August 2008

Hello everyone,

     I rode this year in memory of my father David Elwood, who was treated at the Dana-Farber before he died suddenly of cancer in 2004, and my beloved Uncle Murray, who died of cancer the year before that.  I'd also like to ask for your support in our fight against cancer.

     The week before the start of the PMC had been a tough one.  On Sunday, I'd been bitten by a dog.  Some blood; no lasting damage.  On Monday, a bee stung me on the calf while I was mowing the lawn.  I'm allergic to bee stings, so I had to jam the needle of the epi pen into my thigh by myself.  In the few minutes that had passed since I'd been stung, my calf had swelled up dramatically and had changed color to an angry purplish red.  It hurt like hell.  Looking at my calf reminded me of the unfortunate fate of Violet Beauregarde in Charlie and the Chocolate Factory when she turns blue and swells like a blueberry!  On Tuesday, I had a minor but fairly painful procedure on my right wrist.  During my final training ride on Wednesday, an oblivious driver ran me off the road and I crashed into a thorny holly hedge on the side of the road, landing on the same wrist.

     The grey clouds lifted when I registered for the ride on Friday.  The people handling the registration were so full of positive energy, so appreciative of what we were trying to accomplish. I fell asleep that night with a renewed sense of purpose.

     1. The Start of the Ride

     On Saturday, Amy drove me to the campus of Babson College, where the ride was to begin.  We parked the car, but before exiting I sat perfectly still for a minute or two thinking about my father and my Uncle Murray, and a variety of other people I know who are either battling cancer themselves or who have lost friends or relatives. It was a powerful interlude. I hugged Amy and took my place in line. "I'm proud of you," she whispered as we hugged.

     It's easy to tell you that riding with 5,500 other people to raise money for cancer research is a deeply emotional experience, but it's hard to make the experience come alive for anyone who has not actually been a part of it.  I lined up near a guy about my age.  On his back was a sign that read "for Mom".  "The ride gets pretty emotional" my friend Larry Kravetz had told me a few years earlier.  It certainly does.  I noticed that a lot of people near me seemed to be struggling to hold back their tears.

     Music blared over the PA system. A few minutes later, there were rousing speeches, culminating with a pep talk from Larry Lucchino, the CEO of the Red Sox who sponsor the PMC. He announced that there were teams of riders with us that day from the Red Sox, Celtics, and Patriots organizations. There was a brief moment of silence. Then as the ride began U2's song "It's a Beautiful Day" played loud and strong over the PA system.  They play the same song each year and each year it hits me right in the heart.  It turned out to be a beautiful day, cool and foggy in the morning but sunny with a temperature that would reach almost 100 by the afternoon.

     As we left the campus, there were hundreds of people cheering us on.  I was struck by the thought that the reason that many of those people were out there cheering was that cancer had touched their lives in some way.  I "high-fived" a boy about 8 years old who was wearing a Kevin Garnett jersey.

     2. The First Day

     "Long may you run" - Neil Young

     When I am running outside, there comes a time when I feel as though I can't run another step.  When that happens, I look at the telephone poles.  I tell myself that I can at least make it to the next telephone pole.  About five or ten seconds later when I reach that pole, I tell myself that I'll run to the next one.  That process continues for a while.  It's a simple little psychological trick, but it keeps me going.

     On a long bike ride, my strategy is to focus on making it to the next water stop.  There are four of them each day (five if you count the finish), spaced about twenty miles apart, which is a little more than an hour of riding.  Rather than thinking about all the miles still ahead, I would just say to myself it's only a few miles to the next water stop.

     Near Wrentham I passed a family cheering the riders. Their sign read "Cancer at age 3; still living strong at age 7."  I found the message especially moving.

     As I approached the final rest stop my body ached.  My knees, my right shoulder, the wrist that had been the source of the problems earlier in the week. A sign at the water stop indicated that it was just 7 miles to the finish at Mass Maritime Academy in Bourne.  I ignored the aches and pressed on, maintaining a quick pace.  I ended up with my fastest time ever for the first day.

     3.  Mass Maritime Academy

      There was a vast tent erected on the baseball field, where food was being served.  Around dinner time, a tremendous thunderstorm arrived.  The tent shook.  Eventually, an enormous beam supporting the center of the tent gave way and crashed to the ground.

     4. The Second Day

     Reveille sounded at 4:40 AM.  A disembodied voice gently but firmly instructed us to wake up, get ready, and have breakfast since riders would begin departing by 5:00.  I had not slept well.  I woke up feeling a little sore from the previous day's ride, but not too bad overall. 

