My mind races, haunted by thoughts about death, about being un-alive, about graves, heaven, and the fact that my days are ordained, numbered, as are the hairs on my head. A therapist might call the thoughts obsessive. They are definitely intrusive. I wish it wasn’t the case, but I think about death a lot, at least I have for the past one-thousand, nine hundred and something days. I think about (but don’t do anything about) Swedish death cleaning, will-writing, preparing.

For death.

The weather report said there was a 35% chance of rain, but, I thought, that means a 65% chance of no rain, right?

If it’s a Saturday or Sunday, and I can’t ride my bike, I feel robbed, cheated, betrayed. God, I don’t think I ask a lot. I just want to ride my bike. Not riches, fame, or glory, just sunny skies and open road. Come on, God, you and I both know that as I propel my body forward, my racing thoughts move aside to allow room for peace. I need that peace. Please, God. A 65% chance that it won’t rain. The sky above me was clear, so I decided the odds were in my favor.

Open road and sunny skies for 65% of the ride. Then, the sky grew dark and the clouds loomed closer, lightning sizzled, thunder rumbled, and I realized that I could actually die. Well, at least that’s what my brain was telling me: you idiot, you’re actually going to die! Not in the future, not in the Swedish death cleaning prepare-for-it-someday way, but today. Definitely thinking about death now. Less theoretical, more material. I was choking on my earlier thoughts. I was propelling myself forward and leaving peace and tranquility far behind. And my thoughts weren’t the only things racing.

Pedal faster, damn it, pedal faster. The wind picked up; the thunder’s volume cranked up. Counting, one Mississippi, two Mississippi, BOOM! Please, Jesus, please. Is this how I’m going to go? Really? Both of us on bikes? Clever. I wonder, How many people die from lightning strikes in Colorado? And then I think, How many people die from heart attacks while riding bikes in Colorado?

Breathe.

Pedal harder.

Pedal faster.

Pray harder.

One Mississippi…

I Googled it; it’s two. On average, every year, two people die from lighting strikes in Colorado. Two real, once vibrantly alive people. There are no statistics for how many people die from heart attacks while riding bikes in Colorado. At least one. I close my browser.

I didn’t die. Instead, I’m sitting on my porch watching the pouring rain; there are zero Mississippis between the lightning and the thunder. Zero. CrackBoom! In the same instant, the sky lights up and the porch shakes.

I rode the same loop counterclockwise the day before. I cut over 20 minutes off my time from the previous day. I was riding like my life depended on it. It actually felt really good. I’ve got more in me than I’d realized.

It’s not for me to know when or how I’m going to die. But I do have some say about how I’m going to live. Maybe I’ve got more life in me than I realized. I like the old saying, It’s not the years in your life that count; it’s the life in your years.

Maybe thinking about death can help us live with more passion and purpose—like our lives depend on it.

I raced a storm today and won.