Rather like the one seven years ago, where we woke in Crane, Oregon to crowd around the support vans on CycleOregon to attempt to make sense of what we were hearing but had no way of seeing.
There was nothing else to do. We had to absorb what we could and keep riding south, toward Diamond, through one of the most remote parts of the state. It was a long time ago, and yet my mind is quite clear in my memories of the morning, riding through the warm, extremely dry sunsine marveling at the day, and at the same time trying to imagine what was happening 3000 miles away, already aware of several hundred deaths, yet to be filled in on the thousands that were to follow.
Camp set, we took buses and vans to the top of Steens Mountain. There, a radio support truck used its monster mast to pull in signals and again we stood in disbelief, our eyes filled with hundreds of miles of vistas, a herd of pronghorns a few hundred yards away as our ears were filled with the otherworldly story that had unfolded. The juxtaposition was hard to process. It still is today.
I rode today, too. Just a commute. Actually longer than the ride we had to do that day, but it seemed fitting, as it was a good time to reflect.