This weekend's PMC was possibly my best ever...and for so many reasons. Talking with a good friend on Friday afternoon I have a premonition that it's going to be a very special PMC, one about connections and support and energy. My PMC experience always seems to mirror everything else that's going on in my life, and twice now the PMC marks an important turning point in my life.
And even before the start, it happens. At registration Friday evening, I bump into an old friend, a guy that had stopped riding the PMC for a few years but was back. He had been in my original PMC riding and training pack. Another in the group lost his mom to cancer two years ago, then one of our group lost his own battle with cancer last summer just after the PMC. My friend can't stay away any longer. He's back to resume the battle against cancer. Then Amy and I run into another old friend, a cancer survivor herself. Her husband is riding for the first time. We go out to dinner together, for one or two final plates of "carbo-loading", and we spend way too much time just sitting and talking and laughing. And it's okay, it's great, it's what this is all about.
I have too much to do on Saturday morning -- prepare the bike, pack the clothes, pack the car...I start a full hour late, leaving my house in Needham at 8 am, long after the official Wellesley start.
The roads are deserted. I make my way along the familiar PMC route, following the signage and wondering where everybody is. Did something terrible happen and the PMC was cancelled?
No...I eventually catch up with a couple of stragglers...people who are taking a long time to cover such a short distance. The red PMC sag wagons begin to show, circling these riders, helping one after another as they stop with mechanical problems.
In the meantime, I am underway. I always have "happy legs" on Saturday morning...lots of energy, little regard for the 90 miles that lie ahead. But I know the route well, and I know where I can push hard. I arrive at the first water stop at 20 something miles and find much of the group that started in Wellesley. I top off my water bottles and continue on. Now I am truly rolling.
Just before the lunch stop, the Wellesley and Sturbridge routes merge, with *many* cyclists of all skills heading in the same direction. Arriving at the lunch stop, at 42 miles, I had averaged over 18 miles an hour, a good average for a 40 mile ride. I feel strong. My training in the heat and rolling hills of Missouri the week before is paying off.
But it's not about the ride, it's about the cause and the people. Parts of the weekend do hold special treats for me, like the sprint up a hill in Wellfleet and the long fast run into Provincetown. More about that later.
For the 50 miles from lunch to Bourne, I take it a bit more slowly and enjoy the ride, connecting with people, seeing old friends, seeing the familiar pictures of children on the route, and pictures of cancer victims attached to other riders' jerseys. The last is a sad reminder of the ongoing battle against cancer.
Arriving in Bourne is like coming home...Amy volunteers for the PMC in Bourne her her entire team cheers my arrival (as they do for every rider!). Amy and I stay at a B&B near the Mass Maritime Academy and we're always treated like family...
The Sunday morning 4 am wake up call comes too early...I am not asleep, but I haven't slept enough. It doesn't matter, it is time to ride.
Out the door, watching the weather. Saturday had been warm and sunny, but had also threatened showers. Those showers came late in the afternoon, long after most riders had finished for the day.
The clouds promises rain, but thankfully, they will hold off. That rain never happens.
The ride Sunday is different than I expect. Usually the first twenty miles is a warmup and the second twenty is my fastest. This time, the first twenty is eerie...the fog was dense along the Cape Cod Canal and we can barely see the water. It's never been that thick before and the humidity weighs heavily on us. My gloves are sticky with moisture on the handlebars and my sunglasses are fogging.
In that first twenty miles I meet up with a rider from Princeton, New Jersey, who is riding an old classic Italian racing bike, a Colnago. I have a particular love for Colnagos as they fit me extremely well, and we talk for a while about bikes. We get into a rhythm and I lead a long fast charge along the route, 24 miles an hour and better. We'll meet up again several times over the course of the day and her team of three will provide me with a leadout at the end, but we're still not there yet...
I am wearing a Boston Road Club jersey and another rider calls out "Go BRC"...turns out he's a fellow club member, an old racer, and we have similar business interests as well. We ride together for a while, and my average speed comes way down.
The day turns into one of connections as I spend time talking with one old friend after another. One friend is riding for his sister, who had lost her battle with cancer three years ago. Another is riding for his mom, who had lost her battle last year.
Another connection surprises and delights me...years ago I passed an elderly lady in a wheel chair, by the side of the road on the cape, just one of the many supporters. I wanted to stop and visit with her for a minute, maybe to cry, maybe to laugh, to give her some of my energy for whatever fight she's facing, but by the time I thought about it, it was too late, I was too far down the road. This year, another lady in a wheelchair is along the same stretch of road. She's clapping and waving, and it's an exertion for her. I don't know whether she's just an elderly lady with a connection to cancer, or whether she's fighting cancer herself, but I pick her out of the crowd and for a few seconds our eyes latch on to one another and we briefly connect...even as I'm rolling by at 20 miles an hour. As we connect her face lights up...and I can now forgive myself for not having stopped years ago.
