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Observations from the PMC 2006
Pre-Event When I first rode in the PMC in 2001, it was a celebration for me, an expression of gratitude for the immense good fortune that had kept me healthy for 33 years since I was treated for Ewing's Sarcoma. I don't think I'll ever lose that appreciation of how lucky I've been, but as I prepare to go to Sturbridge to start my sixth ride, it's different this year. Joe Kindorf was my best friend at work for nearly 20 years. During that time, we ate lunch together more often than not. Joe had four children and a wife that he loved dearly. He was four years older than me, and more than one person has heard me say, "I want to be Joe when I grow up." Joe knew of my history with cancer, so after he was diagnosed in the fall of 2004 there was a whole new dimension to our friendship. At lunch time on the January day that I signed up for this year's PMC, I visited Joe in the hospital for the last time. I would like to be able to say that he was awake when I told him that I had committed to riding again, but that's not what happened. That's the way Cancer is. It doesn't conform to any notion of right or fair. When someone recovers, it's not because they should. People who shouldn't die, do. Some survive beyond any reasonable expectation, and others suffer in spite of the best attitude, loving support of family and friends, and the best efforts of a devoted medical community. More than 4000 cyclists understand this, and we are raising twenty five million dollars this year in support of the Dana Farber Cancer Institute. Three weeks after signing up for the PMC, I am sitting with my mother in an oncologist's waiting room at the University of California San Francisco Medical Center. On the wall is a glass case containing a cycling jersey with Lance Armstrong's autograph! The head of the department is a cycling fanatic, and when he arranged an event, he got Lance to attend, and he had special jerseys made for the occasion. I want one. My sister, who works for the medical school, makes one phone call, telling them about the PMC and the fact that I want to wear their jersey for it. When I visit again the following month, this doctor finds us in the hallway and hands me a jersey! His only conditions: "No coasting. Represent UCSF well." I slipped the jersey on to show to Mom. She knew my tradition of picking a special jersey for the second day of the PMC. She smiled. I'll always remember that. The cold, wet weather this spring made for a very slow start to my training. It seemed to go straight to brutally hot, but I ended up riding 1200 miles by the end of July. This is my usual amount. Still, I didn't do more than 70 miles on any single ride, and not more than 120 on any weekend. I just don't feel as strong as past years. I have to do 112 on Saturday and 80 on Sunday. I'm scared. (I think I write this same paragraph every year, but knowing that does not make me any less scared). Friday I have done this enough times that I don't fret about the details of packing, getting there, registering. I'm not going to forget something crucial (like bike socks). I am fortunate this year to have the return of 2 friends from past years: Rick and Mark. They have brought in 2 new guys, Paul and George. It's good to have companions. Rick has had a rough year. His arthritic hip is so bad that he will basically be riding with one leg. He can't step off a curb without grimacing. We have 2 rooms at the hotel, and one of them has a little problem. It seems that there was serious water damage from a leak in the roof. It's not hard to tell which room it is because of the distinctive moldy smell (and also the bucket catching the green goo that is still dripping from a gaping hole in the ceiling). There are no other available rooms within 40 miles of Sturbridge, so we close the bathroom door, open the window, crank the AC on high and agree to share the bathroom of the other room. If I get Legionaire's Disease, how long will it be before symptoms to appear? At the opening ceremonies, they have outdone themselves with celebrities this year. Ayla Brown, from American Idol (I just don't get the appeal of that show) sings. Greg Lemond (3 time Tour De France winner before Lance) is riding this year. He jokes about having gained 30 pounds and the fact that he was not exempted from the fundraising requirement. Uta Pippig (three time Boston Marathon winner) is riding with us. Johan Koss (3 olympic gold medals in speedskating in 1984) is also joining us. There are always two points in the ceremony that I dread. There are always video clips of children at the Jimmy Fund Clinic. And