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Observations from the PMC 2004
Pre-event I don't even question the idea that a significant part of my year is involved in preparing for the PMC. I try to stay in shape indoors through the winter. As soon as the weather is reasonable I expect to spend every possible weekend out on the bike. And I'm always on the lookout to expand the extraordinary pool of generous people who will help me do my small part of reaching this year's target of 17 million dollars for the Jimmy Fund. I haven't been this scared of the ride since I first did it 3 years ago. My health has been excellent this year, but an injury severely limited my training until mid June, and I know that I am not as strong as I was in any of the prior years. The first day is 110 miles. My longest training rides were 70 miles, and one of them left me incapacitated for days. The second day is 80 hilly miles, and I don't know how I'm going to do it after the exhaustion of the first day. In the past year my family has had the great fortune of good health. One recently treated friend is cautiously optimistic, another is doing even better. A coworker's death in May was a painful reminder that there is still a long way to go. Friday I'm in the car on my way to Sturbridge with few worries beyond my conditioning. I'm confident about dealing with all the details: I've packed everything I need, taken care of things at home, and my friends will be there when I arrive. Paul, my PMC mentor, is back again, as is Rick, who brought in a rookie (Mark) to join us. I head straight to registration. The cheerful volunteers hand me a packet which includes this year's jersey -- a very stylish blue and white -- and another I'm Living Proof button, which they give me because of the childhood illness noted on my record. The dinner is very strange this year because it is not raining -- first time in four years. Dare I hope for good weather for the next two days? The opening ceremonies begin with Billy Starr, who began it all 25 years ago. Billy was trashed by FoxNews (oxymoron?) a few months back because the organization pays him a generous salary and also employs his wife. Somehow, they didn't mention that the PMC has an amazing record of passing 93% of cash donations on to Dana Farber, for which they are studied as a model by other charitable organizations. They are within reach of a $120 million total for the 25 years of the event. Dr Ed Benz of Dana Farber Institute comes out to tell us of the impact of your donations. He believes that we may be only a decade from relegating even the worst cancers to being chronic, manageable illnesses with a reasonable quality of life. So maybe I can retire from this by my sixtieth birthday. I like to imagine a day when hearing "you have cancer" is no more scary than "you have high cholesterol". There is a videotaped statement from Lance Armstrong. He expresses his admiration and support for the PMC. He says he's been meaning to come ride with us, but he's been a little busy these past few summers. Of course, he is a hero to this audience. There are many black and yellow "LIVESTRONG" tee shirts in the crowd, and hundreds of people are wearing the symbolic yellow wristbands that are available from the Lance Armstrong Foundation.. I would really like to get one of those, but they are so popular that they are on back order for months. The most moving video tribute is a montage of pictures of cancer victims. The PMC solicited these photos from the riders and volunteers. The pictures are devastating because they are not pictures of people-as-victims. These are images from birthday parties and weddings, graduations and ballet recitals, halloween costumes and workplaces, skiing and days at the beach. They are life's ordinary moments, and the impact is to drive home the fact of lives cut short. Looking at this hurts. It's quite chilly by the time we're walking to our hotel down the street. It's not likely to be any warmer at 6AM, is it? Hmmm. I'm in bed at 10PM, with the alarm set for 4:15. Unfortunately, I snap awake at 1:10 and each time I fall back asleep I have strange dreams about waking up late and not getting to the starting line on time. Saturday The morning starts smoothly (in spite of the dreams), and I make it to the 5:30 Living Proof group photo at the starting line. Each year, this has been one of my favorite parts of the event. I like the fact that other than wearing the buttons, we're no different from the rest of the riders. Maybe we smile a little more. For the first time in 4 years of riding, the weather is perfect. It's August, but on the line at 6am, most of us are starting with some kind of long sleeves because of the cool weather. This is so much better than last year's rain or the draining heat of two years ago. We're in the middle of the pack at the starting line when the horn sounds at 6AM, but it is 6:15 before we actually get out of the parking lot. It takes a long time to get 2800 bicycles moving. The segment to the first rest stop, at 20 miles, is all about spreading out and avoiding crashes. Route 20 is closed to traffic in our direction, and we fill it in a torrent of blue and white jerseys. I'm feeling good at 20 miles. Coming out of the stop, the most pleasant surprise of the day is the strength of Paul and Rick. They are right with me. I'm surely not as strong as last year, but they doing much better than I anticipated. We attribute it to their more moderate pre-event celebration compared to years past. Whatever the cause, it strengthens my ride to have them with me. Mark has dropped behind us. He is having problems with an arthritic hip and back spasms. He has powerful prescription medications, so he's riding slowly, but comfortably. We're in touch via