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Observations from the PMC 2008
PMC Observations 2008
January 2008 I sign up for the PMC for the 8th consecutive year. This dictates a lot of what I'll be doing in the next seven months. 1968 I am the skinniest kid in the seventh grade at Junior High 189 in Queens, New York. I can't think of a single good thing to say about that place. I'm looking forward to the summer. Three days after school ends, I'll be going back to Sunset Ranch Camp in Orford, New Hampshire, for the 4th straight year.
2008 The weather sucks. It has been cold, or rainy, or cold and rainy every weekend. I need to do my miles if I'm going to be ready in August. I'm trying to keep it in perspective, because I remember. 1968 It's a Saturday morning. I'm in the living room. I'm chewing on a piece of gum and I feel a little pop in the left side of my jaw. I reach up and feel... a bump. It doesn't hurt, but there's nothing like it on the other side, so I decide to tell Mom. She wants to get it checked.
July 3 2008 I'm at an oral surgeon's office for a consultation on a common dental issue, but I have checked off some of the boxes on the form which insure that he will ask more questions, and he is using terminology I have not heard for 40 years: "parotid", "rads", "treatment portal", "osteoradionecrosis". He says my jaw looks pretty good, considering. 1968 The operation was yesterday. My face hurts. Didn't sleep well. The IV keeps getting clogged, and every time they force fluid through to flush it, it feels like my hand is exploding. There is no air conditioning and the window is only 4 stories above Broadway. Manhattan is not quiet on hot July nights, and on this particular night, neither am I.
July 17 2008 I'm in Framingham today for a meeting and I stop in to get lunch. I walk up to the salad bar and it's as if a movie starts playing in my head. I can see Joe picking up a container and moving from bin to bin as he assembles his lunch. The experience is incredibly detailed, which makes it simultaneously pleasant and terribly sad. 1968 I've been home 5 days. They said it was a "malignant tumor", and I know that's not good, but I'm sure they'll fix it. They did a whole lot of awful tests, but they didn't find anything else bad. I didn't understand why they didn't just cut the whole thing out, but they explained that would have meant destroying my jaw, so they started me on radiation a week ago. It's not bad. They drew lines on my face to help them aim, and set up all these lead blocks to shield the rest of me. The walls are 3 feet thick and I can feel the change in air pressure when the door seals. I have to sit absolutely still for 3 minutes. There's a weird smell when they turn the machine on. August 1 1968 They told me I might get "a sore throat" from the radiation, but this is not what I expected. Every surface from my lips back is swollen and sore. The skinniest kid in the seventh grade has lost 20 pounds because even plain water feels like the hottest hot sauce ever. But I'm gonna find a way to eat more because they have threatened to put me back in the hospital with a feeding tube if I lose any more weight. Eight more days of radiation before I'm done. 2008 (Friday) Training has been tough this year. I have done nearly 1400 miles, which is a little more than usual, but it has felt harder and been slower. My last ride was Tuesday night, just 14 miles to loosen up. I felt pretty good -- 16.8 mph. But during my first PMC in 2001, I average 17.2 for the whole 112 miles of the first day. I'm very scared of what I'm going to feel like by the time I hit 90 miles tomorrow. I have so much experience preparing for this, that packing the standard list of biking equipment, bedding, etc., is second nature. There are also the essential special items: Piglet, Mom & Joe, and a jersey for the second day -- lovingly customized to my specifications by Kerry even though I didn't tell her what I wanted until Wednesday afternoon. The madhouse of registration in Sturbridge is familiar. I have not seen riding buddies Rick, Paul, George and Dave since last year. I see Liz and Larry, the parents of my Pedal Partner last year, Valerie. Valerie has passed every followup visit beautifully in the last year. You should see the look on Liz's face as she tells me this! I like the jersey this year. It's a black background with large patches of blue... and yellow... and green... and pink... and orange...and just a little purple. You'll know it when you see it on the backs of the 4000 Massachusetts cyclists who now own one. You may also see them in 36 other states and 6 other countries. The opening ceremonies follow a familiar pattern: facts, inspiration, the awkward (for me) moment when they ask the Living Proof cancer survivors to stand. And there's always something else. The first such moment comes in a montage on the big screen: I recognize Meghan Duffy. Last year, I met Meghan at a Pedal Partners event in April, and again at a PMC Kids event in June. I visited her in the Pedal Partners tent on day 