I talk with riders from across the country. A rider from Newton, now living in Kansas. We talk about riding in the rolling hills of rural Missouri. Another rider from Fort Lauderdale -- no hills (except the causeways), but plenty of headwinds along A1A, headwinds I've suffered in the past.
My favorite hill comes up sooner than I expected, but I am ready for it...this steep hill climbs from sealevel to three or four hundred feet of elevation, providing a beautiful overlook of the Atlantic Ocean. Each year I attack this hill more strongly. Taking a lesson from Lance Armstrong, I upshift and attack. Climbing the hill at twenty five miles per hour, I rush past other cyclists struggling to ascend. It's been a long two days, with almost 150 miles under our belts, but this hill is mine.
Then we arrive at the last water stop, twenty five miles from Provincetown. I hate this water stop...it means the PMC is almost over, and I want it to go on and on. I spend ten minutes sitting on the "ice sofa", providing some cooling relief...I had heard of the magical effects of this sofa constructed from bags of ice, but had never tried it before. A couple of other riders stop by and comment about my rush up the hill. They marvel at my energy, and I do too...but this is the essence of the PMC for me...bringing my energy to this event so that it will accomplish our shared goal of eradicating cancer. I leave the waterstop and stop again only a few hundred yards later in front of a fire station. Amy is there cheering me on. A big wet sweaty hug (she must really love me!), another ten minutes just hanging out, enjoying the day, prolonging the PMC by that many more minutes.
Then it's on to Provincetown...the paceline down Route 6, fighting the ever-present headwind as we leave the dunes of Truro and come into PTown. I'm following, I'm leading, I'm rolling towards the finish line. Along the dunes of PTown, my friend with the Colnago and her teammates go by and I latch on. Two miles to go, I'm on the back of the train, and it's time to go. I've been sitting in the protection of three other cyclists, blocking the wind, conserving energy. Then I'm out in the wind, upshifting again. It's flat from here to Route 6, and I'm sprinting for the finish. I've never had this much kick at the end before, but this time, the energy is there and I go. My leadout team is far behind now and I'm rolling into the finish line alone, just hundreds of cheering supporters lining the road. And another big sweaty hug for Amy, who is there with my CSC cowbell, ringing it for every rider crossing the finish line.
That feeling of riding with hundreds of people cheering me on is indescribable. It's part of the reason I ride...all of those people have some connection to cancer. Nobody lines the side of the road at 6 am or in the heat of the day cheering and clapping without that connection. I'm there to pay that energy forward, to do my share in the fight. I show them that I can be strong for them. I want them to take that energy for their own personal fights.
Provincetown today is full of PMCers. Amy and I meet two first year riders, a father and daughter. Neither was a cyclist, both are motivated to ride for the cause. I congratulate them on their ride and am a little sad at the same time. I don't ask, but first time riders are usually motivated by a friend's or loved one's diagnosis.
This year's PMC is over. The fight is not. If you've already made your donation, thank you. I'm exactly halfway to my goal of raising $10,000 for cancer research. Along with my dad and my father in law and my cousin (all survivors) and many friends and oh so many other people, I carry the names you provide, of survivors, and of loved one's lost. More than a few of my supporters are survivors themselves, and I carry those names with me as well.
If you haven't yet made a donation, there's still time. This year the PMC is expected to raise $34 million for cancer research -- the Jimmy Fund -- and fully 100% of the money raised goes to cancer research. Yes, 100%.
I need your help. Will you help me reach my goal of $10,000, of the $34M goal of the PMC, of our shared goal of eradicating cancer? You can visit the webpage below and donate online, or if you'd prefer to donate by check, let me know and I'll send you more details.
We ave all been touched by cancer one way or another. Thank you for the support and your help in this battle!
Thanks!
Lee
PMC Donations
PMC Story
P.S. I'm also pleased to report a minor personal win. For years I've struggled with significant sensitivity to sun, so much so that last week in Missouri I cycled with a long sleeve lycra jersey in 95 degree heat. It kept the sun off my arms, but I roasted. I've ordered sun protection shirts and Castelli knickers, but I'm concerned about overheating, as I did in Missouri. "Normal" sunscreen -- Coppertone Sport 50+ -- tends to work pretty well for me, except on the inside of my elbows and the backs of my knees. These areas seem to be more affected by the sun, perhaps because of the perspiration or flexing of the skin...last week at REI I picked up a small tube of Aloe Gator 40+ sunscreen, guaranteed for 8 hours of coverage, and I applied this clear gel to these two areas. It worked beautifully, no burning or itching from those two areas.
