It has been a year since my good friend Erik Hunter died of cancer.
Erik played the trombone with my jazz quintet — now, alas, a quartet. He also directed the Cascadia Jazz Big Band, an extremely talented and fun group of musicians here in the Seattle area. I miss his trombone’s sorrowful tones and his somewhat embarrassing taste for cheesy Bossa Novas.
If music was half of Erik’s life, biking was the other. In 2006, when I undertook the Seattle to Portland bike ride, it was Erik more than anyone else who encouraged (okay, forced) me to keep up with my training. I can’t count the number of Saturday mornings he called at 6AM and said “dammit, if you’re not on the trail yet, how are you and I going to to get 100 miles done in time for drinks?”
Erik, Me, Brent, Andrew, and Ian after a cold and wet bike ride around Bainbridge Island
In addition to being downright disrespectful of my weekend sleeping habits, Erik had a knack for mooching food whenever possible. If I brought dinner to Wednesday night jazz practice, Erik generally yoinked half of it while I wasn’t looking — unless, of course, it was fast food. He held his nose up at that.
