TOUR DE CURE 2014 Some of you have asked me to share about my ride yesterday for a diabetes cure. There’s so much I could say, it would fill a whole chapter...but I’ll make this briefer than that. On my fourth time doing the 100-mile course, I knew exactly what to expect, but I was still really jacked up from only four hours of interrupted sleep and the pre-event adrenaline, plus the emotion of getting to do This One Thing to fight for my baby’s healthy life, and of everyone’s support. I got to the stadium the exact minute I’d wanted--5:30 a.m.--and although the coffee and the bike mechanic were late, they soon arrived; a check-in volunteer did as I asked and wrote “For Rachel” on my left arm (so all the people zooming past on my left would see) and “Pedaling for” “Rachel” on my left and right calves) and pinned my bib no. onto the back of my jersey (mine had my name because I was a “fundraising champion” thanks to you guys!). Everyone wished one another well, speeches were made, photos were taken, Red Riders (riders with diabetes) and top fundraisers were recognized, and off we rode at 6:30 a.m., the golden sunrise at our backs. As usual, I kept up with the whole pack, riding somewhere near the middle, until the first big hill, when we all spread out...I’m simply not a real cyclist, I was just wearing my old marathon shoes on my platform pedals, and my bike is neither lightweight nor sophisticated…and I never did learn how to stand up and pedal...so, as always, I fell in near the back, where I remained for the rest of the course. I rode alone most of the day, but often with one or two other riders within sight either ahead of or behind me. The 100-mile course features MANY steep and rolling hills--did I mention the steep part? and the long uphill climbs part? Yeah.--along with a lot of nice flats or almost-flats in the valley (on which the wind was quite challenging at times). It is a beautiful, scenic, and varied course through Washington and Yamhill counties, with deeply shaded forest, wide open farmland, little winding roads and busy highway, cemeteries from the mid-1800s, tiny towns, both wealthy and challenged residential neighborhoods, dilapidated farmhouses, wineries, up-and-coming industrial areas...and so many grand vistas, so much breeze, so much sky…but more country roads than anything else. The sharpness of LIFE on this day is intense, and there is a feast for each of the senses. The cool air in the early miles was a gift during the first hard hills (although I couldn’t feel my toes until about Mile 30), as was the later heat that infused the air with heady scents of heather, herbs, flowers, new-mown hay, just-tilled earth, and ripe berries. A yellow swallowtail butterfly flew alongside me for a minute. Gravel and dirt flew in my face, as did the occasional insect and cloud of farm dust, and I inhaled exhaust from passing vehicles. There were endless rows of green and gold crops, angry drivers (they honk, yell, rev, and/or drive too close because there’s no bike lane and we are on *their* road), the fatigue of much rough country road and the bliss of the occasional smooth stretch and a bike lane, the “good morning” from a runner, a farmer, or an old person on their front porch…the same 7-Up sign and sagging couch still on the pale green porch of that one house by the tracks somewhere near Mile 25...that same monster hill at about Mile 55 that always daunts me but actually does end...the tiny country churches with their radical little signs out front...the feeling--especially as the heat climbed well into the 80s--of, “IF I SEE ONE MORE HILL UP AHEAD, I’M GONNA…” and the volunteers. OH, those dear volunteers--both the assigned motorcycle riders that would drive by occasionally and wave, making sure we were all right alone out there, and those at the eight rest stops--with their noisemakers, their big smiles, serving so cheerfully the great food and cold drinks (both water and electrolyte replacement) provided by the ADA. One stop had country music blaring and a little kid dancing along...another did a “Parisian” theme and offered iced coffee and chocolate-covered coffee beans in an Eiffel tower table-topper, was playing European-sounding accordion music, and had hand-made signs with “Bonjours” and “Bienvenue”...one stop took the hard-boiled eggs they were provided and--apparently they’re known for this--made their “famous” deviled eggs (the lead gal told me the mixture’s secret ingredient--cream!)...and one stop decided they were about “aloha” and all wore Hawaiian shirts and/or fake coconut-shell tops (very cute/funny on this mostly-white-haired volunteer group in the little town of Yamhill). I got to chat with familiar faces from previous years, some of whom remembered me. I was given wonderful compassion about Rachel’s diabetes from my diabetic co-riders, and warm questions and encouragement about her (they read my arm and legs) from other fellow riders, some of whom were on sponsor teams connected with diabetes cure research. I got some raised eyebrows (and a bit of admiration) for doing it all with platform pedals. We at the back of the pack learned one another’s names and cheered each other on at every stop, and occasionally traded places out on the road. It was just SO FULL, SO RICH, SO ABSOLUTELY A CELEBRATION OF LIFE and of HOPE as we were all out there, united in effort for the SAME REASON: THERE MUST BE A CURE. Our using our life force this day, getting more tired and hot by the minute/mile, living through/working through the distance but knowing there is a finish line to the challenge, is NOTHING compared to what a person with diabetes has to live through every day…and the next day...and the next. We CHOSE to be out there and endure; they have no choice. I (of course) wore my dad’s medic-alert necklace (“Type II diabetes, legally blind, deaf”) and laughed aloud in tears at the expansive beauty, pedaling in my highest (lowest? I dunno--whatever the biggest one is called) gear at high speed past a vineyard on one side and a wheat field on the other, no other riders near, thanking him--calling out to him over the rushing wind and the sound of my wheels on the road that I wished so hard he could see it all. I thanked Rachel and Aaron for inspiring me every day. I thanked my donors to this and my four previous Tour de Cure events, remembering the messages you sent. I thanked veterans for championing this magnificent country and our lives in it. I thanked teachers and farmers, parents and public servants, caregivers and activists, doctors and scientists who try to do the right thing every day to get us to tomorrow. I thanked my parents and grandparents for making my *blessed* life possible. I thanked my friends, loves and family with all my heart for the experiences we’ve shared that have helped shape who I am. I wish that you ALL could have seen it ALL. You guys know I am always saying CARPE DIEM and really trying to live that. It was a beautiful day, and we seized it, indeed. I am SO LUCKY that I got to do this event again, and EVEN LUCKIER to have so much incredible support for it from people in all different parts of my life. THANK YOU. **THERE WILL BE A CURE.** Penny and Pete, Brian and Cindy, and others who asked as we parted ways at the stadium: Yes, I’ll see you next year.
Posted on: Sun, 27 Jul 2014 22:08:06 +0000
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