cell phones. I don't consider this a very hilly route compared to where I normally ride, but there are some climbs that you notice. It's funny, the things that go through my head under these circumstances. I am very impatient going up hills. I attack them, and this means that I am always passing people on the way up. Paul and Rick know that I do this, so they let me go and catch me down the other side. I don't know where it comes from, but I keep thinking about a Denzel Washington line from the movie Training Day : "King Kong... ain't got nothin'... on me!" It's like some bad TV jingle rattling in my head, and I know there's only one way to be done with it, so on one steep section I shout it out as I take off. Fortunately, Paul and Rick are familiar with the movie, so they laugh and hopefully don't think I'm completely insane. I'm called King Kong a few times after this. Normally, I won't drive across a parking lot without my seat belt on, but I'm coming down a hill on 23 millimeter tires at 42 miles per hour. I think the speed limit on this road is 30. Just before the lunch stop, our route merges with 1200 more riders coming from Wellesley. They started two hours later, and thirty miles closer, so there is a friendly lack of respect from us Sturbridge riders. The second stop was at 40 miles, but the lunch stop is at 70. I'm worried about the impact of a 30 mile segment, but I reach 70 miles feeling good. The good news is that after lunch we're only 40 miles from the finish instead of the 50 of the prior years. Now I know I can do this today. I can do another 40 miles. After the lunch stop, we are hooking in with other riders and actually going faster as aerodynamically efficient lines. As always, it is fun and scary. We roll into the Mass Maritime Academy in Bourne. at 2:15: 110 miles after crossing the starting line 8 hours earlier. We spent 6 hours and 30 minutes of that time in the saddle, for an average of 17 mph while riding (not quite the same speed that Lance Armstrong climbs the steepest segments of the Tour de France). We park our bikes and we're walking across the grounds to get our appointments in the massage tent. A friend walks over to chat. He's a serious year round cyclist with a road club. He and his teammates were among the first dozen finishers, crossing the line in 5 hours, 30 minutes (22 mph!) with only one 10 minute rest stop for lunch. King Kong ain't got nothin' on them! Still, I think they missed out on a lot of what makes the event special for me. They don't see the volunteers at the rest stops, and they probably don't notice the signs all along the way, and I know that I have slapped hands with at least a hundred little kids standing on the side of road. I shower and lay down a base of clam chowder, pizza, a hamburger and a salad while waiting for my massage appointment. The massage tent has 70 tables rotating 155 professional massage therapist volunteers who do 15 minutes of magic for as many people as time will allow. You should see the difference between the people walking in at one end, and those walking out the other. I'm standing in another food line, and Tom comes walking up. He's an acquaintance from the health club I go to. I've done some training rides with him. He asks how I'm doing, then holds up a hand wrapped in a cast. He crashed, breaking his thumb, and getting a gash on his leg that required several stitches. The ride is over for him... this year. Paul, Rick and I are in our room at 7:45. We agree that we will get up at 4. Paul wants to be underway by 5, and with good reason -- we would rather cross the Bourne Bridge in the dark than do it a little later when it gets crowded. Paul falls asleep immediately. Rick and I are reading for a while, but by 7:55 Rick has dropped his book and there is a sound like a jammed wood chipper coming from his bunk. Having learned my lesson from past years, I have ear plugs at the ready, and at 8:01 I am down for the night. Sunday I'm awake at 1 AM. Oh well. At least I got 5 hours of sleep before this started. I think I drifted in and out a few times, but I know I was definitely asleep when Paul's alarm rang -- at 3:36!. I am very happy because there are no debilitating pains when I stand up. Only a crash or mechanical failure can stop me now. Since my first year I have tried to make a statement with the jersey I wear on the second day. Two years ago I wore a Ted Williams number 9 Red Sox jersey (much too warm!) in honor of his work for the Jimmy Fund. Last year I wore a Brooklyn jersey, in remembrance of wonderful woman who had died several months earlier. But now I pull out a jersey that arrived in the mail the day before the event. It is white, orange and blue. It says "Kissena Cycling", which of course doesn't mean anything to you, and probably not to anyone else who will see it today. Kissena Cycling is a New York City racing club that participates in events at a cycling track in Kissena Park in Queens, half a mile from where I grew up. The club was kind enough to send me a jersey because I told them about my participation in the PMC and my history in the area. Shortly after the track was built in 1964, my friends and I would sneak on there with our three speed "English racers" to ride the steeply banked curves. That neighborhood is where I lived in the summer of 1968 when I was sick, and Mom still lives there. So the jersey is just for me, and for the picture I'll be able to send to Mom and my sister and my brother. The sun doesn't rise until 5:45, but Paul is wisely pushing us out the gate at 5 because he wants to avoid crowding on the Bourne bridge and the bike path on the canal. It's cold, and it's dark, but we're happy because we know that it means that the dunes won't be hot when we reach Provincetown. I like the