then comes the time when they bring 50 or so cancer survivors out on stage in Living Proof T shirts and ask the remaining survivors in the audience to stand. I don't like to stand because I am uncomfortable with the applause, but it's the truth, so I don't feel like it's a choice. They bring out an a capella group, and the leader explains that 10 years ago, at practice, one of the singers noticed a bump on his head, and it turned out to be Ewing's Sarcoma. The hairs on the back of my neck stand up. He was successfully treated, and is still singing with them tonight. The best part of the ceremony is a video clip of a new event called Kids PMC, which is a series of short rides exclusively for children. The video is hilarious! Three thousand kids have participated this year and raised $250,000. The ceremony ends, and there is something I have to do. I'm looking in the crowd for the singer, the guy who had Ewing's. I wait, and I see him, and I make my way over. I catch his eye, and extend my hand. He reflexively puts out his hand and I lean forward and say, "Next time you see your doctor, tell him you shook hands with someone who was treated for Ewing's in 1968." He smiles. He knows what it means. Back at the hotel I pop a Tylenol PM and hope to get a little sleep. Saturday I'm already awake when my alarm rings at 4:45. We get up, dress, pack the bags, and walk to the start. It's quite a challenge finding 1 bike out of 2500 in a parking area in semi-darkness. Breakfast in the fieldhouse: banana, cereal, lots of orange juice. I'm already separated from my friends and it is impossible to find anyone because we are almost all wearing the same event jersey and black bike shorts and helmets. It's okay. I usually ride alone on the first day anyway. I take my place at the start. The weather is perfect. I wanted a tangible way to have Joe with me on the ride. In July of 1968 one of my Nana's church friends knew that I was sick, so when she visited the Vatican that summer, she bought a St Anthony medal for me. She told Nana that it had been blessed by the Pope! I appreciated the thought, but not being catholic myself, I put it in a box. Thirty seven years later I found that box while helping my Mom clean out the apartment where she still lived. I took the medal home with me. I gave it to Joe, not out of any religious belief, but just as a reminder that it's possible to get very, very lucky. On the day of Joe's funeral, his wife Alice gave it back to me. I'm wearing it now. Joe never met my Mom. Of course, Mom would have liked Joe immediately. She was a very good judge of character, and she would have been extremely pleased to know that I had a friend like Joe. Joe had heard a lot about Mom over the years, because she always had something interesting going on, and I enjoyed talking about her. They were both fiercely devoted parents, ready to laugh with, and at, their children. When my brother, sister and I were making arrangements for Mom's cremation, I saw that one of the keepsakes they offered was a small teardrop pendant. Now it's hanging around my neck, next to the St Anthony medal. It is 6am. Mom and Joe are here, and we're going to Provincetown. I am unusually calm for the first 5 miles heading up route 20. Even though we have the entire eastbound 2 lanes blocked for us, there are 2500 bicycles sharing this stretch of road, and it is very easy to get in trouble. I like hills. The first long hill is Masonic Home Road in Charlton. When you have any semblance of control over your pain, it becomes more tolerable. On hills you have a choice. You can go to a low gear and pedal more easily for a longer period of time. You can attempt to power up more quickly, but that comes at a price. The hills are where I use the memories. Spaghetti and Meatballs. On this same weekend in 1968, I was in bad shape. I was three weeks into radiation and experiencing a common side effect when the irridiated area includes the mouth: everything from my lips to my tonsils was a mass of sores. Someone else who experienced it described it as having a mouth full of battery acid. I couldn't eat, couldn't sleep, wouldn't talk. The only pain management was a topical anesthetic which I was allowed to spray every 15 minutes, so I would lay in bed and watch the clock. We had two air conditioners, but neither was in my bedroom. We lived on the top floor, so if you closed my bedroom door on an August afternoon, it got very hot, very fast. One day, when we got home from radiation, I went into my room. I don't remember why I closed the door, but I did. I got into bed. I don't remember why I got under the heavy bedspread instead of pulling it off, but that's what I