest that he’d pedal along Armstrong one day. To him, cycling wasn’t just a dream deferred but a cherished part of his being. 

I can remember my father returning from rides, drenched in sweat, his legs resembling tree trunks, his cycling shoes reminiscent of futurist gadgets—slender, brightly colored lime green with spikes coming out of the soles. As he guzzled water in the kitchen, my mom’s voice would chime in, “Kevin, take those shoes off before you walk into my kitchen!” His response? A chuckle followed by a loving, albeit sweaty, kiss. 

In 1990, tragedy struck, altering the trajectory of my father’s cycling journey. He was hit by a car while training for nationals, ruining his chance of ever making the US Postal Team. He suffered a compound fracture to his left leg to his tibia and fibula, leaving these bones broken in multiple places and even protruding through the skin. Along with these injuries, he broke his pelvis and hand. Miraculously, his helmet spared him from a fatal outcome. Orthopedic surgeons performed three surgeries in the year following the hit on his leg; the final surgery involved harvesting bone from his hip to add to his leg to aid in its healing. He would not walk again without crutches for over a year. My dad declined to take legal action against the woman. “He just wasn’t that kind of person. He knew she didn’t do it on purpose. He knew what comes around goes around,” my mom would tell me. 

As my dad convalesced, my mother—juggling the demands of an infant, a husband on crutches, and a burgeoning pregnancy—epitomized resilience. I picture her waking before the sun, checking on me and my father, and keeping the baby monitor close as she gets ready for work. Then, she rushes around the kitchen to make sure adequate breast milk is ready. She then attends to my father, ensuring he has ice packs, heating pads, accessible food, and the ability to traverse our home on crutches without obstacles. The sun still hasn’t come up as she gets into her car, and then drives forty-five minutes to the hospital, where she is an X-ray technician and stands on her feet all day while pregnant. Five o’clock comes, and she makes the forty-five-minute drive home, where she must see to it that I’m happy and fed. Then, she makes dinner for her and my father and ensures we are bathed and comfortable. She does this over and over again, and while my father is still unable to walk, and neither can I, my sister was born. And then my mother finds herself caring for three. What can a body do? 

When my dad recovered, he refused to let the accident deter him from getting back on his bike. I vividly recall a day my sister and I rode over twenty-five miles with my dad. We must have been around twelve and thirteen years old at the time. Setting off from our suburban home, we followed the Mississippi River to the ferry, crossing over to Uptown New Orleans. There, as a reward for our journey, he treated us to cheeseburgers from McDonald’s. But the joy of the ride faded as we made our way home; it proved to be quite a challenge for my body. I remember whining, lagging behind, my legs protesting, and feeling utterly exhausted. Yet, my dad remained by my side, his hand gently guiding me forward as my sister forged ahead. I can still hear my mom’s voice echoing that evening when she learned of our adventure, “Kevin, she can’t ride twenty-five miles! What were you thinking?! With her condition, she can’t ride like you.” 

The year following my dad’s accident, I had been diagnosed with a rare bone disease at two years old, heightening my mom’s concerns about what my body could and couldn’t handle. On that ride with my father and sister, I felt a pang of guilt for not keeping pace and, even worse, then seeing my dad bear the brunt of my mom’s frustration. Eventually, the long bike rides became something my dad did either solo or with my sister. 

My parents reignited their passion for cycling together as they reached their fifties. Despite my dad’s sporadic cycling since his recovery in the early ’90s, he began taking it more seriously when they joined a riding club comprised of people in their fifties and sixties, predominantly women. Riding at the back of the group, my dad ensured everyone stayed safe and together. My mom delighted in posting pictures to Facebook of their twilight rides, adorned in matching purple T-shirts with decorative tube lights on their bike wheels, casting a galaxy of vibrant purples, greens, and blues on their bike’s spokes. These outings often culminated in a visit to Dairy Queen, where they indulged in blizzards and caught up on the latest news from the riding group. 

Buoyed by his renewed commitment to cycling, my dad decided to compete in the senior Olympics in Louisiana. In April 2018, at fifty-two, he clinched first place in the State Senior Olympic competition, propelling him into rigorous training for the national event. He devoted himself to daily rides, honing his skills and stamina in preparation for the challenge ahead. 

In the early evening of May 7, 2018, my mom and dad joined their riding group for an easy ride, treating themselves to blizzards afterward. Upon returning home, my mom began her bedtime routine; my dad insisted on another ride to maintain his training regimen for the National Olympics. Frustrated and concerned due to the late hour, past 8:30 p.m., my mom questioned his decision. “I’m going to ride the fastest I’ll ever ride tonight,” my dad quipped in his typical joking manner as he changed into his cycling shoes and slipped out through the side door. 

The subsequent ride unfolded thus: fueled by endorphins from the group excursion and the indulgence of ice cream in his belly, my dad mounted his bike and headed towards the Mississippi River. The muggy Louisiana air clung to his skin as he ascended the slight incline to the top of the paved levee bike path. With no one in sight, he relished the solitude, feeling a sense of liberation as he picked up speed, tracing the sinuous bends of the river with a singular focus: to elevate himself as the greatest cyclist he could possibly become. 

Passing through towns dotting the river’s edge—Harvey, Gretna, and Algiers—he maintained impeccable timing, periodically glancing at the stopwatch affixed to his handlebars. The humid breeze, though heavy, served as his companion, propelling him forward with an almost tangible force. In his mind’s eye, he conjured visions of competing in the National Olympic ride, envisioning yet another championship ride where he breaks away from the peloton, and embarks on a solitary journey where it is just him, the unyielding pavement beneath his wheels, and the relentless drive to surpass his own limits.

As he reached what he believed to be the zenith of the velocity his body could sustain, time itself seemed to slow to a standstill. His heart momentarily ceased its rhythmic cadence, and he crumpled to the ground, his bike entwined with his body as though they were one entity. After he breathed his last breath, darkness descended like a heavy curtain, shrouding everything in a profound void of nothingness. 

My dad never returned from that ride. An hour later, far from our home, a stranger discovered him on the levee dead, his body enmeshed with his bicycle. What can a body do? 

As we anxiously awaited the autopsy results, we grappled with the inexplicable suddenness of his passing. How could this happen to him? Was it a heart attack? Just a month prior, he had been a picture of health, reigning as a state champion. However, the revelation of the autopsy shattered our assumptions. It unveiled a silent culprit: sarcoidosis, a rare condition that causes tiny lumps of inflammatory cells to develop in different parts of the body, most commonly in the lungs and lymph nodes. In his case, the inflammatory cells also affected the electrical system of his heart leading to an irregular heart rhythm or abnormality. During his ride, his heart stopped, and because no one was around, it was too late when the stranger found him. When the paramedics arrived, they worked on him tirelessly, and upon reaching the hospital their efforts continued. Unfortunately, he couldn’t be resuscitated.

 I vaguely recall turning to Google in the months following his death, desperately seeking understanding. The fragmented information I gathered hinted at inflammation affecting the lungs, the heart, and other organs. Yet, what lingered most vividly in my memory was my mom’s somber revelation: that the risk of death from sarcoidosis ranged from one to eight percent. Each pedal stroke he took and each victory he celebrated was a testament to the resilience of the human spirit, but it was also a reminder of the fragility of life. His journey, from the pinnacle of athletic achievement to the sudden darkness of the levee path, echoed the complexities of the human condition. What can a body do?

In the wake of his passing, my mother, sisters, and I found solace in the memories of his unwavering determination and the joy he found in every moment spent on two wheels. My dad never should have been able to ride and compete the way he did because of the condition he unknowingly had. He defied all odds. He showed me what a body can do.