And even before the start, it happens. At registration Friday evening, I bump into an old friend, a guy that had stopped riding the PMC for a few years but was back. He had been in my original PMC riding and training pack. Another in the group lost his mom to cancer two years ago, then one of our group lost his own battle with cancer last summer just after the PMC. My friend can't stay away any longer. He's back to resume the battle against cancer. Then Amy and I run into another old friend, a cancer survivor herself. Her husband is riding for the first time. We go out to dinner together, for one or two final plates of "carbo-loading", and we spend way too much time just sitting and talking and laughing. And it's okay, it's great, it's what this is all about.
I have too much to do on Saturday morning -- prepare the bike, pack the clothes, pack the car...I start a full hour late, leaving my house in Needham at 8 am, long after the official Wellesley start.
The roads are deserted. I make my way along the familiar PMC route, following the signage and wondering where everybody is. Did something terrible happen and the PMC was cancelled?
No...I eventually catch up with a couple of stragglers...people who are taking a long time to cover such a short distance. The red PMC sag wagons begin to show, circling these riders, helping one after another as they stop with mechanical problems.
In the meantime, I am underway. I always have "happy legs" on Saturday morning...lots of energy, little regard for the 90 miles that lie ahead. But I know the route well, and I know where I can push hard. I arrive at the first water stop at 20 something miles and find much of the group that started in Wellesley. I top off my water bottles and continue on. Now I am truly rolling.
Just before the lunch stop, the Wellesley and Sturbridge routes merge, with *many* cyclists of all skills heading in the same direction. Arriving at the lunch stop, at 42 miles, I had averaged over 18 miles an hour, a good average for a 40 mile ride. I feel strong. My training in the heat and rolling hills of Missouri the week before is paying off.
But it's not about the ride, it's about the cause and the people. Parts of the weekend do hold special treats for me, like the sprint up a hill in Wellfleet and the long fast run into Provincetown. More about that later.
For the 50 miles from lunch to Bourne, I take it a bit more slowly and enjoy the ride, connecting with people, seeing old friends, seeing the familiar pictures of children on the route, and pictures of cancer victims attached to other riders' jerseys. The last is a sad reminder of the ongoing battle against cancer.
Arriving in Bourne is like coming home...Amy volunteers for the PMC in Bourne her her entire team cheers my arrival (as they do for every rider!). Amy and I stay at a B&B near the Mass Maritime Academy and we're always treated like family...
The Sunday morning 4 am wake up call comes too early...I am not asleep, but I haven't slept enough. It doesn't matter, it is time to ride.
Out the door, watching the weather. Saturday had been warm and sunny, but had also threatened showers. Those showers came late in the afternoon, long after most riders had finished for the day.
The clouds promises rain, but thankfully, they will hold off. That rain never happens.
The ride Sunday is different than I expect. Usually the first twenty miles is a warmup and the second twenty is my fastest. This time, the first twenty is eerie...the fog was dense along the Cape Cod Canal and we can barely see the water. It's never been that thick before and the humidity weighs heavily on us. My gloves are sticky with moisture on the handlebars and my sunglasses are fogging.
In that first twenty miles I meet up with a rider from Princeton, New Jersey, who is riding an old classic Italian racing bike, a Colnago. I have a particular love for Colnagos as they fit me extremely well, and we talk for a while about bikes. We get into a rhythm and I lead a long fast charge along the route, 24 miles an hour and better. We'll meet up again several times over the course of the day and her team of three will provide me with a leadout at the end, but we're still not there yet...
I am wearing a Boston Road Club jersey and another rider calls out "Go BRC"...turns out he's a fellow club member, an old racer, and we have similar business interests as well. We ride together for a while, and my average speed comes way down.
The day turns into one of connections as I spend time talking with one old friend after another. One friend is riding for his sister, who had lost her battle with cancer three years ago. Another is riding for his mom, who had lost her battle last year.
Another connection surprises and delights me...years ago I passed an elderly lady in a wheel chair, by the side of the road on the cape, just one of the many supporters. I wanted to stop and visit with her for a minute, maybe to cry, maybe to laugh, to give her some of my energy for whatever fight she's facing, but by the time I thought about it, it was too late, I was too far down the road. This year, another lady in a wheelchair is along the same stretch of road. She's clapping and waving, and it's an exertion for her. I don't know whether she's just an elderly lady with a connection to cancer, or whether she's fighting cancer herself, but I pick her out of the crowd and for a few seconds our eyes latch on to one another and we briefly connect...even as I'm rolling by at 20 miles an hour. As we connect her face lights up...and I can now forgive myself for not having stopped years ago.
