 |
  |
|
Observations from the PMC 2003
I don't work on Friday morning before I leave for Sturbridge. I've got things to do. I get an email from my brother Jim, in response to my thanks for his donation. He says, "Laurel loved the Cape. I hope you'll think of her when you ride." I will do more than that. I check the web for weather reports, and it does not look good. Words like "showers", "thunderstorms", and "moisture pump" are part of the forecast for the entire weekend. I drive through a shower on the way to Sturbridge that afternoon, and it's raining when I arrive. I put a plastic bag over the saddle and bring the bike to the parking area. It will be very clean before morning. I check in at registration. This year's jersey is a Red Sox uniform design, celebrating the fact that the team is now the primary sponsor of the event. Once again I collect a button proclaiming "I'm Living Proof". They give these to all of the riders and volunteers who have been treated for cancer. They changed the design this year - it's red and gray. I like my old blue one better. I'm going to leave that one on the back of my saddle bag, and wear the new one on my jersey. The opening ceremonies include some very impressive numbers. They expect to donate $16,000,000 to the Jimmy Fund from the event this year. They started 24 years ago with 36 riders, and this year's contribution will take them over one hundred million dollars for the event's history. We have nearly 4000 riders and 2000 volunteers this year. At every mention of the volunteers, the riders roar their approval - the volunteers take care of all of the riders' needs, and we know it! The president of Dana Farber Cancer Institute tells us that in 1980 only twenty percent of childhood cancers were cured. The figure is close to eighty percent now. Through genomics and other advances, they are attacking cancer as never before. Even compared to my first ride two years ago, I sense a change in the attitude as speaker after speaker expresses the belief that we are within ten to fifteen years of being able to successfully treat almost all cancers. We will raise money and ride until that day comes. I don't sleep much, partly because of worrying about the weather (110 miles in the pouring rain?), partly from the excitement, but mostly because I've got a sore throat and an earache from a lingering cold. Saturday We are up at 4:30 and there is rain hitting the windows hard. Not good. While we are driving from the hotel to the start, we see lightning. Really bad. It seems to start easing up while we are inside getting some breakfast, and when I head outside for the 5:30 group photo of the Living Proof riders, it has slowed to a light rain. Something silly is bothering me. On the first day of the ride it is customary for all 2700 riders at the Sturbridge start, and the remaining 1000+ in Wellesley, to be wearing the event jersey. We come off the line like a wave. But this year the mass is a kaleidoscope of different colored raingear. I've decided to give up on staying dry, and just make sure I'm warm enough, so I have put a long sleeved high tech thermal top under my short sleeve PMC jersey. Heading up route 20 is the scariest experience in my three years of riding. Even in good weather, the goal in the first 20 miles is just to not crash in this sea of bicycles, but this year we are doing it on very wet pavement and brakes aren't working very well. I am going more slowly than the past two years because I am just not comfortable with the conditions. This is a good thing because my natural tendency is to go too hard, too soon, and really suffer near the end. It's 6:30 on a rainy Saturday morning, but there are people out along the sides of the road waving signs and shouting encouragement. The first rest stop, at 22 miles, is typical: volunteers in a well organized swarm take care of the constant flow of riders in and out. Coming out of this stop, the rained has ended, the riders are spreading out, and the pavement is starting to dry. So, when I come over the top of a good straight hill, with room around me, I let the speedometer hit 41 before I apply some gentle pressure to the brakes. At the 40 mile stop in Franklin, I feel pretty good, but I'm still concerned. I didn't feel as strong coming in this year, and I don't know how much my cold will affect me as the day goes on. The good news is that the weather is now perfect: overcast, without rain, and just a little cool. I'm at the lunch stop at 60 miles by 10AM. I get back on the road quickly after eating because the weather is good at the moment and I am worried about the return of rain (or worse, lightning!). Riders are really finding their pace now and groups are forming lines to draft off each other for efficiency. I hook on to one and cover most of the next twenty miles at about 22 miles per hour before dropping back, deciding that I am expending too much energy to stay with them. Riding in a line is a lot of fun, but you had better pay attention when you are cruising at 25 miles per hour with 1-2 feet between your wheels and the bikes in front of you and behind you, so I also enjoy some long stretches of riding solo now. At 80 miles, I note that I am tired, but there are no injuries developing. The sun is coming out and it is getting hot, but I know that I can do another 30. The only problem the rest of the way is that there are lots of clumps of spectators in the last 10 miles, and I am vain enough that if someone is cheering for me I want to do my best imitation of a Tour de France rider. When I roll into the Mass Maritime Academy in Bourne, 110 miles from the Sturbridge start, I am exhausted. All experienced riders know that the very first thing you do after arriving and stowing your bike is to go to the