America's most beautiful bike ride

I did a 100-mile bike ride around Lake Tahoe for The Leukemia and Lymphoma Society in June, 2004. I did this ride because my friend Kate went to the Dr. one day in Sept. 2003 with a rash on her legs and 4 hours was in the hospital diagnosed with the deadliest form of Leukemia. Final Stages. Over the next few months she underwent chemo that literally killed her. She developed a blood infection that is 90% fatal and beat it. She fought for her life hours at a time, not days. She beat the chemo. She beat the cancer. While I was training for the ride, she was declared cancer free. In 4 more years, she'll be declared Cured if the cancer stays in remission. The following is my story of the Tahoe ride...

I still haven't fully processed this ride, but I'll try to give you a glimpse of how it went.

On Saturday night there was a pasta dinner along with some guest speakers including one gentleman in his 50s-60s who has had cancer several times and lost an eye due to complications. He also lost his brother and sister to cancer. He has participated in the Tahoe Ride for several years. His speech brought many of the 1600 people in attendance to laughter, then tears and laughter again. They also announced that we had raised 6.5 Million dollars. 1600 people did that. WOW.

As the evening finished, I laid out all my gear and clothing for the early AM. I crashed at 9:30 pm. I slept fitfully (something I rarely do in a hotel, much less the night before a huge event. I woke up 10 minutes before my 4 am wake-up call and just curled there enjoying the softness of the pillow. When the phone rang, I was ready and popped out of bed (something that never happens) and began getting ready. Fearful that the elevators would be packed with people and bikes, I was out of my room by 4:40 am and eating a box breakfast of a bagel, orange juice and a banana. (Later, I would regret not calling room service for something more substantial.)

I was outside by 4:45 with a few teammates as we waited for everyone to gather by 5 am. Most everyone was in high spirits and there was much laughter and photos being taken.

The ride actually starts from multiple points in waves to keep everyone from bunching up. Our wave was due to leave at 6:05, but we cheated and joined the 6 am wave (what's the sense in having 300 more people in front of you). In total, there were over 3,000 riders on the road. 1600 of them with Team in Training.

We move out at a reasonable pace - not too fast, not too slow. It's 35 degrees and most of us have on winter gear. I'm armed with shorts, jersey, arm warmers, wind vest, nylon jacket, tights, wool gloves and toe booties. In the first 15 miles, those without the toe booties will complain their toes are numb. It's cold. By mile 18, everyone will proclaim they are too hot, and begin shedding layers. At mile 13, they began the climb to Emerald Bay. The first of a series of mountain climbs. We are over 6300 feet and by the time I reach the top, I'm breathing so hard I have to stop. I would later comment with a wry smile that, "I was breathing so hard I thought I was going to have a baby!"

One great thing about climbing hills, is, "What goes up must come down". Ok, LIVE for the downhill baby. 48.7 MPH to be exact. Someone cut my line forcing me to brake before I hit the magic 50, but 48.7 is enough to get your adrenaline pumping like there is no tomorrow. You've only got a half an inch of rubber holding your bike to the pavement and 4 tiny brake pads to slow you down. And coming around a blind curve, that's exactly what I needed to do. A rider had gone down and 40-50 riders in front of me were slamming on their brakes. Some reacting so violently that they locked up both wheels. I have seen cars smoke off their tires. I've even seen motorcycles do it on a stationary skid pad, but bikes? No way in hell is that possible... I was wrong. There were small clouds of smoke coming up from the road and off people’s brakes. I somehow had the sense to feather my brakes and visually find a line that would bypass the pack without crossing the yellow line into oncoming traffic lanes. I slowed, yet passed the group as though they were standing still. I was still moving at 40 MPH. Around another hairpin turn in the opposite direction and I was free of the pack - my heart hammering like a giant piston in my chest. A mile later I came to a small pit stop/cheering station where the National Chapter team had a car. I pulled off the road and dismounted my bike. My legs were so wobbly that I wondered if I might fall down. Shaken, not stirred, I refilled water and gatorade bottles and took the opportunity to co-join with nature.

Regrouped with the Hammergirls (my training and ride partners – a group of 4 women that ride hard and fast), we headed down the flat road enjoying the amazing scenery of the woods and the lake views. We turn away from the lake for a jaunt that adds 28 miles to the 72 around the lake. We pit at 42 miles and after a short rest, we return to the road. Realizing that we are traveling up the same road we just came down for the next 14 miles, we will be riding uphill into the wind. We are feeling strong and pass many other riders (pacelining in a tight group of 5). We stop to fix Megghan's flat tire from a puncture and then back at it. At the 60-mile mark, I break off from them and take a needed rest. I refill my gatorade and water stock. I eat a Clif Bar and slam a Gu. I'm HOT. I'm starting to tire, but don't focus on the 'why' enough to take corrective action... drinking more water and eating still more food.

At 63 miles, I encounter another steep, long hill and nearly quit the ride. I'm having severe difficulty breathing at the altitude and I'm starting to realize I'm in trouble physically.

Coming down the other side was a nice long shallow descent. On the way down, I passed a woman on the side of the road with a friend taking a photo op. My first thought was "nice legs" as I got closer the angle of view changed and my thought became, "nice leg"... "…&#^@, If she can do this ride with one leg, I'm going to finish. I also start thinking about Kate - my reason for doing this ride (whose picture I'm carrying in my pocket). My will strengthened, I rally and pedal into the lunch pit at the 72-mile mark.

