Turning the Century

Every now and again we do something that attracts the admiration of some and makes us the laughingstock of others.  There’s skydiving, buying a motorcycle (or if you’re over 50 buying a Corvette convertible), scaling the face of El Capitan and most recently in my case, riding a bike 100 miles; in one day.  A few months back I signed up to do the Livestrong Challenge bike ride in Davis CA.  My co-worker across the hall expressed a fair amount of admiration.  My boss in the office next door thought I was nuts.  And that was more or less the mix; some thought admirable and others certifiable.    

For those who've been on extended leave to another planet, Livestrong is the name given to The Lance Armstrong foundation which raises money (and lots of it) to fund cancer research, cancer awareness and to promote living a full and healthy life.  Lance Armstrong is the a cyclist and cancer survivor who has been dogged by various anti-doping agencies that have been falling all over themselves to get the performance enhancing goods on him, all to no avail.  His latest nemesis are the dopes at the short sighted U.S. Anti-Doping Agency.

Davis is a fair sized city in Yolo County on the Western rim of the Central Valley but it has a small town feel.  It is a college town, home of the University of California, Davis campus; an agricultural community and one of the most bike friendly cities in America; a natural for a cycling event.  

As early as the night before it seemed like I was going to be off to a bad start; a few visits to the commode with a case of the runs which persisted into the morning.  C’mon Imodium, close the floodgates.  I took my last tablet some 20 minutes before the start of the ride and mercifully it did its job.  I should buy stock in that company.  

I'm doing this ride with my 21 year old nephew Carl.  I had time to get some training in.  Carl, a busy engineering student didn't get much training in and decided to do this thing on guts alone; that and the inspiration to ride in honor of his dad who succumbed to cancer when Carl was only 9. 

Over a thousand riders all there for the same cause yet different personal reasons.  There’s a dedication wall where people post the names of friends and loved ones; some survivors, some victims.  Hundreds of cards; stories of love, survival and loss.

My jersey carries the names of 3 who survived and 5 who did not.  On my handlebar I have a photo of my wife; a three time survivor.  There’s a young couple in front of us at the starting line; they're very fit; wearing Livestrong kits.  She has a photo on the back of her jersey; it’s her when she was younger with an older woman.  Her mother?  Cyclists all around us and stretching back up the street farther than we can see; more often than not with a photo or a dedication on a jersey or a bike.  During the ride I’ll pass cyclists and be passed and notice a card or photo; In honor of; In memory of - a spouse, a parent, an uncle or aunt, a friend or a sibling.

Carrying inspiration with me

Its a staged start with riders released in groups to maintain some semblance of safety but the groups quickly meld together into a long, colorful snake of 1500 riders.

At the starting line at 7:15 of a chilly Central Valley morning and at 7:40 we're on the streets of Davis with the city’s finest closing off all the cross traffic.  Within a few minutes we roll out of town and into farm country.  Over the course of the 100 miles, 7 hours, we'll  pass corn fields, acres of alfalfa, horse ranches, cattle ranches and one llama ranch.  We'll cruise past orchards of nut trees and apricot trees and trees I couldn’t recognize.

Just out of Davis we're riding north past cornfields and I happen to glance off to the northwest above the tall corn.  At some point ahead the route turns west and I'm seeing the vanguard of the peloton (large group of riders) traveling on the westbound road along the northern edge of the field; a line of bikes glinting in the early morning sun and the many colored jerseys.  For a few audacious moments I imagine that this must be what it feels like to ride in the Tour de France. 

At just under 20 miles in Carl pulls ahead with a group of riders.  I'm realizing that not even one fifth into this thing and my quads are already aching; swell.  Carl and I regroup at the 2nd aid station located at a small county fire station by the side of a small airstrip.  Bathroom break; lines at the Porta-Potties look like halftime bathroom lines at a 49er game.  There’s a nice clump of bushes off the runway - ah relief - and some damn fool said Coca Cola's the pause that refreshes.  The aid stations are stocked with among other things, water, Gatorade, bananas, oranges, peanut butter and jam sandwiches, trail mix and Jelly Bellies.  

