I recently bicycled 65 miles in the Yale New Haven-Smilow Cancer Hospital’s annual Closer to Free fundraiser for cancer research. Along the way, a tragic event caused me to reflect on the loss of a friend.

I wore pictures on the front of my colorful event jersey, loved ones lost to cancer, including my friend Paul Freudenstein. All special people I wanted to honor. A list of names on my back also honored others. Cancer is widespread.

Early in the ride, we pedaled up through the dark woods of hilly East Rock in New Haven, a wave of bright yellow and blue Closer to Free jerseys illuminating the dim landscape threatening rain.

As we neared the peak, we passed a surreal scene of fellow cyclists calling out frantically for a doctor, one of the crowd administering cardiopulmonary resuscitation to a ride participant.

Help was on the way, so the main group pedaled past, soon passing emergency responders. I didn’t know then, but it turned out the fallen rider was Ben Davol of Stonington, a political strategist known for his column writing in The Day.

Feeling another life threatened carried my thoughts back to the December funeral service of my friend Paul, whose picture was pinned to my chest.

Pancreatic cancer had stolen him in mere months, a harsh reminder that life is but a short season in the grand scheme of things.

Arriving at his service in the beautiful, historic Deep River Congregational Church in Deep River, I picked a pew in the back, far to the right side, and sat at the very end, next to a big window with many small panes.

I gazed outside at a large, bare tree in the church courtyard, lit by the weak, midday winter sun. Its stark and desolate branches seemed poetically appropriate for a winter’s goodbye.

The minister spoke of Paul’s life, recalling how he attended services regularly, and “always sat in the back, at the end of the pew, by the window,” as he pointed directly at me. I was glad something led me to that seat.

Returning my gaze to the window, the church courtyard spoke of seasons, winter waiting patiently for the green rebirth of spring.

A funeral service is the perfect occasion to ponder seasons, particularly human seasons. We’re involuntarily born and we involuntarily pass on, at times not of our choosing.

In spite of the fallow courtyard, my thoughts were touched by an appreciation for life, as family and friends spoke emotionally of their loss, evidence of a season well lived.

My friend had obviously touched many. He had certainly improved my existence, particularly through our humorous correspondence of life’s quirks and misadventures.

As the Beatles’ tune “Here Comes the Sun” filled the old church with its promise of sunrise and a new day, I glanced once more at the tree in the courtyard, gray and lifeless, glad that it will return to life in the spring, slightly resentful that my friend will not. Humans don’t get second chances.

But on the bright side, till our season ends, each sunrise provides a new day, an opportunity to make the most of our lives while we’re here.

It felt right to recall the Pete Seeger song, made popular by the Byrds, based on Ecclesiastes: “To everything, turn, turn, turn / there is a season, turn, turn, turn.” I never considered it might pertain to human mortality.

Pedaling on toward the rolling farmlands of Durham, I touched the picture of Paul Freudenstein on my jersey, hoping he knew he inspired me to fight cancer, hoping he knew I wasn’t squandering my own precious season.

Sadly, the rider stricken on the hill didn’t make it. To everything, there is a season.

John Steward lives in Waterford. He can be reached at tossinglines.com or visit www.johnsteward.online.