1. I was very hot and tired and she gave me a much appreciated blast with a water gun. Meghan was 11 years old when she died last September. I will always remember the grin on her face when she pulled the trigger on that water gun. Saturday "Isolated Thunderstorms" in the forecast? Lovely! It's cool but very humid when the starting gun goes off at 6AM. While I'm waiting 15 minutes for my part of the pack of 3000 Sturbridge riders (2000 more in Wellesley) to cross the line, there is time to reflect on my own experience as well as Mom, Joe, Val, Seth, Meghan, Leo and his brother, Maddie, Caroline, Jack, Lindsay (and many more whose names I would only include if I asked their permission first). I'm fifty yards out of the gate, and I notice my odometer is not registering. I pull over without causing a 40 bike pileup, and adjust the sensor on the wheel. In the process I lose contact with my friends. That didn't take long. When I get rolling again, I notice I'm doing 25 to 30, with moderate effort. That's great. Oh, wait. Somehow the damn thing is registering kilometers and kph. Oh crap! I cannot convert this in my head and I'm not going to stop and get further behind. Maybe this is a good thing. I will ignore my speed, and the distance, and just ride. Use the force, Don. A blindfold over the helmet would be a little too much, though. First long hill is at about 6 miles (I would know if I had a working odometer), in Charlton. At the top, shouting out my name is Gerri Wright and her son Harry. Eight years, and this is the first time any of the thousands of the people on the side of the road was someone I knew from outside of the event! This is so cool! Thanks Gerri! I am through the rest stops at 24 and 42 miles. As always, they are staffed by some of the more than 2,600 volunteers who take care of us from Sturbridge to Ptown. Their generosity and humility annually renews my faith in humanity. The riders raise the money, but the volunteers make the event. Cruising through Attleborough (or was it North Attleborough?), there's a guy on a mountain bike, with a Red Sox cap (no helmet!) coming the other direction. I barely notice him, but he shouts out "Hey Don!" There's a woman jogging up the road just behind him and she looks and also shouts my name, then calls out to mountain bike guy, "Ev, it's Don Etkin from Meditech!" I stop for a minute to chat with Ev and Diana, because being recognized twiceduring the ride is just too cool. I pull into the lunch stop at 70 miles. At this point last year I was cramping badly, and relying on my friend Linda to pull me along. But I'm not feeling at all bad now, and I know I have another 40 miles in me. I have always approached the lunch stop with mixed feelings because it has always been the location of the Pedal Partners tent -- a tough place for me to be. But it's not here this year, and this confuses me. Did they decide against having the kids come out here? I haven't seen Rick, Paul, George, and Dave since somewhere before the second rest stop. What gives? Back on the road. Yup, I'm liking not obsessing over my speed. If I knew how slowly I'm going, I would probably be upset. Rolling through Rochester, I see yet another familiar face from Meditech, Ric Aguiar. Three times in one day! As I pull in to the 83 mile stop in Lakeville. Liz and Larry are there chatting with Caroline Lane and her parents, when Liz spots me and calls me over. Caroline is good friends with Valerie and also Maddie Savoie. Maddie is the one who is responsible for my getting involved with Pedal Partners last year, and therefore the reason that I met Valerie, and Meghan, and Caroline and their families. Caroline played a big role in the opening ceremony. She has been free of cancer for more than a year. Her mom points out to her that I am wearing a pink and yellow "Maddie bracelet". That gets a big smile from Caroline, and I'm feeling pretty good. As I pull through the rest area, I see that the Pedal Partners tent is here this year. Valerie is no longer a Pedal Partner. Caroline is at the other end of the stop. Maddie is unable to attend this year. I'm going to roll past without stopping. Just past the tent there's a group of people and a little girl holding a sign that says, "I'm a survivor". I stop and tell her, "I'm a survivor, too." Big smile on her face. There is no performance enhancing drug that could do for any other athlete what that smile did for me. I am flying when I come out of that stop. At the 101 mile stop, I'm very tired, but my worst problem is the sweat in my eyes. The rest of the road is very familiar to me, and I am on autopilot getting in to Mass Maritime Academy in Bourne. 