It’s summertime—in the northern hemisphere, at any rate—and the living is easy. Then again, the dying is pretty easy, too. It doesn’t make for a very catchy tune, but it’s a fact. Pick up a paper or log onto a news website, and what do you see? Motorcycle crashes. Casualties from wars in distant places. Pelicans and sea turtles and porpoises drowning in oil-fouled water. Of course, for most of us, most of the time, these tragedies happen off-stage. The don’t touch us directly. We read about them, or we watch a two-minute video clip on the local news, and we think, How sad. How terribly sad. And then we start up the gas grill.

The dying goes on while we broil the burgers, of course. But it doesn’t spoil the fun. The painful dramas unfold somewhere else, somewhere far removed from our patios. And the old saw is right: whatever is out of sight is out of mind.

Except that it isn’t. At least it isn’t if you ride a bike on the road in summer. While nine-year-long wars and record-breaking oil spills are, by definition, somewhat outside the ordinary course of affairs—even if recent history might suggest otherwise—there’s plenty of everyday killing going on all around us. And I see the evidence every day. Or I smell it. Or both.

In a car, speeding along at 60 plus, with the windows rolled up and the air conditioner set to MAX, it’s easy to ignore the silent legions of the dead sprawled prostrate along the shoulder, sacrifices on the altar of easy motoring. Maybe you’ll catch a whiff of skunk scent from time to time, but that’s about it. It’s nothing that the tree-shaped air freshener dangling from your rearview mirror can’t deal with. On a bicycle, however, there’s no escape. You can’t miss seeing what lies in front of you. The road unspools much more slowly at 15 mph than at 60, after all. And you can’t help smelling whatever’s in the air. There’s no array of conditioning filters to keep the stench of rotting flesh from assaulting your nostrils, and no little pine-shaped silhouette dangling from your mirror to mask the stink.

Some days it’s almost enough to put me off riding. But not quite. In a sense, I see each ride as an act of witness. Few road users may choose to take notice of the dead lying by the side of the road, but I do. And I think that’s important. Call it a gesture of respect, if you will. Or an acknowledgment of the common fate to which all flesh is heir. A timely memento mori, in other words. In the midst of life we are in death. It’s certainly not the most cheerful verse in the old Book of Common Prayer, but it’s a salutary reminder, one well worth the attention of any cyclist who’s tempted to let her attention wander as cars that tip the scales at two tons or more rocket past at three and four times her speed, driven by folks who are too busy texting or chatting on the phone to worry much about what lies in their path.

In any case, here’s a short wildlife gallery with a difference. If you’ve never ridden a bike down the road in summer, take a few minutes to explore this byway in the country of the dead. It begins right at the road’s edge, and while I won’t pretend that it will be a pleasant trip, it could be any eye-opening experience. And look on the bright side: at least you’re spared the smell.

A skunk relies on his powerful artillery. He’s a creature of the night. When challenged, he doesn’t flee. He simply stands his ground and stamps his feet in warning. This works in the woods—but it’s not much help on the highway.

I’ve always marveled at the skunk’s dexterity. Farwell once watched as a skunk walked into his open tent and undid the buckles on his lunch haversack—which he’d stupidly left at the foot of his sleeping bag—before picking delicately through the contents. Needless to say, Farwell was a little apprehensive. The skunk wasn’t at all perturbed, though. He had a light snack and then sauntered back out into the night, after carefully closing the flap on the haversack. (He left the buckles undone, though.)

But that was in another place and time. This wonderfully dextrous hand is now stilled forever.

By the way, lest you think that I’m on some sort of death kick here, taking pictures of road-killed animals for jollies, think again. The pictures are a byproduct of a self-imposed task. When I can—when time and traffic permit, that is—I stop and remove the night’s casualties from the highway, carrying them onto the grassy shoulder before cycling on. Like I said before, it’s a gesture of respect, though it also has a practical side. Dead animals attract scavengers, and scavengers often get struck, too. I try to break the lethal chain before it claims more victims. My photos? They’re memorials of a sort, in additon to being acts of witness. And I’d be delighted if I never took another. But I know full well my next ride will offer yet more unwished-for opportunities to explore the country of the dead.

    …we should be careful

Of each other, we should be kind
While there is still time.

      Philip Larkin, “The Mower”

 
Send a Comment