And then, just like that...

... he was dead. 

I saw a dead cyclist yesterday as I was cycling back from archery.
A middle-aged man in his fifties. Judging by the lycra, and the clip-on shoes, and the pot belly under the cover. The cover pulled over his face. The medics were talking with the cops. They were no longer trying anything. He was lying on the footpath, on his back, motionless. They had their backs turned on him. And he was lying there, motionless, with his clip on shoes, that would never again clip into the pedals of his expensive bike that was resting against the wall, motionless. 
I was cycling past, in my mid-fifties, with my pot belly. And he was there. Motionless on his back, under an ambulance cover. A cover that covered his face. 
And I was cycling past, in my mid-fifties, with my pot belly. But no lycra. 
I fucking hate lycra. 
Poor cyclist. He was cycling. On his expensive bike. Trying to get fit. 
And he was lying there, on his back. Motionless.