We leave the station and Carl pulls away again and I'm wondering why this is a struggle on a relatively cool morning on flat roads having gone only a fraction of my training ride distances. 

At aid station 3 in a park in Winters, population 6600, Carl asks how I’m doing.  “Not real good.”  I take in a lot of Gatorade, a handful of jelly beans and a couple of PB and J’s and pour a little water over my head.  We head out and hit rolling hills and suddenly I’m energized.  Knowing that I’m stronger on ascents and Carl is more fearless on descents the plan has always been for me to go ahead uphill and he would pick me up on the descent.  I find a nice gear and move ahead.  I get to a stretch of downhill and I’m watching the woman’s butt in front of me.  No not for that reason.  She’s constantly shifting around in her saddle, standing at times, leaning to the left and then to the right and it reminds me this is what I should be doing.  God that feels better. 

There are those occasions in life when we’re fortunate enough to take part in an experience in which kindness reigns.  I pass a Highway Patrolman monitoring an intersection.  Cyclists wave and call out thank you; he responds, “thank you for riding.”  There are little cheering sections here and there; parents with children at the roadside in front of their farm waving and cheering.  And then there was the small group of younger people driving along the course in a big black pickup truck.  They pull over at various turnouts and wave signs; “Go Livestrong,” they shout; and then they drive to the next turnout.  At one turnout I wave and thank them. “Thank YOU for riding," they call back.

Texas 4000 riders

Every now and then we come across a rider sporting a University of Texas kit.  These cyclists are part of a group called Texas 4000 and this Davis ride is a tiny fraction of the ride they're taking.  On June 2nd, the group left Cedar Park, Texas.  On August 10th the group expects to arrive on their bikes in Anchorage, Alaska.  The goal of the group is to raise $300,000.  These kids have decided to spend their summer getting on a bike and riding over 4000 miles to raise money and awareness while other students are just raising hell on a beach in Cancun.  

Aid station number 5 (mile 52) is at an elementary school in the suburbs of the little town of Vacaville.  I’m not feeling too bad here. We’ve just completed miles of rolling hills and I’m expecting we have some more descent before hitting more rollers.  We leave the school with a slight ascent and turn right on the same ascent; a sharp left turn and there’s what looks like a wall; shit, downshift quick before I hit it and try to maintain some momentum; I hate coming to a stop on a hill because I know I won’t unclip from a pedal in time and if there's one thing I hate more than stopping it's falling.  I can’t even look back for Carl at this point; he’s on his own.  A turn to the left and it looks like the crest.  Nope more ascent.  Struggling up this unexpected climb and stuck in a much higher gear than I like I notice that we're in a toney little neighborhood with custom houses.  Finally I get to the top and there’s some nice descent till I hit some windy turns covered in gravel. Tighten the sphincter, say a quick descent prayer and squeeze the brakes and then through to some flats before coming to more rollers and back in the country again.  The ride is pleasant again through the farm and ranch land.

Aid station number 6 is 60 miles in, near the farm community of Allendale, population 1506.  I cruise in and wait for Carl who is a few minutes behind.  There's a bipolar nature to some of these endurance events; one minute you feel great and the next you feel like 10 pounds of shit in a 5 pound sack. When I stop I realize that the pleasantry of the road is behind me and I've been squeezed into that little 5 pound sack.  The bumps in the road have taken their toll and despite changing posture through the ride, my neck and shoulders are screaming.  I go to the medical station, “Do you guys have a Tylenol or something?”  I didn’t think they would but one of the attendants gives me a shoulder and neck massage and a few of the knots loosen up. Note to self, next time take your own drugs with you.  I drain a bottle of Gatorade and half of another and then head for the Porta Potty.  Geeze, it can’t be a good thing when you realize that your privates have gone numb.

