Another week just doesn’t grim the sorrow.
The death of Frederick Frazier by another cowardly hit and run driver should have been news enough.
Sadly, these tragedies are so frequent in Los Angeles that they rarely get the attention they deserve, lest actually doing something about it.
What caught the public’s eye was an attack on Quatrell Stallings the next day caught on video by another driver who played the odds by fleeing highlighting to the media even more what an epidemic this is.
Of course, if you ride a bike you already know that.
It had already been a physically and emotionally draining week in my regular life and dealing with last week’s ghost bike.
I’ve been sorting out my emotions by appreciating time with my family even more, so I was a bit conflicted coming to a memorial ride on Friday night instead of spending time with my daughter.
Even though I didn’t know Frederick, I knew it was important to show because if change is ever going to come, it has to be done by community.
Riding through the streets.
I don’t consider myself as a journalist and coming to these occurrences I’d rather experience them instead of worrying about doing a story, so I apologize for the lack of details.
It was a good showing by the bike community as there were nearly 200 riders taking off from Hoover Park.
I’ve never done a ride with this much media attention before getting not only a police escort, but a couple of choppers tracking our movements off the bat.
Riding through the streets unimpeded is a liberating feeling, but you still can’t ignore the purpose behind it all.
Speaking in front of the ghost bike
When we arrived at Frederick’s ghost bike, the group was quiet and respectful of the words being shared, even if they were out of range from hearing them.
Seeing the size of this group, it’s sickening to think how many people assemble every week and yet nothing gets done.
We then rode to Frederick’s mom’s place with an even larger police escort up the street.
Even though we arrived around 10:30pm, there were a number of neighbors came outside to watch as we tried assembling in a smaller space.
This time, I was a bit farther and couldn’t hear much of what was being said, but words weren’t necessary.
You can feel with the tones and urgency the pain of his mom dealing with it.
I could only imagine what a terrible loss this would be to sustain and felt nauseous seeing another parent having to deal with this yet again.
At Frederick’s Mom’s House.
The group formed again and made our way back towards DTLA for a vigil at City Hall.
While LAPD did a great job, they were trying to push the pace to keep the ride together as I evidenced first hand being the Lanterne Rouge.
Reaching 7th Street, I was exhausted both physically and emotionally causing me to make the decision to jump on the Red Line home.
I woke up the next morning and gave my daughter a big, silent hug.
We later went up to Mount Wilson where the distractions of city life and phone reception are voided by the remoteness.
All we have is family and to be family to others.