What Doin'?

 (aka The First Bad Thing)

It was March. Things had gotten wacky at work (long story, that) but personally, it wasn't really a crisis year just yet. Heck, up to that point it had even been a pretty great year -- there had been a bachelor party of great renown and a spectacular wedding that finally happened after thirteen years of waiting. A week before, I'd gained a truly beautiful niece. Life was generally quite good.

Which is, of course, when that phone call happened.

"I have terrible news. Tony died this morning."

*

I'd first met Tony when I started my new job at The Unnamed Bike Place (TUBP from now on). He had been scheduled for my interview panel but was out for a family emergency that particular week; when I started the job, others warned me that he was a bit of a wild card and occasionally overwhelming.

And they weren't wrong. This whirlwind human sat across the room from me and he was ... a lot. He started sentences mid-thought and seemed frustrated when I had no idea what he was talking about, and he couldn't figure out why other people didn't share his enthusiasm for whatever subject he was on. But he was other things, too -- like very concerned about how I was doing, and filled with company history, and eager to share all the knowledge he had. Thankfully, he was also absolutely determined to be my friend (a new experience for me) and he did not fail. I spent my first couple months amused by his stories of all the places he'd biked, all the time he spent on the mechanic side of the race circuit, all the things he'd seen. I could see where personalities had conflicted with his over the years and adjusted my own viewpoint as needed, picked up more information, learned to ask very specific questions. It became abundantly clear that he did not ever mean harm but was socially clumsy at unexpected times, and that knowledge made everything easier.

Within a few months, there was some minor restructuring at TUBP and teammates were reassigned; Tony and I became the only two members of our department at our location. He was still teaching me everything he knew and I was still doing my best to absorb. I was also leaning hard on his Excel wizardry and regularly smoothing ruffled feathers, but it seemed to be working. 

Over time, I got to hear more about what was going on his world as well, especially where work was concerned. I knew more about his day-to-day struggles than I ever expected, more of the weird dynamics that were in play, more of the discomfort of Spearfish's newest rearrangement. I also got to hear more of what he wished for instead. In other words — we were friends. Actual, real friends. We took a company road trip and survived, then he quite happily built up my bike for me when I finally committed and got my Allant. In the meantime there were after hours meetups at various breweries, and his wife tried to convince me to play pickleball with them.

Tony attacked projects, people, and people-projects with an energy that could be exhilarating or overwhelming, then he'd bombard you with more information until you joined in his enthusiasm. This was even true when he had his brush with mortality at the end of 2023 -- he had surgery, recovered, returned to Normal Tony, but with a mission to ensure everyone at work is watching their blood pressure. Soon he was back to riding or running every day, the model of health, egging the rest of us on.

Then March happened. He collapsed that Saturday morning and ... that was it. Tony was gone.

How does that go — your own personality reflects the five people you are around the most. The accuracy of that could be debated for a long while, but it does present a question: what happens when you lose one of your Top Five? What happens when that vacuum opens?

My answer? I'm still not sure.

At work, there was a banding together that occurred as we all reeled from the shock. And stories flew as people remembered their hundreds of interactions with Tony over the last decade and a half.

That vacuum is not yet satisfied. There's irretrievable knowledge missing (and I could mention the Excel wizardry again). There has also been a change in energy, which could be good or bad depending on the day. The stories? The stories continue to flow when opportunities arise.

Months later, Tony is gone but decidedly unforgotten. He's still in the VBA code notes when I break an Excel file, still lurking with a comment when someone says something foolish in a meeting, still egging me on when I waffle about a bike ride. It is almost astonishing the reach of a friend that I had only known for about three years.

You are missed, Tony, and I wish I could show you how much.