When the going gets tough; well I've heard what the tough are supposed to do; I just turn to the little woman.  Well into the ride cyclists are now staggered apart.  On some of the lone stretches I look down at the picture of Cora and talk to her; "We're doing good;" "We can do this;" "Just stay with me."  It's one of the those rare occasions when she doesn't talk back but her smiling face keeps me going. 

And then there were riders with jerseys that identified them as survivors.  Survivor – 5 years; Survivor – 11 years; breast cancer survivor.  There was Joanne Hernandez; “I had breast cancer. I had two surgeries, chemo, radiation, the whole nine yards. I wanted to get strong again so I started biking and last June I could barely bike a mile now I just biked 20 miles so I feel strong, healthy and a survivor.”

There comes a time in one these endurance things when I’m done with it.  I’m tired and in pain and I just want to leave the party and go home.  It’s hit me depressingly early; mile 60. Still 40 miles to go.  Carl says he's feeling pretty good.  He asks how I’m doing, “I need to get off this course.”  There are three ways to go about that; keep maintaining the pace; stop the boys in the SAG support van, ask them to load up the bike and say, “Home James;” or the last option, push the pace and get the hell off the course as soon as possible. The first option is the worst of the three; simply prolonging the misery.  At the risk of attracting scorn from my endurance friends, I’ve no problem with packing it in for the day.  I don’t have a team depending on me, I’m not qualifying for something and I’ve nothing to prove.  I can quit in mid-event and look at myself in the mirror the next morning with nary a hint of shame.  I unconsciously go for option three and shift into a nice big gear powering hard for the next aid station.  I'd probably been averaging a little under 15 miles an hour but now, with a group of riders doing some drafting I'm steadily over 20 miles an hour and at some points hitting 24.  I let the group go and stop for a bit to check for Carl and a rider who has recognized us as a pair passes by and tells me that Carl is fine.  On to the last aid station.

The last aid station; 10 miles to go.  Carl and I regroup again.  He’s got a sore knee.  The plan from here is to keep together and finish together.  We’re on the last leg, there is no pain and we’re on endorphins, adrenaline and any other high you can think of.  We cross under Highway 80 and onto the University of California, Davis campus; through the campus and onto city streets.  Not sure where we are; left turn and whoa; there’s the finish two blocks ahead; a couple of monitors are holding up traffic and wave us through, “thank you,” I tell one.  “Thank you for riding,” she calls.  Through the finish chute and Cora, her sisters and Carl’s girlfriend are off to the left cheering.  Under the banner; done. 

Crossing the line

Conquering heroes

There’s a gathering off to the side.  Cora is crying and thanks me and we share a hug.  Cora’s sister Helen is tearing.  But that’s not the end of it. With my family is Craig.  Craig was my best friend in high school.  We’d not seen each other in 40 years – hadn’t even communicated until Craig found me on Facebook a little over a year ago.  After 100 miles I'm not really at my best but we've been friends for a long time so I guess it doesn't matter.  I met his wife and he met my wife (actually they’d gotten acquainted while waiting for us to finish).  We talked for a bit; not long enough but with plans to meet again soon.   

Tearful greeting

Two old friends reunite

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The day after the ride I was talking to a co-worker; the one who expressed admiration.  Years before she had participated in a Relay for Life.  The friend who recruited her had described it as a life changing experience.  My co-worker was originally dubious.  Life changing?  Cmon.  After taking part in the event she realized that it really was life changing.  You don’t have to ride a bike 100 miles to get involved. You don’t even have to ride a bike.  You can volunteer to help at an aid station, to cheer, to monitor a course or to help with registration.  If cancer isn’t your cause there are plenty of other diseases to choose from.  Or I suppose you can post one of those “I’ll understand if you don’t repost”, posts on Facebook that tell the world what it already knows; that cancer is a really bad thing and if you don't repost you're a heartless jerk.  I doubt that I'll ever repost one of those things - but I'll be back on my bike next year.