Obituaries

This week I had to call on a skill I'd hoped would have atrophied by now, four years out of the journalism business. Unfortunately for me, it remains startlingly intact although, thankfully, ill-used. Writing obituaries is what I'm talking about, and in some ways it's a skill I wish I didn't possess.

I've written many over the years, about many fascinating people. You wouldn't recognize any of their names, but believe me, they led wildly interesting lives—perhaps because they were completely ordinary people who found themselves in extraordinary situations. But here's the thing about "ordinary people": most of them are far from it, especially if you talk to their friends or neighbors.

There was the World War II veteran who died one weekend and, in reading the obituary form from the mortuary, I noticed this little aside: He had taken the teletyped surrender message from a German soldier that signaled the beginning of the end of the war. Imagine: It's the middle of the night and this poor guy has to tell his commander, who then had to wake Gen. Eisenhower. I got on the phone to his family and they were more than happy to tell me the story, including this bit about the commander asking, repeatedly: "Are you SURE? You're really SURE? You better be SURE!"

That's another amazing thing about writing obituaries: Most people are more than happy to tell you about their loved ones. They want to share their stories, even as, or especially as, they grieve over their loss.

For a time, when it seemed I was deep into this particular task, I began to see the wisdom in the old journalism adage that one of the best jobs in the business is obituary writer for the New York Times. You have the chance to celebrate, to document, a life—to ensure that it will be remembered, that the story will be told, and retold.

Which brings me to this week, and the obituary I had really hoped I'd never have to write: the story of a triathlete killed in a race. Someone from my little world, and friends, our world is small.

Perry Rendina's friends were gracious, kind and thoughtful. They were happy to share their stories about the way Perry had lived his life and, having read his obituary, perhaps you'll see why. This was a man who clearly loved our sport and, importantly, his family and his friends. By all accounts he lived his life with passion and great zeal. He died doing what he loved, and he truly appeared to have lived his life by his self-proclaimed motto: Seize the day. Carpe diem.

Because this is a small little multisport world we inhabit, many of our experiences are shared, or at least similar. A story one of Perry's friends told me, in particular, set clarion bells ringing in my head, it was so familiar. He told me how, on Saturday mornings, he and Perry would ride from their own homes and meet on a country road. He said he couldn't get the picture out of his head—seeing his friend on the horizon riding toward him and yelling a greeting, nothing else on their agenda but a long ride under blue skies.

I have a friend like this, a rare and true and precious friend. How easy it was for me to imagine the two of us doing the exact same thing. And, of course, from there it was not a great leap to imagine how crushed I would be if this friend were taken away.

So as you go about your training in the coming weeks and months, celebrate your family and friends, your fitness and the lifestyle this sport affords you. Spare a thought for Perry Rendina, for his friends and his family.

Because that's the other thing about obituaries. Those who have gone can still inspire us as we learn from their stories. That's why it's important to tell those stories, and to remember.

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