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Observations from the PMC 2005
I don't feel like writing about the usual pre-departure stuff, because this year did not fit my script. It's supposed to be about me and my preparation, but some friends whom I expected to be touting as success stories are instead involved in recurring treatment. Until their situations improve, my thoughts are locked on them, and I am constantly aware of how lucky I am. So I'll be brief about me: I've done 1200 miles of training this year, but I feel weaker than in years past and I'm concerned about the ride because none of my three buddies from last year are riding this time. Friday The drive to Sturbridge is punctuated by monsoon-level rain. My bike will be very clean when I arrive. This is my fifth year of riding, so everything in Sturbridge is very familiar, and not nearly as much fun without my buddies. I'm actually feeling pretty surly during the opening ceremonies. I'm just not into it. I miss my companions. I'm thinking of my sick friends. I just don't feel it, until I lock eyes with a 9 month old infant bouncing up and down on the lap of the woman in front of me. He is staring at me and laughing, and he makes me smile. Life. I never sleep well before the 6am start, and tonight's hotel room will provide no exception. It's a "smoking room" (and I left my cigarettes home!), I didn't bring my allergy medication, and I forgot to take my heartburn medication. I dutifully stay in bed until 4:15 so that I don't waken my roommate. I slept maybe 2 or 3 hours. Saturday At 5:45am 2500 cyclists are assembled on the starting line in Sturbridge. We are all wearing the event jersey and black shorts and helmets. Good luck trying to locate anyone you know. At 6:05 they start us out the gate, and my section crosses the starting line 10 minutes later. The weather is perfect! An hour from now, another 1500 riders will depart on a shorter route from Wellesley. Just outside the start I spot a rider with one leg. One leg! Even with all eastbound cars kept off route 20 for us, the first 10 miles is extremely tense because the density of the bikes and the differences of ability means all of your attention is required to avoid crashes. I just want to get to the first rest stop at 22 miles without a mishap. The purpose of a rest stop is to get off the bike, eat a little something, refill bottles and get moving. It sounds simple, but imagine setting a space to accomodate this for four thousand riders! Our army of 2200 volunteers in lime green shirts is selfless, tireless and extremely well organized. 45.2 miles per hour coming down a hill in Mendon (sorry, Mom!). This is a new record for me. The road is smooth, dry, straight and steep, so my hands are off the brakes. 33 miles. I have my first hand slap with with a child standing along the side of the road. You don't ever travel for very long without someone shouting encouragement from the side of the road, holding up a sign. I'll hear a year's worth of shouted "Thank You"'s this weekend. It always makes me want to push a little harder, and say "Good morning!" in return. 43 miles. I'm starting to lose sensation in my feet. This is actually better than usual, but the problem is that I have another 67 miles to go. It's a little scary. 50 miles. I've paired up with a guy named Dan, and the advantage of riding alternating the lead provides a huge boost. We reach the 73 mile lunch stop, and I am finally becoming confident. Only 38 miles to go! 38 miles is not terrible. I'm gonna make it. Actually, Dan is helping me far more than I'm helping him. I'm thinking about the famous Blanche DuBois line in Streetcar Named Desire: "I have always relied on the kindness of strangers." Around 90 miles. I can't keep up with Dan any more, and after much encouragement from me, he takes off with a faster group. I pull into the 101 mile rest stop, and I'm worried. Ten miles is not far, but I'm really tired. For the first time in 5 years, I find a chair to sit on just to catch my breath. An elderly volunteer walks up and asks, "Can I get you anything, dear?" I tell her I'm just going to get some ice for my water bottle, and she says, "I'll take care of that for you. You sit." She takes my bottle and returns quickly. She suggests I should eat something. I nod, and she's back a minute later with a peanut butter and jelly sandwich. It's afternoon on a hot August day, and this lady is out in the sun being a servant to a sweaty stranger. I get up feeling better, and as I'm heading back out I spot the best thing I have ever seen at a rest stop: a big set of water mist sprayers. Two seconds after stepping into it I have no worries about the last 10 miles. Back on the road, my pace has dropped considerably and I'm feeling pretty miserable, but there's a little girl holding up a sign that caught me by surprise: PMC RIDERS: SMILE IF YOU'RE NOT WEARING UNDERWEAR! (She must know that there is never underwear under those silly looking spandex shorts). She got me. Now I'm laughing, and pedalling faster. It's enough to push me into Bourne: 111 miles, exactly 8 hours from the time I passed the starting line. My average speed while riding was 16.2 miles per hour, down from the 17 of the past 4 years, but I'm very happy because I have no injuries that are going to keep me off the bike tomorrow. I want two things immediately: get out of these damn cycling shoes, and get a shower. The only stop along the way to the dorm is to get my massage appointment. Four years in a row on the fourth floor (no elevators) of the dorm. Sigh. But the shower is good. Clean clothes are wonderful. Hamburger. Pizza. Clam Chowder. Better stop for a while because my massage is in an hour and I don't want to be too full. Find a shady spot and wait. When my time arrives, a young woman named Lisa asks a few questions, then sets to work removing pain all over my body. Every year I find it very challenging to get across to this person the intensity of my gratitude. The massage tent performs hundreds of 15 minute massages every hour. In the pantheon of volunteers, these professionals are the absolute peak. If they had a limit on the number of volunteers, the riders would carry the water, cook the food and clean up the garbage if that's what it took to keep the massage tent fully staffed. This year, there are 189 