A few weeks ago, on a busy Saturday morning at the shop, I got a call from a longtime customer who told me he had some bad news. He’s been going through his own wringer of late, so my first thought was that someone in his life had just passed. I was right. But I was wrong.

“Oh, man, I’m so sorry…” I began.

“David passed away.”

It took me a moment to process this, as it was not the name I expected. And even then, it took more of a moment, because there was no way.

“Dave Garrison?!” I almost shouted into the receiver.

“Yeah.”

This time I did shout. “F*ck!”

I don’t remember when I really first met Dave. He’s been a fixture of the Greensboro cycling scene as long as I’ve been around, so I’d known him in some capacity for a long time. He rode bikes with customers and friends and friends of friends and came to parties we hosted early in the shop’s career. But about ten years ago (maybe more), he became a fixture at Revolution Cycles. Whether because he was frustrated with other shops or just liked what we were doing. A little of both, to hear him tell it. And he quickly became a good customer. And a good friend.

Because that was the thing with Dave. He couldn’t help but become a friend. Greeting everyone who came in the shop. Getting their name. Complimenting their bikes. Asking earnest questions about their lives and interests. He made you feel comfortable and seen. If fault could be given it was the occasional failure to recognize that not everyone wants to be seen, or when he’d let slip a colorful word or two that needed sensitive correction. To which he was always receptive.

I admit to getting a little choked up writing this. Thinking about Dave on his stool, close to the corner, but not quite the corner of the bar. Talking to whoever just came in the door. Dave walking in the door with his always bare feet and the always joke: “Sir, I’m going to have to ask you to leave.” Bringing in chips and salsa from local Mexican restaurants. Being a constant presence on the trails, whether on a bike or wielding a chainsaw. His unabashed love for romance movies, good, bad, or really bad. Chewing gum with his beer. Talking about what he was thinking for his next bike. Holding court with other regulars who all orbited one another in the best way.

I can hear his voice so damn clear. It had a texture. As iconic as his salt and pepper hair, which he’d had as long as I’d known him.

He’d been MIA this summer. I noticed, but tried not to sweat it. I figured he was down at the beach doing what he loved; sailing and surfing. We’d had some epic discussions in the shop about Greensboro and home and place, and for him, it was the coast. So any chance he could, that’s where he was.

But he wasn’t at the beach. He was visiting the oncologist and undergoing chemo for tonsil cancer. Asking the very few who knew about it to please not tell anyone.

And the thing is, he was done. He’d just finished chemo and had his port out. Complained of a little chest pain the evening afterward, but nothing you wouldn’t expect from having a goddamn tube in you for months.

He passed in his sleep. He was 63.

It still seems unbelievable. Just that way people can be in your life and then suddenly… not. Never again. No winding down. No time for slow reluctant acceptance. Just a rug pulled out from under everyone. Hard to process that kind of thing.

There’s been too much death this year. Too much sickness. I know there always is, but it’s felt… personal of late. And I hate it.

I hate it for Dave.

I hate it for everyone.

Get busy living. Or get busy dying, kids. That’s all I know anymore.

We’ll miss you, man.