One of the Hammergirls, Megghan, has grabbed lunch for me and I sit down and slowly eat. I've found a great patch of shade and begin cooling off. I'm still not drinking enough water or gatorade and the turkey sandwich tastes like sawdust. I can't even think of eating the brownie. (Later, I'll think back on that and wish I had forced it down.) After eating, I stretch thoroughly in hopes that my legs will get back into gear. One of the girls (Angela) is having pedal trouble and heads off to fix it. Nicole and I decide that with the biggest climb of the day still ahead at mile 80, we will get a head start. She has asthma issues and I'm just plain tired and I climb slower than they do. The next 8 miles is tough. The lake is on my right and I feel like I'm going up a coastal highway. I've never seen water that color in America before. Simply stunning. I'm pedaling at 6.1 and 6.2 miles an hour. I'm in my easiest gear.

Mile 81. I die. It's 1:30 pm. I have four hours to finish the ride. I know I'm going to be climbing at a 7-8% grade for the next 8 miles. I stop and think about calling a SAG van to carry me to the top. This is Spooner pass. OMG. There are people walking up it, people flying up it and people like me. I stop every mile or mile and a half to rest and catch my breath. With nearly every pedal stroke, a drop of sweat slips off my nose in slow motion. By the time it hits the ground, I'm already past it. I'm riding a bike that only has a double chain-ring (something that has caused me fear since I signed up for this ride). For non-cyclists reading this, it means I only have two chain rings in the front. Most people who ride have a third ring which is smaller (commonly called a granny ring because it's easier to pedal with the smaller ring). It takes more force for me to turn the crank than it would if I had a triple. I end up leap frogging with several riders. I stop, they pass me. They stop, I pass them. It becomes a sick game. We acknowledge each other with tired nods of our heads.

Nicole has long since outdistanced me and I keep waiting for the other 3 girls to catch me. Angela does and thinks she's behind everyone... she has passed Jen and Megghan without realizing it in her haste to catch up. She looks and sounds fresh as a spring flower. She basically flies by and I wave to her behind. 2 miles later - Jen and Megghan catch me as I'm stopped on the side of the road cooling off. They ask if they should stop and knowing I can't keep pace with them, I wave them on. I won't see them again until much later in the day.

I stop again later and I have riders calling to me - "it's only 1/8 of a mile to the top" or "it's only 1/4 mile to the top". My right knee hurts, my breath is labored, I'm tired, I'm so hot I could fry an egg on my head. I'm not thinking very clear, my stomach feels like it's trying to eat itself. I feel like I'm going to vomit. I pull out my picture of Kate. I look at her smiling face and think about what she went through in her fight with Leukemia. 1/4 mile to the top. I can do this. I can finish. I can picture the 5-mile descent that I have earned. The mystical 50 MPH downhill I've searched for since I first started riding. The finish line in 12-miles for Kate. It's not about me anymore. I'd have quit at mile 82 or 83.

There is a small pit stop at the top of the hill and scores of people cheering riders in. I pull my bike up to a railing and lean against it to rest. I'm dizzy, nauseated and happy to have the biggest climb done. As I dig out a pack of TUMS to combat the stomach problem, I chat with a women whose leaning next to me. I talk about how many stops I made coming up the hill. She say's she took the SAG bus. She's torn her meniscus twice and doesn't want to risk it again. We chat about the beauty of the Lake and the ride some more and as I get up to climb back on my bike and turn to her and say, "It was a pleasure meeting you. Enjoy the rest of your ride." I finally actually look at all of her and I see that her right leg below the knee is titanium. She's 50 years old and out here riding to help people with Cancer. I'm humbled in a way I've never been. I smile and wave goodbye.

The second I can stop pedaling on the downhill I do. I no longer care that I'm only going 7 miles an hour, my knee hurts too much and my legs are too tired to pedal. I pick up speed and I turn a corner and come head on into a 20-30 mile an hour headwind off the lake. I'm going 35-40 miles an hour and the wind starts pushing me like a rag doll. It's everything I can do to stay upright. I brake to slow and get control of my bike. For 5 miles I fight the wind and never get above 32 MPH again. Robbed, I rage against the wind. My personal goal will have to wait for another time, another ride, another hill. I know as I descend that there are 3 small hills left to climb. Not mountains, small hills. Hills that on a normal training ride are only slightly noteworthy and maybe not at all. In the last 5 miles, I stop 7 times to rest. My knee feels like someone is tapping it with a hammer at every turn of the crank. My energy level is gone completely. Kate, Kate, for Kate. You can finish. Pedal... pedal. I reach the top of the last climb. Three miles in the distance, I can see the hotel. The finish line. I inwardly cringe at a tiny 50 ft. climb a half mile away.

Kate, Finish, Kate, Finish. One mile. The hammer isn't tapping anymore. It's an icepick slamming into my knee again and again. I look at my cycle computer... 99.1 miles reads the distance. I unclip my right pedal from my shoe and pedal as hard as I can with my left leg. Down a small incline and up the other side. 300 yards. I turn into the parking lot. 100 yards. My right leg is just hanging there not touching the pedal. My head is ringing like a gong. I have to climb a small ramp into the final stretch and almost crash on a bump. I grit my teeth and realize the ringing in my ears isn't inside my head. It's more than 1,000 people cheering me every foot of the way. I begin crying, but there are no tears. I'm too dehydrated. Past my team who are screaming my name. Through the finish line. It's 4:40pm. I almost fall off my bike trying to get off. 100 miles. Over 6800 feet of vertical climbing. I finished. Kate finished.

Someone hands me a beer and I have to give it away after two sips. My stomach is revolting. I check in at the finish line and claim my medal. I have two instantaneous visions. One is the medal in a frame with a simple title - The hardest thing I ever did. The other is giving the medal to Kate.