I talk with riders from across the country. A rider from Newton, now living in Kansas. We talk about riding in the rolling hills of rural Missouri. Another rider from Fort Lauderdale -- no hills (except the causeways), but plenty of headwinds along A1A, headwinds I've suffered in the past.
My favorite hill comes up sooner than I expected, but I am ready for it...this steep hill climbs from sealevel to three or four hundred feet of elevation, providing a beautiful overlook of the Atlantic Ocean. Each year I attack this hill more strongly. Taking a lesson from Lance Armstrong, I upshift and attack. Climbing the hill at twenty five miles per hour, I rush past other cyclists struggling to ascend. It's been a long two days, with almost 150 miles under our belts, but this hill is mine.
Then we arrive at the last water stop, twenty five miles from Provincetown. I hate this water stop...it means the PMC is almost over, and I want it to go on and on. I spend ten minutes sitting on the "ice sofa", providing some cooling relief...I had heard of the magical effects of this sofa constructed from bags of ice, but had never tried it before. A couple of other riders stop by and comment about my rush up the hill. They marvel at my energy, and I do too...but this is the essence of the PMC for me...bringing my energy to this event so that it will accomplish our shared goal of eradicating cancer. I leave the waterstop and stop again only a few hundred yards later in front of a fire station. Amy is there cheering me on. A big wet sweaty hug (she must really love me!), another ten minutes just hanging out, enjoying the day, prolonging the PMC by that many more minutes.
Then it's on to Provincetown...the paceline down Route 6, fighting the ever-present headwind as we leave the dunes of Truro and come into PTown. I'm following, I'm leading, I'm rolling towards the finish line. Along the dunes of PTown, my friend with the Colnago and her teammates go by and I latch on. Two miles to go, I'm on the back of the train, and it's time to go. I've been sitting in the protection of three other cyclists, blocking the wind, conserving energy. Then I'm out in the wind, upshifting again. It's flat from here to Route 6, and I'm sprinting for the finish. I've never had this much kick at the end before, but this time, the energy is there and I go. My leadout team is far behind now and I'm rolling into the finish line alone, just hundreds of cheering supporters lining the road. And another big sweaty hug for Amy, who is there with my CSC cowbell, ringing it for every rider crossing the finish line.
That feeling of riding with hundreds of people cheering me on is indescribable. It's part of the reason I ride...all of those people have some connection to cancer. Nobody lines the side of the road at 6 am or in the heat of the day cheering and clapping without that connection. I'm there to pay that energy forward, to do my share in the fight. I show them that I can be strong for them. I want them to take that energy for their own personal fights.
Provincetown today is full of PMCers. Amy and I meet two first year riders, a father and daughter. Neither was a cyclist, both are motivated to ride for the cause. I congratulate them on their ride and am a little sad at the same time. I don't ask, but first time riders are usually motivated by a friend's or loved one's diagnosis.
This year's PMC is over. The fight is not. If you've already made your donation, thank you. I'm exactly halfway to my goal of raising $10,000 for cancer research. Along with my dad and my father in law and my cousin (all survivors) and many friends and oh so many other people, I carry the names you provide, of survivors, and of loved one's lost. More than a few of my supporters are survivors themselves, and I carry those names with me as well.
If you haven't yet made a donation, there's still time. This year the PMC is expected to raise $34 million for cancer research -- the Jimmy Fund -- and fully 100% of the money raised goes to cancer research. Yes, 100%.
I need your help. Will you help me reach my goal of $10,000, of the $34M goal of the PMC, of our shared goal of eradicating cancer? You can visit the webpage below and donate online, or if you'd prefer to donate by check, let me know and I'll send you more details.
We ave all been touched by cancer one way or another. Thank you for the support and your help in this battle!
Thanks!
Lee
PMC Donations
PMC Story
P.S. I'm also pleased to report a minor personal win. For years I've struggled with significant sensitivity to sun, so much so that last week in Missouri I cycled with a long sleeve lycra jersey in 95 degree heat. It kept the sun off my arms, but I roasted. I've ordered sun protection shirts and Castelli knickers, but I'm concerned about overheating, as I did in Missouri. "Normal" sunscreen -- Coppertone Sport 50+ -- tends to work pretty well for me, except on the inside of my elbows and the backs of my knees. These areas seem to be more affected by the sun, perhaps because of the perspiration or flexing of the skin...last week at REI I picked up a small tube of Aloe Gator 40+ sunscreen, guaranteed for 8 hours of coverage, and I applied this clear gel to these two areas. It worked beautifully, no burning or itching from those two areas.