riders who have been treated for cancer. I received an emailed invitation to assemble for a group photo at 6pm. We are called the Living Proof riders. They have made up tee shirts for us. I've always had mixed feelings about this. I was sick so long ago. There's really nothing heroic about me, certainly no more so than any rider, but I'll wear the t-shirt and keep the button on my saddle bag because the other riders and the volunteers seem to enjoy seeing us as symbols of hope. They're a little behind schedule when we gather at six, and there is a disparity in the crowd of white tee shirts. Most of the people are standing in clusters chatting cheerfully, but there are many scattered around the periphery sitting very quietly, facing away from the group. I'm in the latter group (surprised?). Too many memories. Too many thoughts about... But it does feel really good when we assemble on a beautiful night at the edge of the Cape Cod Canal. It's not a race. The only thing that matters is that we got here. Back in my room, my two roommates are wearing team shirts with the slogan "Pain is Temporary, Pride is Forever." I think I understand the sentiment, but it bothers me. I think it is foolish to belittle Pain. In 5 years of this event, I have never once had a good night's sleep. Tonight I set my alarm for 4am and take 1 Tylenol PM at 7:30. By 8 I am asleep, and I don't wake up until 2:30 when one of my roommates is snoring. I fall back asleep for another hour. Sunday The alarm rings. I am ecstatic to have slept so well. I'm ready. Out the gate in the dark at 5am. We're supposed to stay until sunrise, but many riders take an early start. Three miles to the Bourne bridge, where the police already have 1 lane blocked for us. I like the bridge. The trail along the canal is the flattest 10 miles of both days. I'm discouraged to be doing it at 15mph alone, but then I hook up with 2 other riders, and we're suddenly cruising at 20. My left knee is sore. It never gets sore. This is scary, but I'm 13 miles in at the rolling hills of the route 6 service road. I'm not exhausted, and I have only 66 miles to go! It's the unanticipated things that always have the biggest impact on me, and this year I whiz by it at 20 miles per hour, then slam on the brakes and turn around. There is a family watching on the side of the road, waving signs at the riders. Parents in garish tie-dyed shirts and 2 strikingly beautiful little girls. One sign says "Lindsay is a Survivor", another says "Thank You Riders". When I reach them I tell the parents, "I would like to meet Lindsay." The older girl beams at me, and I tell her, "I'm very glad your healthy now. I was sick when I was not much older than you.." (now I'm looking at her parents) "and I've been healthy for a very long time." I'll smile every time I remember the look on her mother's face. My left knee stopped hurting! My early start got me over the bridge ahead of the crowds, and it means more riding in the cooler weather. It also means that many faster riders started behind me. It's a little hard on the ego when they blow by me in high speed lines. I am becoming comfortable with the idea that riders who are younger or have trained more regularly, are entitled to be faster than me. I'll be happy to get to P-town slower than last year if I'm uninjured and relatively comfortable. I'm also comfortable with another emerging pattern. I hook on to the ends of faster moving lines to get the advantage of drafting off them. It feels great, but I know I wont' be able to sustain it. I cruise with them at 20 to 25 miles per hour until it becomes uncomfortable, then I drop off and slow down under 16 until I recover. As an old distance runner, there is something vaguely distressing about such an erratic effort, but it's working for me today and I've become aware that I have dropped my pride about the appearance of being slower for stretches of any length. This gets me easily to the second rest stop at 41 miles. More than half way! I am lucky enough to be in well-paced lines for the first section of the Wellfleet hills and this is an enormous lift. I feel like I'm cheating to get through it so easily. The last rest stop has the fabulous sofa made of bags of ice. It is a wonderful contrast to a bicyle saddle after 163 miles! Ten miles to go. All the points of contact with the bike are suffering. My hands are crampy and tingling, my feet are burning, and... never mind. I'm moving very slowly on the flats into Provincetown and crawling up the road through the dunes. But there's no doubt now, 3 miles left, I'm gonna finish and I'm gonna be okay. I roll through the finish at 10:55. Five minutes earlier than last year. Sorry Paul, Rick and Mark! Two days, 192 miles. 8 hours start to finish yesterday. 5 hours 55 minutes today. Shower, food, wait for the bus. I wander back to the finish line and see a reporter doing interviews with riders and spectators. I've had something I wanted to say since I saw some of the interviews last year. I slip on my Living Proof tee-shirt, and I walk up to her and say, "I think I have a different story for you." I tell her my history and she says "Wait here," while she goes to get her cameraman. The camera goes on and... I really can't remember what was said except that she asked me, "What are you Living Proof of?" I'm pretty sure I mumbled something less than eloquent in reply. I'm thinking about this question for most of the bus ride back. I think I've got it figured out. I'm proof that as bad as it still is, it used to be worse. I'm a witness of the time before CAT scans and MRI's, and other high tech diagnostics. Before computer focussed radiological treatments and less toxic chemotherapy. Before pain management was sophisticated. Before effective treatments for the side effects. Before the hope of gene-based therapies. Before support mechanisms for patients and families. Before most people believed there was much chance for a child to survive cancer. As bad as it still is for so many people, it's better than it was. It's not happening fast enough to satisfy 4000 riders and 2000 volunteers and a hundred thousand donors, not by a long shot, but until I think of something else I can do, I will keep harassing good people for more money, and I will keep returning to Provincetown.
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