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Don is a Ewing Sarcoma survivor, which is the same type of cancer Maddie has. He contracted Ewing's back in 1968 when when he was 13. Each year Don rides in the PMC. He has been doing it since 2001. Below are his notes and observations from each of the rides which he sends out to those who supported him.
Observations from the PMC 2001
Riding was my own idea, but one of my basketball buddies has done this twice before. Paul takes me under his wing for the whole event, arranging for a hotel room in Sturbridge the night before and guiding me through the entire process from registration through getting a decent shower in Provincetown at the end. When I signed up for the event in February, the initial questionnaire asked if I ever had cancer, and what kind, and when, and where. I told them that I was treated for Ewing's Sarcoma in 1968 at Columbia Presbyterian in NY. This explains why my registration packet included a button proclaiming I'M LIVING PROOF and an invitation to assemble at the starting line for a group photo. I start looking for other people wearing the button. There are thousands of people assembled for the opening ceremonies. One of the speakers is quoting the statistics about the riders and the money raised. Suddenly he asks the people with Living Proof buttons to stand. I'm not comfortable with this, but I stand. I didn't do anything warranting anyone's attention. Of the 3100 riders, 160 are cancer survivors. The group that assembles at 5:45am for the photo is a very ordinary looking bunch of people. A group of women who went through treatment together joke about how the best thing is to have hair again. One man who lost his hair the more conventional way says something that makes them all laugh. I've never been in a gathering like this before. I wonder if any of them have been healthy as long as I have, but I'm not about to start asking. For years after my own treatment, my grandfather was the only other survivor I knew. It's a lot more common now. I like that. There are posters with big pictures of children being treated at Dana Farber. They put these up to inspire the riders. It's not a good idea for me to look at them. 2100 riders are at the Sturbridge starting line at 6am. Another 1000 are preparing to start from Wellesley. We are all wearing fabulous blue jerseys. We are quite a sight. More importantly, they tell us that by the time all the checks are counted we will have brought in more than 13.2 million dollars. We believe that if we keep raising money, the research we fund will stop cancer from killing people. The riders are sorted in 4 sections by expected speed. My friend Paul has told me to be at the back of the Fast section. There are 1500 bicycles behind me. Most have done this before. I've never ridden 70 miles before. Today's finish line is 112 mile away. I question Paul's wisdom. I question my wisdom. We pull out on route 20 with the police blocking a lane for us and holding traffic at intersections. I wish all my rides were like this. At the first rest stop I have covered 20 miles and I feel no fatigue at all. Adrenaline is powerful. I think that if I still feel okay at 60 miles I'll stop worrying. By the time I reach the second rest stop I realize that the vast bulk of the riders are there because someone they loved has died. They need a reason to feel hope. I put the Living Proof button on the back of my saddle bag. You pass other riders or they pass you. You see backs, not faces. There are people standing and sitting along the roads from the very start. Some cheer. Some hold up signs encouraging the riders. Little children offer cups of water. I am carrying plenty of water, but I think it is important to slow down when possible and accept these cups from outstretched hands. Nothing hurts, and the hills are mild compared to where I usually ride. The weather is cool and I am comfortable. At the 60 mile rest stop, which includes a very early lunch, a drizzle becomes steady rain. There is a man riding a tandem bike by himself. His 16 year old nephew had planned to be riding with him, but he died of brain cancer in January. Damn. At 80 miles I assess how I feel and think about what it takes to do a 30 mile ride. I realize I can do this now and I start having fun. The rain washes sweat down into my eyes. Very unpleasant. I keep pulling over and asking people if thay have something dry I can wipe my eyes with. I am offered tissues, towels and a clean tee shirt. They say "Thank you" to me before I can say it to them. Everybody wants to be part of this. The rain finally lets up around 90 miles. At this point I decide the rain was a good fortune. It has kept us all cool. Heat is the worst possible enemy. Also around 90 miles, a guy riding behind me pulls up alongside me and says, "Congratulations." I realize he'sseen thebutton. I say thank you. He tells me this is his 6th PMC. He has been riding since his dad died. His dad was 51. We are very closely matched in pace, so we stay together for the last 30 miles, taking turns leading. I am watching my odometer to see when it hits 100 miles. Cyclists call it a "century". It's a watershed, like a marathon is to a runner. Twelve miles to go. No problem. I'm very pleased with myself. Every place we stop there are swarms of volunteers doing everything imaginable to make it easy and comfortable for us. They think of everything. And then they thank us. I'm just riding my bike while they're working really hard. Nobody is cheering and waving signs at them. Finish line. 112 miles. 2pm. I need a shower. Every rider knows that the first thing you do after reaching the finish line is take your bike to the storage area and then walk as quickly as you still can to the tables where volunteers are assigning times for 15 minute massages. I would not trade that scrap of paper with my appointment time for anything. We are at Mass Maritime Academy. They accommodate us in dorms, tents and a docked troop ship. My bag is waiting for me outside the door to my room... on the ship. If you know about me and boats, you appreciate the irony. I shower, dress, and go down to eat. Food tastes amazingly good after 112 miles. No matter how much these people eat, nobody is gaining weight today. Everyone is smiling. The massage tent has 100 tables, staffed by professionals. All volunteers. An incredibly cheerful young woman named Monique puts 50 miles back into my legs in 15 minutes. This time I make sure that I say "Thank you" first. Great food. Everyone is very cheerful (delirious?). At 4:30 I walk back to the finish line. There are still people coming in. I admire them. There are guys drinking beer continuously until 8pm. I wonder about them. Reveille is going to be at 4:15AM. I'm in my bunk by 8:30. At 4:15AM, my legs are good when my feet hit the floor. I'm not afraid to get back on the bike. Breakfast outdoors at 4:45AM for 3000. What time did the volunteers have to get up to have all of this ready? No one is allowed to start before 5AM. I depart with Paul and two more friends at 5:15. The Bourne Bridge comes quickly. Can't see the top of it through the fog. The hills I ride in Lincoln are worse than this. I lead an 8 bike pace line along the Cape Cod Canal at 21mph for about three miles. It's great fun, but I hope I'm not going too fast too soon. A pace line is amazing. The bikes get very close in single file, with the bikes behind the leader working 25% less to maintain his pace because he is breaking the wind resistance. When the leader tires, he drops to the back of the line and the next rider takes over. For a weekend rider like myself being in a line is good for increasing my sustainable speed by 5 mph. It's getting routine now. Settle into a rhythm and click off the miles. Fun. Cape Code is beautiful early on a Sunday morning, but it is not flat. The hills in Wellfleet are the most feared part of both days, but as I approach them I decide they are too near the end to worry me. I'm within 20 miles of the finish. Paul and I stop at the sign indicating the border to Provincetown. We are waiting for slower friends, and I want a photo in front of the sign. A young guy named Cam Smith comes along. He's easy to recognize because he is carrying lots of stuff on the bike. He departed Massachusetts in October on a one-man fundraising ride around the perimeter of the US. He has raised more than $100,000. He has ridden more than 10,000 miles. He has less than 10 miles to go to his finish line. We offer to take his picture in front of the sign. He stops. He says it has been a great experience, but he is looking forward to not riding his bike for a while. Finish line at 11:40. Paul and the others are complaining because beer can't be served before noon on Sunday. 80 miles today. Two day total: 192 miles. Great lunch. The bus ride back to Sturbridge takes a long time. Did I bike all this way in two days? I'll be back next year. Now that I know that the riding isn't so hard, I'm going to aim to get better at the fundraising. After all, it's like Lance Armstrong said: "It's not about the bike."
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