table where you get your massage appointment. There are two gigantic tents set up on a big field. One of them has food, the other has 50 massage tables manned by professionals who have volunteered to give each of us 15 minutes of their magic. If we could only have one of those tents, we would do without the food. But both tents are there, so I shower, get a great massage, and eat a whole lot of food. I am in bed reading by 8, and trying to sleep by 9, but my throat and my ear are making it difficult. Sunday Morning When I wake up at 3:30, I cautiously climb out of the bed. I am elated to realize that everything works. There are no debilitating pains in my knees or feet or back. Eighty more miles? I can do this. For the Sunday ride from Bourne to Provincetown, the riders who are members of fundraising teams usually wear team jerseys. Others wear PMC jerseys from past years, proud to show their continued support. In my first PMC I wore a yellow jersey in honor of Lance Armstrong, who had just won his third Tour de France. Last year I wore a Number 9 Red Sox jersey in memory of Ted Williams, for his 50+ years of support of the Jimmy Fund. On Friday morning, my brother had told me that Laurel loved the Cape. I only met Laurel once, last Thanksgiving. Laurel lived in the same Brooklyn neighborhood as my brother and his family, with her husband Josh and their eight year old daughter Anya. Anya has been my nephew Abe's best friend since they were very small, and the families are very close. Laurel died in January following surgery for an extremely aggressive oral cancer that had failed to yield to the full arsenal of treatments. So, when I saw Jim's email on Friday morning, I put away my 2001 PMC jersey, and instead pulled out the one I had bought at a bike store in his neighborhood. It's red, white and blue jersey with BROOKLYN emblazoned across the front and the back. This is not just about Massachusetts. I slip on the jersey and head out with my friends. We are rolling out the gate in total darkness at 5AM. Yesterday, I was on my own, but today I am sticking with my buddy Paul and his friends. Paul has been doing this longer than I have. He took real good care of me during my first ride two years ago and he gave me fabulous support last year when he took a year off from riding. He didn't train as hard as I did this year (and his friends even less!), so today we're going to try to stick together so they can draft off me. We cross the Bourne Bridge and head up along the Cape Cod Canal in a line. We're cruising, but Rick breaks a spoke. There is a patrolling repair van nearby, and we are back on the road in minutes. At 15 miles we are on the route 6 access road. It is smooth and straight, gently rolling hills that give us so much momentum on the way down that we are coming back up to the tops of some of them at 25 miles per hour. Some riders hate these hills, but I think they're beautiful. Paul and I roll in to the 40 mile rest stop feeling great. As I look for a place to put down my bike I see a young boy in a red volunteer tee shirt standing near the edge of the area. He is quite unremarkable looking, maybe seven or eight years old, but he is holding a hand-lettered poster on a stick. It reads: I MADE IT THANKS TO ALL OF YOU I put down my bike, and do the usual rest stop things, but I see him again as I'm heading back to my bike, and I feel compelled to say something. His mom is standing next to him. I walk up to them. He's got a pile of these tiny pink beach sandals on rainbow strings (this rest stop is decorated in a beach motif) that he is handing to anyone who walks by. As I walk up he gives one to me. Looking at him, I ask, "Were you sick?" He nods. "And now you're all better?" I ask, looking quickly over at her. She beams as he says, "Yes." I removed the Living Proof button from my jersey and hand it to him, saying, "You should have this. Do you know what it means?" "No." "It means that when I was not much older than you, I was sick too, and I've been healthy for a very long time." I look at his mom again and say "35 years." She smiles and says, "That's wonderful!" I joke with his mom about him being not quite old enough to ride yet, but I get the feeling he thinks the conversation is a little weird. That's okay. He did pin the button onto his shirt. I can't help thinking that what this all about is reaching a day when "cancer survivor" really won't mean anything. We roll along through the dreaded hills of Wellfleet and Truro, but the weather is perfect! Some of the guys are pretty tired, and we're not in a hurry. We stop at the "Welcome to Provincetown" sign, 8 miles from the finish to take some pictures. Paul likes to make a grand entrance, so we stop again a mile from the finish and blow up balloons to tie to our helmets. Paul and Rick also put on some colorful wigs. I draw the line there. We reach the finish in Ptown just before noon. Two days. One hundred ninety miles. I am so glad to be off that saddle. We shower in the comfort of a room Paul rented at the Provincetown Inn, and get one last meal from the army of volunteers. I'm waiting for the bus back to Sturbridge, and a woman standing nearby is asked how many times she has done this. She replies, "Twenty two, but I took two years off for my children." Since this is the 24th running of the event, this means that she is one of the original 36 riders from 1980. I want to say something profound about what it means to have been there the whole way for this effort that has brought in $100,000,000. I want to say something about the fact that she started this at a time when conquering this scourge was regarded as a fantasy, not inevitability. But all that comes out of my mouth is, "Wow!" She smiled. I think she has heard that before.
|