We Chose A Ring. Road Violence Took Our Future.
Why I'm leading The White Line's North Carolina Chapter
By Maddie Barondeau
Before Lennie Antonelli became a statistic, a headline, or a victim in a criminal case, he was simply Lennie. My Lennie.
He was from South Bend, Indiana and an Indiana University graduate. His love for cycling began at IU through the legendary Little 500 and grew into a lifelong career. While thousands of riders have competed in the Little 500, fewer than 0.5% ever reach the Category 1 level that Lennie achieved.
That passion brought him to Asheville, North Carolina, where he pursued his dream of racing professionally. Anyone who knew Lennie knew that he approached the sport with extraordinary discipline and joy. When we first started dating, I was so impressed by his devotion to the sport that it inspired me to get better at my hobby, which is running.
Lennie was living his dream.
On June 22, 2025, he raced what would become the final race of his life. He rode away from the field solo and produced the highest power output of his career. Most importantly to him, it was a team effort and he was so happy to win with his team by his side.
A week later, on June 29, 2025, we picked out an engagement ring together.
Two days after that, Lennie was gone.
On July 1, 2025, Lennie Antonelli, Jake Hill, and Griffin Tichenor were out on what should have been a routine group ride. They were not doing anything wrong, riding on the white line. Then a dump truck crossed into them head-on and barreled off the road towards the river.
Lennie and Jake were killed.
For those of us left behind, the crash was devastating enough. What followed in the criminal justice system made the pain even harder to bear.
The driver tested positive for methamphetamine, amphetamines, and THC after the crash. However, because of a gap between the driver's discharge from the hospital and the administration of the drug test, a plea agreement for involuntary manslaughter was reached rather than a trial for felony death by vehicle.
The sentence was five years of probation.
As someone who lost the person I planned to marry, I struggle to reconcile that outcome with the magnitude of the harm caused. It is impossible to explain what it feels like to build a future with someone and then watch that future disappear overnight. Two people died. Another person was injured. Yet the criminal consequences were limited to probation. The result of that sentencing felt profoundly disconnected from the loss experienced by the victims. It felt like Lennie's life didn't matter if his killer didn't have to face any consequences.
A few months after the crash, I came across The White Line and immediately connected with its mission. The White Line recognizes that every crash victim has a story. Behind every statistic is a person with dreams, relationships, and a future that mattered.
The White Line is committed to sharing those stories, advocating for the use of existing technology that can prevent these crashes from happening in the first place, and protecting victims and their families when crashes do occur. That mission resonated deeply with me because I know what it feels like to watch a loved one's life be reduced to a few lines in a news article or dehumanized in hate comments on social media.
I started the North Carolina chapter of The White Line so every rider can come home safely. My first legislative priority in North Carolina is to require a drug test after every fatal or serious injury crash, similar to Magnus’ Law in Colorado. Additional priorities include bicycle safety zones, strengthening CDL regulations, and intelligent speed assist technology.
Lennie deserves to be remembered as more than a victim.
He deserves to be remembered as the man who worked his way from the Little 500 to Category 1 racing. The man who could never be on time except for our first date. The man with a strong devotion to his family, especially his brother and his special needs sister. The man who would ride alongside me while I ran.
One of my favorite memories with Lennie was training for a 10k together. I was convinced that I would beat him in the race, and that his cycling fitness would not translate to running. I was wrong. Lennie beat me in the race (only by 30 seconds!), but we were both so happy to be active together, and I felt his love in the fact that he tried something new just to spend more time with me.
When we first met, Lennie asked me what kind of bike I had. I didn't know what he meant, so I just said I have a "normal bike." How much I've grown since then — as our relationship progressed, he got me my own bike, and he was overjoyed every time I asked to ride with him. Now, every time I get on a bike, I feel incredibly close to Lennie.
Today, my world looks different than I ever imagined it would. I wear our ring as a remembrance, rather than a promise of what's to come. Grief remains a daily companion, but so does purpose. I have learned that honoring Lennie's memory means refusing to let his story end with a crash report or a court sentence. It means speaking his name. It means advocating for safer roads. It means demanding accountability and pushing for changes that can save lives.
One of my new purposes is cycling, and finishing his dream of completing an Ironman.
On July 1, 2026, I got on my bike, joined by 160+ friends and family for a memorial ride in honor of Lennie and Jake on the one year anniversary of their death. I'm incredibly grateful to each member of the community for remembering the lives lost and why this work matters.
In the recap video of the memorial ride, you can see cyclists riding, paddleboarders in the river, a train moving forward, and a rainbow in the distance. It feels peaceful. It feels like a glimpse of what the future of our roads should be.