did. I lay there with my mouth on fire, in the sweltering heat, soaking the bed in my sweat, and I just went into this state where I was unaware of anything else, and it didn't scare me any more. At some point Mom came to check on me and I think she was horrified. I must have looked pretty awful. She immediately pulled off the covers and brought in a fan. I was actually annoyed to be interrupted, which was doubtlessly confusing for her. The next evening Dad got Mom to be willing to take a break, to go out somewhere, so Nana came to over to take care of me. She made the world's best meatballs and spaghetti sauce. My weight had dropped to 76 pounds, and they told me that if it went any lower I was going back into the hospital. I sat in front of the tv with this big plate of spaghetti and meatballs. The acidity of the tomato sauce was especially tough on the sores, but every mouthful felt like a victory. It took two hours, but I finished it all, and I knew things would be different from that point forward. Spaghetti and meatballs. I am passing a lot of people on the way up Masonic Home Road. First rest stop is 22 miles. It's too early to be confident, but I feel good. Did I say the weather is perfect? It's warmer now and the humidity is stifling. Still, at this point the crowd has stretched out and I can pick similarly paced people to ride with. Most of us have our name tags on the back of our bikes because communication helps a lot. It helps to be able to say, "On your left, Ed" On my first ride I noticed that a lot of Living Proof riders put their buttons back there also, so I did that too. This is how I have a conversation with Meg. Coming up from behind, I notice her button, and say, "I've got one of those too". She tells me that she started riding 9 years ago because her husband had cancer 22 years ago. Last year, she found a lump in her breast the month before the PMC and rode 9 days after her mastectomy! She insisted that her doctor postpone her chemo until afterwards. She said he thought she was crazy. I told her he was right, but I understood. Besides, she has been clear for 9 months. After Joe and Mom, I need to hear stories like this. First hand slap with a kid on the side of the road at 41 miles. Rest stop at 44 miles. It's still too early to be confident, but I'm doing okay. There are 1700 riders who started in Wellesley. They started at 7:30 because they are only doing 80 miles today. I'm at the merge point, and as some of them come in from the left I say to them, "Did you enjoy sleeping in this morning?" I must be feeling good, or I wouldn't be so obnoxious. There's a great downhill stretch in Purgatory Chasm state park, but there are too many bikes around me to really let it rip. The lunch stop at 71 miles is handling nearly four thousand riders. Have I forgotten to mention the 2500 volunteers who pamper us in every possible way? They assist us at registration. They guard the bikes overnight. They serve the food. They fix the bikes. They stand at intersections to direct traffic. At rest stops they bring us gatorade and bananas and haul water and provide medical care. They smile and thank us for riding. Hey, I ride for fun. Do you know anyone whose idea of fun is filling gatorade jugs? Ugh. My legs do not want to continue after eating. Did I say I liked hills? What was I thinking? I'm slowly grinding my way up a hill at 80 miles, when I hear someone coming up behind me say (in a heavy German accent), "Come on, Don, you can do it! Keep going!" It's Uta Pippig! She comes up alongside me and flashes the same big smile she always had for the crowds at the Boston Marathon. I ask her how she likes the event, and she gushes with enthusiasm. I am riding with a Boston Marathon winner. How freakin' cool is this? I say, "Excuse me for a second" and I sprint out ahead of her, then drop back and say, "I just wanted to be able to say that I passed you today". I also point out that if she doesn't feel like riding any more she could just get off the bike and run the last 26 miles. She laughs and then takes off ahead of me. I'm at the 84 mile rest stop. Last year at 100 miles I felt absolutely beat and sat for quite a while at the rest stop. I feel the same need to sit one stop earlier this year. Uh, oh. Back on the bike, the rest has done me good. I have connected with a group that is moving at a good pace. There's a breeze now. The good news is that it is cool. The bad news is it's a head wind. There are more people on the sides of the road down here. This is good for my pace. I'm vain enough to not want to look slow for spectators. Ninety miles. I have no doubts now. I know what 22 miles is like, and I know I can do it. I'm having another long sit down at the 100 mile stop. Just out of curiousity, I check my pulse -- 120. That seems okay, but I don't really have any idea. The cool mist sprayer they have here is fantastic! Last stretch. I feel good. I'm picking up my pace and actually have a few people drafting behind me. I roll in the gate of the Mass Maritime Academy at 2:04. Eight hours since I crossed the starting line in Sturbridge. 