A New Excerpt from "Back To Life: A Bladder Cancer Journey"

Celebrating the first anniversary of the publishing of my book, I offer my readers another, longer excerpt. I hope you enjoy. You can buy the book in trade paperback or Kindle e-book HERE.

Chapter Forty-One

It was still pitch dark the next morning as the riders drifted into the hotel lobby. There was a special cash buffet set up there that offered coffee, juices, yogurt, bagels, and fruit. I loaded up on a cinnamon raisin bagel with cream cheese, two bananas, and copious amounts of black coffee. In front of the hotel, steam poured out of the buses’ exhausts in the cold, dark Texas morning.

It was about a forty-five minute drive out to the big school complex that would serve as the start/finish line and the site of the post-ride party, which featured live bands as well as plenty of food and drink, cookout style. The conversation on the bus was subdued, with most riders chatting quietly with their partners. We were all thinking about the physical challenge to come, and no one more so than yours truly.

The weather in the Texas Hill Country in October is nothing if not unpredictable. The pre-dawn temperatures can be in the low forties at the beginning of the ride, and it can easily hit the high nineties by the noontime finish. One year it was in the high thirties at the start, with many riders clad in nothing but cycling shorts and a short-sleeve jersey. That year I was shaking so hard at the start that I thought I might crash, but I had at least thought to stuff a pair of fleece arm warmers in my back pocket.

On Sunday, October 26th, 2008, the day started out cool and clear, with just a light breeze blowing, near ideal conditions for a long ride. I proudly rolled out with the first group, which included Lance and his group of celebrity friends followed by the different jersey teams in order. My strategy was the same as in past years: try to find a large group of experienced riders that were going at a comfortable pace for me to hang in with. I had no illusions that this was going to be anything like the screaming-fast rides of years past.

As I tried to hang with one group, then another and another, I realized that even my modest expectations were too optimistic. I finally settled in with my fourth or fifth group, riding on the mainly flat first part of the course at barely 15 mph.

A little under two hours into the ride I pulled off the group at the twenty-five-mile rest stop. I needed some nutrition and refills on my water and energy-drink bottles. I ate a banana and some wheat bread slathered with peanut butter, stretched a bit, and pulled out after barely a ten-minute stop, trying to avoid the muscle tightness that comes with longer breaks out of the saddle.

About three miles down the road, struggling to stay with yet another group going around 15 mph, I began to feel light-headed and nauseous. I knew this was not good, particularly as I had not yet made it to the halfway point of the hundred-kilometer ride, the thirty-one-mile mark. I soldiered on, getting dropped by one group after another, and finally, almost three-and-a-half hours after starting, I pulled into the forty-five-mile rest stop. I had serious doubts as to whether I would or could remount the bike.

I stayed at the rest stop way too long. After drinking water, refilling my bottles, and eating a Cliff bar that tasted like peanut butter mixed with sawdust, I lay down on my back in the shade of a fence along side the road. I remember looking up at the puffy white clouds and the cobalt blue Texas sky. I have no idea how long I lay there, but when I stood up I was dizzy and disoriented and my legs were stiff and sore. The bus that was parked there to take abandoning riders back to the start/finish area beckoned. The sun was high in the cloudless sky and the temperature broke ninety degrees. I had seventeen more miles to go.

When you do the Ride for the Roses, the Foundation provides you with a rider number for your jersey, but also offers three different placards to attach to your jersey or bike. The first two are “In Honor Of…” and “In Memory Of… .” You write in the name of your friend, relative, or loved one who has survived cancer or who has been killed by it. The third sign simply says, “I Am a Cancer Survivor.” My past four rides, I had worn the first two, one for my cancer-veteran wife and one for my good friend’s wife who died from breast cancer. It was her death that motivated me to raise well over a quarter of a million dollars for the Foundation over the course of my five rides.

