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
