Wow. What a weekend.

Friday, we learned that Bob Frederick — fine man and avid cyclist — died from injuries sustained in a single-bike accident. He was 69.

Just a few hours later, I participated in the Relay for Life, an all-night walk around the track at South Junior High that serves as a fundraiser for the American Cancer Society. The track was lined with luminarias in honor of friends and family members with cancer or in memory of those who died because of it.

That’s a lot of folks, folks.

Saturday I took a break from the parade of the macabre before participating Sunday in the Tour de Cure, a benefit bike ride in Kansas City, Kan., to raise funds for the American Diabetes Association. My dad and I have done the ride — usually a Father’s Day tradition that changed dates and, unfortunately, venues this year — 14 years in a row now.

His mom had diabetes and, arguably, died of complications from it. My wife has diabetes.

In years past, it has gone 35 or so miles from Kansas City, Mo., to Weston, Mo., but organizers moved it to Kansas Speedway this year in an effort to pump up attendance. They also added a family-friendly 10-mile ride, so this year I made my kids go, too.

My son and wife, wearing a special red jersey signifying she has diabetes, went off the front and weren’t seen again until the end, while my dad, who still cranks out the miles, and daughter, who doesn’t, and I poked along at the rear.

Coincidentally, dad asked me about Frederick, about the accident, about the pothole Frederick hit that caused his wreck.

It wasn’t until later, after I’d returned home, that I was hit by the realization that dad will turn 69 in a couple of months.

I also thought about a comment I heard after Frederick’s passing.

Somebody in the office said, “At least he died doing something he enjoyed.”

Personally, I think those are the kinds of things the living say to console themselves.

But I also thought about something I heard somebody say years ago: “Cycling probably added a few years to my life, but it unquestionably has added lots of life to my years.”

I’m sure it wasn’t an original thought, but that doesn’t make it any less poignant.

And that’s why, in part, I didn’t so much dwell on thoughts of my immortality this weekend.

Instead, I relished the fact I was able to walk around a track for a couple of solitary — not to be confused with lonely — hours in the middle of the night and lament only the loss of a couple of hours of sleep.

I took great pleasure in the fact I was able to ride with my family — three generations of Hartsocks — around a boring old racetrack in the cold and, occasionally rainy, bluster.

I hope when I’m 65 I’m still flattening mountains, like Frederick did, and I’m still sprinting to make the green light at 69.

And even if I’m only able to manage a couple of miles in Kansas City with my kids and my kids’ kids at 68, yeah, I can live with that, too.