This is a picture I did not take

of a man receiving CPR after crashing his bicycle into a rocky outcropping while descending Brasstown Bald Mt. in Georgia. It is not a picture of a woman at the scene, sitting in shock on a guardrail, while her dog, a pit bull, begins to growl at a small boy who's walked up to the scene with his puppy, a golden lab. This is not a picture of two dogs about to fight in front of a man receiving CPR.

This is not a picture of how the rock wall immediately followed a hairpin turn on the descent of the mountain, nor of the cycling spectators behind me, coasting down from the finish and pulling to a stop here, their breaks squealing. This is not a picture of them looking at a man lying in a ditch receiving chest compressions from a fellow cyclist.

This is not a picture of him, or them, or her, or arriving sirens, or dogs, or a shattered bicycle helmet at the base of a rock wall on a mountain in the pine forests of North Georgia.