16.2 miles per hour while on the bike. Maximum speed of 41.2 (I guess I wasn't using the brakes quite so much in Purgatory Chasm). It hits me. Every year I do the same things when I arrive. I park my bike, walk to the tent to get my massage appointment, then while I'm walking to the dorm for my shower, I take out my cell phone and call my mom to tell her that I arrived safely... For the first time in six years of writing this, I don't know what to say. I'm here, and there are things to do. A shower feels fabulous. I'm tired, but nothing hurts. No injuries. This is excellent! Don't want to eat too much before 3:45 massage, so I hit the food tent for a chowder, and I find a bench in the shade along the canal. There's a breeze blowing. It's heavenly. The massage tent has nearly 100 tables. The volunteers, all professional massage therapists, work from before noon until after 8 pm. In the pantheon of volunteers, they are the gods and goddesses. Rachel removes pain from muscles all over the place, and I do my best to express gratitude. Now I can really eat. Pizza. Baked Potato with chili, cheese and sour cream. Water. Salad. Calzone. More Salad. Cheesburger. Another Salad. Another Calzone. Beer. Ice Cream. More Water. I find my guys. Paul, Rick, and Mark got in at 2:40. Gimpy Rick finished at 4, for which he has my eternal respect. I'm walking with him and some big guy starts talking to him about a project they are working on together. (Here's where you Bruins fans bust a gut, because I'm not a hockey fan) It's Terry O'Reilly. Rick introduces me, adding "and he's a survivor," (that's embarassing!), and I get a handshake before we move on. At 6:15 I head over to the area where they are taking the annual Living Proof group picture. I am especially nervous about it this year. I collect my T-shirt, and get in the pack. In addition to the official photographer, there are lots of relatives taking pictures of their special person. I see Meg and say hi to her. When the photos are done, one of the group gets a teary hug from an older woman. I assume it's her mother, and I feel... Sigh. I find a quiet place to sit for a few minutes. I go back and sit with the guys for a few minutes, and somehow Paul has gotten Johan Koss to stop and chat with us. By 7pm my aim is to get to bed, because we have agreed to head out the gate at 5am, and I have set my alarm for 3:45. Overheard on my way upstairs: "Oh man, is there a rest stop soon?" The dorm room is awful. Stifling hot, in spite of the breeze. Two of my roommates snore beyond the ability of my earplugs to protect, and the guy on the bunk above me clunks the ladder several times during the night as he climbs down to go to the bathroom. Sunday At 3:45AM I am not well rested, but all the parts are working, and that's all I need. Today is the day that riders wear any jersey they choose. I am wearing the blue and yellow of the UCSF Medical Center. It's my way of honoring an extraordinary collection of people in San Francisco: the nurses on the surgical oncology unit who defined compassion with everything they did for Mom and our family, and my sister's friends who I started referring to as "The Angels" for all they did for us. On Thursday night, Kerry stitched a picture of Joe on my left sleeve, and Mom on my right. Chances are that no one will recognize the jersey, and certainly no one will notice the pictures, but I'll know they are there. I pack, eat and find Rick, but we can't connect with Mark, Paul and George. Rick and I head out the gate at 5:15. I want to help Rick as much as I can, so I lead for him to the Bourne Bridge. I leave him to go over at his own pace, then wait for him on the other side so that I can lead for the length of the path along the canal. The sun is coming up. I'm confused. I thought the canal ran north/south, but I can see the sun over the water almost straight ahead. I'll have to check a map later. The path is beautiful. We are making good pace. Unfortunately, Rick is having trouble shifting gears, and we agree to separate when we spot a repair van about 10 miles into the ride. The route 6 access road is the most fun riding of the whole event. It starts with a tough climb and then is a series of rolling hills through thick woods. It would be