2:30: I cross the line. There is always a flood of memories, accompanied by joy and sadness, relief, pride, and exhaustion. Average speed? I don't know. Don't really care. I do know that 6 years ago I arrived at 1:40, and that was after a 1 hour delay because of a traffic problem along the route. Walking my bike through, I hear my name called again, and there is a fourth encounter with a Meditecher -- Megan Landry is there to cheer on a relative. I now have witnesses from the entire route, in case anyone doubts that I really do this after they give me their money! Minor irritation: There are 192 massage therapists among the volunteers. They give free 15 minute massages. If you do the math, you realize that even that many volunteers cannot handle 5000 riders in the time available, so appointments are first come first served. This year, 2:30 is not early enough to get an appointment. Good incentive to train better next year. I get to the dorm room and I'm puzzled by the fact that Paul, Dave, George and Rick are not already there. I know that Paul and Dave at least are stronger riders than me. When they show up later, I discover that Dave crashed near the second stop. He's banged up and the support crew gave him a loaner bike to finish the ride. The weather has been merciful but there's a storm moving in now. While the guys are showering, I go out to the food tent to eat. Pizza, baked potato, juice, chili, calzone, salad, chowder, juice. The hamburger line is really long, but I decide I want one. I'm at the very front of the line waiting for the next batch. The wind is really kicking up now. Ten feet to my left, the base of a 25 foot tent pole pops off the ground and starts tugging on its tether. Ten feet to my right, another 25 foot pole comes loose from the top of the tent and crashes down onto a table. No one was hit. Everyone around me is staring at the poles. The hamburger volunteers look very rattled, but nobody moves. ??? I didn't survive the last 40 years and ride all this way today just to get taken out by a tent pole because I was waiting for the next burger. I exit the tent quickly and go back to the dorm. The storm passes. I go back out. It seems that a large section of the tent is cordoned off, and the hamburger line has been moved outside. I get my burger, and another chowder, and a beer, and more pizza. Before I go to bed, I take the odometer back to the room to see if I can get it properly reset for miles. I'm in bed at 7:30, with my alarm set for 3:45. I'm hoping we'll get underway at 5. Sunday Not the best night's sleep, but all the parts are working when I hit the floor. I have no doubts that I will reach Ptown this morning. Sunday is the day to choose your own jersey. Teams of up to 100 riders have theirs, and many other riders wear PMC jerseys from years past. I have always looked for something a little more personal. This year, I asked Kerry to make some additions to the plain yellow jersey that I wore for my first ride (yellow, Lance Armstrong, Tour de France, get it?). The front forms a big smiley face with a mouth that is a curving Thank You (for the spectators), and the eyes are circles with 19 and 68 (for me). On the back it says: Today Is a Good Day to Ride That's to remind any rider who is having a tough time, that being able to do this really makes it a pretty good day. Miraculously, Dave is able to ride and his bike has been deemed sufficiently repaired. We're at the bikes, having deposited our luggage onto the truck. The odometer. It's in the pocket of my shorts. In the bag. On the truck. Soooo, yesterday kilometers, today nothing. We're a little slow getting out -- 5:30. We go over the Bourne Bridge and along the canal in a cool fog. It's delightful. Paul, Dave, George and Rick all get ahead of me at the beginning of the route 6 service road. The gently rolling hills through woods are the most fun riding of the 2 days, but I'm keeping an eye out for Lindsay. I first met Lindsay, and her sister and parents 3 years ago, when Lindsay was 7 and holding a sign announcing that she is a survivor. Seeing her has been a highlight of my ride ever since. Last year I got an extra "Living Proof" t-shirt from the group photo, and a PMC Kids shirt for her sister. Now I spot them on the side of the road, and Lindsay is wearing the T-shirt. She looks fabulous. Her parents assure me she is doing well. We chat a while. I push off. I am almost deliriously happy. I'm getting lots of comments about the jersey. My favorite comes from a rider looking at the back, who suggests that I should wear it every day. The guys and I re-group at the second rest stop. The sky looks threatening, but Rick says "It's just fog". If it starts pouring, I will not let him forget that remark. The others leave us behind pretty quickly. Rick and I stay together all the way to the next (the final) rest stop, up through the hills in Wellfleet. For most of the last 20 miles, Rick and I occupy ourselves with a lively discussion of which parts of our bodies hurt most. Paul, Dave and George are waiting for us at the beginning of the Ptown dunes. For the first time in 8 years, there is not blistering sun going through the dunes. I cross with Paul at 11:30. Six hours. Or is it 40 years? Forty is a nice round number, but I'm not done yet. Next year will be the 30th Pan Mass Challenge. I expect to be there, and I hope I will have your support once again.
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