In 2008 I had a fourth sign on my back in addition to the race number and the two memorials. I am a cancer survivor. I thought about that fourth sign as I contemplated the alternatives: walk across the grass in front of the rest stop and put my bike in the bus and climb aboard, or throw a leg over it and give it one more try. With the words “In Honor Of…” and “In Memory Of…” singing in my head, the decision was easy. I rode unsteadily out onto the course, legs stiff and achy, stomach churning, head pounding under the noonday sun.

After the first two miles, I was questioning my decision. People on hybrids and mountain bikes who in past years would have finished the better part of two hours behind me were cruising up and passing. With my carbon-fiber bike and full Livestrong Yellow Jersey Team kit, it was obvious that this was a rider in distress.

Then a strange thing happened. As a small group approached me, they began to call out, encouraging me to keep on riding. I realized that it was the survivor badge pinned to the back of my jersey. I waved and smiled, and five minutes later it happened again, and then again.

I still had twelve miles to go, and I remembered one of the mental tricks we used to use when we were suffering at the end of long rides. We would say to ourselves, “I can survive anything for ten miles.” So the goal became the ten-mile mark rather than the finish line. It sounds like a pretty cheesy motivator, but it actually had worked for my friends and me more than once. I said it out loud: “I have only two miles to go. Then I can survive anything for ten miles!”

With about five miles left, I heard the unmistakable thrum of aerodynamic racing wheels; a large group of fast riders was approaching. It was a group about to complete the 108-mile route that I had done in previous years, and they had nearly doubled my speed to be passing me. I pulled far to the right as they approached.

It was a group of about thirty guys, and as they flew by me I noticed several polka-dot jerseys and a couple of yellows. Then I heard a shout, “Hey, I think that’s Frank!”

Suddenly two riders dropped off the back of the group and slowed quickly. They drifted back to where I was huffing along at about 11 or 12 mph. It was two of my Yellow Jersey cronies with whom I had ridden in several of the rides over the years.

“Jesus, dude, are you OK?” said Jim, who was a forty-something doctor from Texas and a very strong rider. Both of them were looking at me with clear concern.

“Thanks guys,” I said, “but I’m totally toast. I’m just going to ride my own pace on in. I’ll be OK. No need for you two to wait around. Ride on.”

“Fuck we will,” said David, an investment counselor from Montana. “Hop on.”

In cycling terms, they were offering to pace me in to the finish, allowing me to ride in their slipstream and conserve valuable energy. They ignored my pleas for them to leave me, and rode together very closely side by side in order to give me the maximum benefit of their draft. It is gesture of camaraderie and compassion that I will never forget.

The finish line at the Ride for the Roses is unlike any other. The approach road is lined with hundreds of cheering spectators, volunteers, and friends and relatives of the riders. As you approach the line, the route divides in two; the smaller lane on the left is just for cancer survivors, while the larger lane to the right is for everybody else, the “civilians” as the volunteer ride marshals called them.

Laura had warned me about this. A few years back she had done one of the shorter rides while I did the big one, and she, as a survivor, naturally went through the appropriate lane, where she was handed the traditional yellow rose. I was still out on the course at the time, but she described the flood of emotions that overtook her when she crossed the line and accepted the rose. Naturally, I told her that was unlikely to be a problem for me. After all, I’m a big tough guy, right?

Yeah, right.

The last three hundred meters of the course ascended a small rise to the finishing straight. My two protectors pulled away with a wave as they delivered me to the split in the course. They were going right, but I was going to the left. I had been woozy and mentally and physically sluggish for several hours, but in those last few moments before crossing the line everything was crystal clear. I heard every cheer of encouragement, saw every waving flag. And then the banner was upon me. Under I went, too exhausted to even raise my arms in the traditional cyclist’s finishing salute. I coasted up to the volunteer who extended her hand with a single yellow rose.

I took the rose and coasted slowly over to the side, away from the finishers swooping through the chute. I saw Laura standing there with tears in her eyes. I dropped my bike on the ground and we wrapped our arms around each other. And then I totally lost it, literally crying on her shoulder for many minutes.

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Click HERE to view a gallery of pictures of many of the actual events depicted in Back To Life, including the finish line and the yellow rose at the Ride for the Roses.

Portland - April 8th, 2016