Some deaths are, whilst inherently no greater or lesser than others, more poignant than others from any given viewpoint. This weekend, one death happened to take me aback somewhat.
38 years old. Husband. Father. 24-hour challenge cyclist.
That was also Christian Smith.
He was killed on Saturday, in the middle of his 248-mile ride around Kent.
The poignancy continued: Only minutes before reading of Christian’s death, I’d literally inked-in the date of this year’s Le Jour de France 24 hour ride on our kitchen calendar. Christian was raising money for Mind, as did Mike on last year’s ride. He bore, at a quick glance, a startling likeness to a friend I rode with on the first edition of Le Jour de France – an event I started in memory of another friend, who was left for dead by a driver who knocked him from his bike at high speed. Christian’s words on his JustGiving page (via which I would urge you to donate) resonate with acutely familiar feelings from the run-up to a ride of this nature. They could so easily be my words.
I don’t know Christian from Adam, but his death feels chillingly close to home.
This poignancy, the intensity of grief with which it hit me, highlights the core reason why this blog exists: I’m not just curious, but selfish.
I know that it could be me killed through absolutely no fault of my own, and I want to understand why we seem to accept that more than we would my death by any other means.
I have a tiny risk of being stabbed to death by a mugger, but we are universally appalled by such an event and our laws deal with it accordingly. I have a tiny risk of dying in a plane crash, but we are universally shocked by such an event and our authorities investigate that rigorously. If I die on the road, I have no confidence that there will be punishment applied, prevention sought, nor lessons leaned.
But, why? There are so many reasons to ask, “why?”
Why do many accept the sudden death of people at the hands of others as an inevitability rather than striving to address it? Why do people say in many cases that it’s not even something we should think about until a bunch of unrelated third parties change their behaviour? Why do we build dangerous roads and then spend money telling people they’re dangerous? Why do we fail to see risks in context? Why do we have so much faith in trinkets? Why are we incensed by human failings in one context whilst largely blind to it in others? Why do the media and the courts respond so differently when fundraising is involved? Why does the legal process often seem staggeringly partisan? Why is it possible to have a two-party collision where the defendant explicitly states that the deceased was in no way at fault yet the law fails to find fault with the defendant – or where the law fails to even press charges? Why do we accept excuses that make no sense or that guarantee mortal danger almost daily? Why are we so scared of demanding better driving? Why do we fail to understand physics and, worse, fail to understand equality?
I don’t claim to have the answers. I don’t always even have hypotheses. But I always have one thing, at least: a desire that we should all, for every aspect of danger on and near the roads and for every aspect of our collective response to it, ask: “why?”
If you’re not already asking it – if you see no need to do so until that one poignant death stabs your soul – then ask yourself why.