     It was still dark when my team left at about 5:30.  The first part of the ride is a stunningly beautiful stretch across the Bourne Bridge and along the Cape Cod Canal.  The sun was just beginning to rise over the canal.  The fog was so thick that you could see only about 100 feet in any direction.

     As often happens on the day after a long bike ride, I noticed various aches and pains.  My right shoulder, the one I'd fractured in three places last year, was sore.  My butt ached.  My knees hurt.  Usually those sorts of things go away after a while, so I dutifully kept pedaling.

     This is where the story gets hard for me to tell, so bear with me.  As I'd hoped, my shoulder started to feel better, as did my butt.  My knees were another story.  Each stroke brought more pain.  After a while it felt like a knife was jabbing into the heart of my kneecaps, especially my left knee.  I persevered as best as I could, but things kept getting worse. 

     I sought medical attention at a water stop.  The conclusion was that I had inflammation in the area of my ACL. 

     "What can I do about it?" I asked.

    The doctor shook his head with a sad smile.  "Rest, ice, and ibuprofen."

     I took some ibuprofen and sat there pressing an ice pack against my knee for about 45 minutes with no real improvement.  As it slowly became clear that I couldn't finish the ride, I felt devastated.  I felt like I'd let everyone down.  I'd let all of my sponsors down.  I felt like I'd let down all of the cancer patients I'd been hoping to help.  I'd let my family down.  Selfishly, I thought about the countless hours of training going down the drain.  Most painfully, I felt like I'd let my father and my uncle down since I was riding to honor their memories.

     With a heavy heart and on the verge of tears, I called Amy and asked her to pick me up.  A kind-hearted guy named Larry offered me a ride to a rest stop off Route 6 where it would be easy to meet Amy without interfering with the other riders.  As I rode along in Larry's pickup truck, I made small talk with him, but my mind kept coming back to a phrase I use with my sons all the time - Yoda's famous words:  "Do or do not. There is no try."

     Larry stayed with me until Amy arrived.  After he left and I got in our car, I just held my head in my hands on the way home.  I went straight to bed.

     That night we went out to dinner with Amy's parents.  Amy ordered Prosecco and proposed a toast in my honor.  I felt unworthy of her praise.  She could see it in my eyes.  She reached her hand out and took hold of my hand.  "I am proud of you, Bob.  Your efforts make a difference." Her words comforted me.

     5.  Come Monday

     My father is buried in the local Catholic cemetery, perhaps 250 yards from my home in Truro.  After lunch, I asked Amy to take a walk with me.  Somehow she knew what I had in mind.  I grabbed a votive candle and a deep glass.  We held hands as we walked to my father's grave.  The cemetery is sandy, with scrubby pines surrounding it. A large gravestone marks four plots, one for my father and three that are empty at the moment - one for my mother, one for Amy, and one for me.  Despite the brisk wind, we managed to light the candle and we placed it on the stone marking my father's grave.  I was at a loss for words so I stood there silent for a few minutes.  Amy murmured something soothing.

   As we walked home, a favorite song of my father's came into my head - "For Real" by Bob Franke:

"There's too much darkness in an endless night
To be afraid of the way we feel
I'll be kind to my loved ones
Not forever but for real"

         *                  *                  *

      I have three favors to ask of you.  First, let's all do everything we can to stomp out cancer in our lifetimes.  The chances are that you or someone you love has had to grapple with cancer.  It would mean a lot to me if you could help me to raise money for the Dana-Farber.  I know it would also mean a lot to my mother and to my Aunt Sylvia (Murray's wife), and, somewhere, to my Dad and my uncle.   I made a commitment to raise over $6,000 this year and I need your help because I am only about halfway there so far.  Please click on the URL below for more information or to make a contribution.

 http://www.pmc.org/mypmc/profiles.asp?Section=story&eGiftID=RE0023

   (This website looks best if you use Internet Explorer; also, please add a note to my guestbook there)

      Or if you would prefer to send a check, make your check payable to "PMC", and put my fundraising code "RE0023" on the memo line.  Send your check to me at 1025 Remington Road, Wynnewood, PA 19096 and I will forward it to the PMC.

      Second, please also consider giving plasma to your local cancer center.  It's similar to giving blood and your plasma can make a big difference to chemo patients.

      Finally, as the U2 song goes, it is a beautiful day.  Make the most of it.  Tell everyone in your family that you love them today.  Do something kind for each of them today.  Or grab a friend and go for a bike ride together.  Life is a song worth singing.  

      Thanks for reading this long message.

 Best regards,

Robert's PMC Total

$0

Goal

$6,700

My Progress

My Online Supporters