wise to conserve, but I'm having too much fun and I make a conscious decision: Fly Now, Pay Later. I've been thinking about Lindsay since I got up this morning. If you read last year's edition, you know I met Lindsay and her family by the side of the road last year, and I really need to see that she is still doing well. I keep trying to recall the stretch where I saw them last year. I'm certain it's coming up soon, and I'm hoping they would go back to the same spot. There they are!!! Lindsay, her little sister, her mom and dad are in the same place as last year. They have signs declaring that Lindsay is 8 now. I pull over and ask if they remember that I spoke to them last year. The parents remember. I ask if they would mind taking a picture of me with Lindsay and her sister. They oblige, and when the batteries in my camera die, the mother pulls the batteries out of her own camera and gives them to me! I ask Lindsay if she likes to ride her bike, and would she like to do this some day? She says yes. I cautiously ask the dad if Lindsay continues to be well, and he beams. I thank him for coming out, that it means a lot to me this year. When I get back on the bike I have to do something with what I'm feeling. Fly Now, Pay Later. 22 mile rest stop. I'm good. I know I'm gonna feel like crap in the Ptown dunes, but that always happens. I'll get that far without any trouble, and then just push through. No worries. I am flying to the next rest stop at 42 miles. I'm surprised. Mark, Paul, and George arrive shortly after me. I've been flying and they were 40 minutes behind me yesterday, and I didn't expect them to be so close. This is good. I'll ride with them and can take the lead and keep the pace up. We're doing very well on the stretch up to Wellfleet. The route has been changed slightly to include more of the Cape Cod Rail Trail (actually shortened the ride by 3 miles) Staying together. When we reach Ocean View Road, Paul says, "I like hills" (where have I heard that before?), and takes off for the top. I can't stay with him. I thought I was the stronger rider. More hills, and now I can't stay with George and Mark on the way into the Wellfleet rest stop. I have now reached the "Pay Later" portion of the day. At the rest stop we are calling Paul "King of the Mountains". I have clearly underestimated the capacity of my friends. It's 10am, and we have about 16 miles to go. I'm struggling to keep up as we reach the biggest hill of both days, and I get stuck in some traffic coming down. I can't see them ahead of me. They have already crossed route 6 when I get there, but now the cop is letting cars go by. By the time I get across, I can't even see them all the way up the road. I admit it: I'm annoyed that they didn't wait for me. I have now reached my least favorite part of the ride. Route 6 is open sun, it's hilly, and it has a headwind all the way through Truro. A group of three riders goes by, not too fast. I latch on to the back, and suddenly I'm doing 20 mph into the headwind thanks to a tiny powerhouse named Rachel at the front. I stay with them for 6 miles into the ptown dunes. They have made the toughest part of the ride easy for me! I drop off on the way up the first dunes, and now I have to grind on my own the last 4 miles. I don't care. I'm going slowly, and I'm not going to catch my friends. I don't care. I'm gonna get there. Amazingly, with 2 miles to go, Rachel and her friends are passing me again. I don't know how they got behind me. They must have stopped. I don't care, because I'm now getting another great pull, and I roll into the finish at 11:05. I quickly spot the guys, and give them a hard time about deserting me, but that's pretty silly. Confession time: If you stood at the finish line and watched the people cross, you would realize that this is not really such a difficult thing to do. You would see people of all ages, sizes and shapes rolling in at mile 190 on day 2. Sure, some are hours slower, some look considerably more tired, but barring injury everybody makes it. We're not super athletes (except for Uta and Greg and Johan). Anybody who can stay sufficiently free of injuries to ride a couple of times a week can do this. All it takes is getting your butt used to being on the the saddle for as long as it takes. Rick is able to do this, and he doesn't look so good even when he has two legs! We rented a room at the Ptown Inn just to have a more comfortable place to shower and change before going to lunch and the long trip home. While we're sitting there, Paul looks up and says, "I'm hooked", and George agrees. They'll be back next year, and so will I.
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