Cycling

Afternoon Run

We started our ride in Palm Springs before the sun had fully burned the chill off the desert, that familiar optimism you only get when you’re about to ride bikes somewhere beautiful. FRCC’s winter camp was rolling, and by nine a.m. it already felt like spring had punched winter in the mouth. Eighty degrees. Blue sky. That dry desert light that makes everything look sharper, more honest.

Five of us rolled out together, Larry, Randy, Steve, Jeremy, and me. Tight group, easy rhythm, one of those days where the miles disappear without asking permission. About 25 miles in, Larry peeled off and the rest of us kept heading east, the desert opening up, a mild headwind reminding you you’re alive but not punishing you for it. Palm Springs in winter is a cheat code, and we knew it.

We headed toward the lake where the La Quinta Ironman lives, flat, fast, iconic. First crack in the day came quietly: a flat tire. No drama. I finally used my new mini compressor, worked like a champ. Quick fix. Back on the road. Momentum restored.

Sixteen miles from the finish, everything changed.

Jeremy crossed Randy’s wheel. It always happens fast. Twenty miles an hour. No time to react. Straight over the bars, headfirst into the pavement. The sound of a body hitting asphalt is something that stays with you.

Broken collarbone. Probably a couple fractured ribs. Somehow, miraculously, no concussion.

Then one of those rare moments when the universe decides not to pile on. A police officer was right there. Calm. Kind. Took control. Traffic stopped. Ambulance called. Randy and Steve were flawless, bikes cleared, scene secured, no panic, just action.

Jeremy couldn’t move, so I rode with him in the ambulance. That’s what you do when you’re not sure how bad things really are.

Randy rode back, grabbed his truck, came back for the bikes. Steve stayed with them, guarding carbon and friendship like they were the same thing. Nobody complained. Nobody left. This is the quiet code of people who’ve shared miles.

The hospital did its job, efficient, professional, no theatrics. 

When Jeremy was released, Evan drove us back to Jeremy‘s SUV affectionally nicknamed The Caligula, after which I took Jeremy to Mark’s house where the crew had gathered. Randy met us there with the bikes. Mark and Craig made sure  we had some Lasagna. Salad. Garlic bread. Cookies. The real fuel. We said hello, said thank you, didn’t linger. Jeremy was hurting. It was time to go.

Back at the hotel, I packed the Caligula for the long drive home. Jeremy helped where he could, one arm working, the other useless but stubborn. I loaded the car with bikes, bags, then drove us home through two hours of dark highway, adrenaline fading, laughter slowly filling the space shock had left behind.

At one point, lying in the street earlier, Jeremy looked up and said, “I’m too old for this shit.” Hard to argue when you’re staring at the sky with a broken collarbone. But we laughed anyway. That’s what happens after a near miss. The clarity hits. You feel intensely alive. You know what matters. You’re grateful for friends who don’t hesitate, who show up, who take care of your people and your stuff without being asked.

Palm Springs still feels a little cursed for me, I’ve never finished one of these camps without something going sideways. Tomorrow I’ll sneak in a solo ride, just to close the loop, just to make sure the desert doesn’t get the last word.

Big love to the crew. Big gratitude. And yeah, maybe we’re too old for this. But what the hell else are we gonna do? 🤷🏼‍♂️

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erik sjogren

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