Bourne Bridge. I guess it's that King Kong thing. We head up the entire length of the bike trail along the canal and then make our way to the route 6 service road. This is the first section that puts the lie to the idea that Cape Code is flat, but the hills roll smoothly and the surroundings are beautiful and I'm just happy to be there. Once we pass the first rest stop I am thinking about the next one, at 40 miles, because last year I met seven-year-old Jack there, sitting under a sign that said "I made it thanks to all of you". He was handing out little trinkets, and I had a nice conversation with his mom. It meant a lot to me. So now I want to see him again, to know he's still okay. I spot him as soon as we roll in, and I guess he has become something of a minor celebrity among the riders, because there are quite a few people around him, all saying hi. It bothers me. What must he think of all this attention? So I approach just to ask for one of the trinkets he's handing out. Paul snaps a picture and I walk away. After all, what really matters is that he's a healthy 8 year old boy. Coming out of the 40 mile stop, the ride is becoming dominated by pace lines. I am leading a small one and I hook on to a larger, faster one as they go by. Before I know it, my friends have dropped off the back and I am hanging on with this group that never slows below 20 mph. After 10 miles of this I come to my senses and drop back as they climb the first of the Wellfleet hills. At the 60 mile rest stop in Wellfleet they have a surplus of ice because they were prepared for the hot weather that didn't hit. Someone has arranged the bags of ice into a large couch, which I immediately sit on while I wait for my friends. It's not soft, but it's cold exactly where I need it to be after 160 miles of biking in the last 28 hours. The four of us meet up again for the final 20 mile push into Provincetown. We make a stop at the "Welcome to Provincetown" sign for some group photos, then take off again with a well-recovered Mark in the lead. We hit the last five miles through the dunes. Paul becomes a man possessed and we are dying to keep up with him. I think French journalists must be checking his bags for syringes! We cross the line together in Provincetown at 11am, having averaged over 16mph for the morning. 190 miles. 29 hours since we began. More than 11 hours on the bikes. We shower in a hotel room arranged by Paul (my hero!) instead of the dreaded shower tent. After another great meal from the volunteers, I make my way to the bus back to Sturbridge. Even though the bus gets back to Sturbridge in less than three hours, the ride still impresses me with the distance we covered. Sitting (gingerly) on the couch at home in the evening, I'm watching some reports of the event on NECN. They give great coverage to the event, and one of the things they do is seek out the riders and volunteers who wear the "Living Proof" and ask them to tell their stories. They haven't asked me, but if they did, this is what I would say: I have a different perspective from most of the others -- not more or less valid or important, just different. Every one of us who follows the work of the PMC, the Jimmy Fund, and Dana Farber, has heard the numbers that tell us of the great strides taken in the past 20 years against many forms of cancer. But I was sick 36 years ago. I sat in the waiting rooms where almost all of the patients died from their disease. If you look up the form of cancer I was diagnosed with (Ewing's Sarcoma), in any medical textbook of that era, you'll read that the five year survival rate was listed as "negligible", and if you look at a modern text it is at least 60 per cent. When I see the group photos of PMC riders who have survived cancer, and I see the interviews with some of them talking about being sick 2 years ago or 5 or 10, and I see the young patients who are part of the PMC's Pedal Partners program, I also know that 25 years ago there wouldn't have been enough success stories to interview. I do see the tremendous impact of organizations like the PMC in the numbers and the faces of the present, but I also see it in the remembered faces from my past. So when anyone asks me if I'm going to ride again next year, of course I say "Yes." What else would I do? (This is where I thought the story ended, but sometimes the universe intends otherwise) Monday A good night's sleep is much appreciated. I wake up sore and tired but uninjured. Laundry and shopping get done. I begin to write my Observations. I treat myself to a massage at my health club -- it's miraculous. On my way out I see my friend Katie and I stop to tell her about the PMC. While we're talking I see a woman a few feet away wearing one of those Live Strong wristbands from the Lance Armstrong Foundation. I tell Katie that I saw quite a few people wearing them. The woman wearing the band hears me and enthusiastically tells us about the Lance Armstrong foundation. She is very impressed by the work they do in support of support of cancer survivors. She tells us that survivors often face problems for years afterwards. Should I say something? I don't think so. She talks about the death of two family members. She talks about the foundation. I talk about the PMC experience. Katie mentions the journal I write each year and Julie (the woman with the wristband) asks if I would send her a copy. Of course I will. I remark that I've been meaning to get one of the wristbands. Julie is wearing 3 on each wrist and she immediately pulls one off and hands it to me. I'm stunned. She looks at Katie, then takes off another one and hands it to her. I thank her, then look at Katie and say, "I think the end of my story has changed." And so it has.
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