Why?

Constant reader: This one is long, of necessity. It may seem to ramble, but it comes to its point, and rambling accurately reflects the space I'm in.

Significantly, this is Pelotonia week. On Saturday, more than 7,200 people will pedal to end cancer. I will be one of them.

- - -

I answered the phone. A friend spoke: "Should you be doing this?"

He was the right friend at the right time.

So, I answered, truthfully.

And it hurt.

- - -

I know. It's confusing. The last few posts seem so...contradictory.

One is heroic, inspiring. The other is...dark.

And they're fighting it out in my head.

They're both Truth. In may ways, they exist because of one another. There's no inspiration without darkness. There's no darkness without hope.

Which wolf wins?

- - -

I wrote this in July:

I made the decision. I'm in. I had reason to doubt. I cannot justify NOT doing it.
I will ride 180 miles for cancer research.
Please. Donate. Now.
    Each dollar raised goes directly to research—there is no overhead
    Each dollar will be matched, generously by Limited Brands
I will ride with the cancer community. Mindfully. Purposefully. With attitude.

It's August.

I still cannot justify NOT doing it.

But I shouldn't be riding. Just ask my friends. Several keep trying to talk me out of it.

Here's why...

- - -

When riding my fat-bike lap of the Patapsco 100, I injured myself.

Climbing up them embankment of the final river crossing, like a wildebeest on the Savannah, my knee went "oops".

"Oops" is different from "pop". "Pop" is when you tear something. "Pop" means you are done for the next six months. "Pop" is "fuck!" and "shit!" combined...it's "fushit!"

Mine went "oops".

"Oops" is "this is bad, but it could be worse." "Oops" hurts as much as "pop", but "oops" gives you hope.

Two days and two orthopedists later, the verdict was: no torn ligament, no torn meniscus, but "we don't know what you did".

One doctor suggested it was a bone bruise, caused by the joint's compression under load on that slippery slope. The other doctor suggested that I'd pulled my IT band (at the point where it wraps under the knee. Both doctors suggested I rest it for a few weeks, and see what happens.

Limbo, again.

I rested. Ten days. It got better.

Then I re-injured it.

Shit.

...

This weekend I am committed to ride 180 miles to end cancer.

Other than two, hour-long rides in the past three days, I have not been on a bicycle since July 6th.

- - -

"Should you be doing this?"

I hem and haw and mumble and nod.

- - -

Yesterday I went for a group mountain bike ride. In the middle of the ride, I lost my balance and fell off a bridge.

I never fully recovered.

Once the gyroscope lost its center, it never fully recovered...it never stopped wobbling.

- - -

"Should you be doing this?"

I hem and haw and mumble and nod.

And I lie.

And here's the truth.

I shouldn't.

And I have to.

- - -

I was warned.

My doctors told me, as I moved from chemotherapy to recover, that my metabolism would likely have changed. Permanently.

They said I would be tired.

They said that I would have difficulty losing the chemo-weight. They mentioned that "the Western diet is not your friend."

They warned me.

I've written about the fatigue. I've written about exercise (non-)recovery.

I haven't mentioned that my healing also seems compromised.

It seems that it takes longer for me to repair myself than it did prior to the chemo. Maybe it's true.

Maybe it's all in my head.

But I have a theory...

I believe that the toxicity levels of the particular chemotherapy drugs I took (Taxol, Cisplatin, and Ifosfamide) were so high that my body—at a cellular level—was fundamentally altered.

It may not be permanent, but at this stage in my recovery I see it seen in my exhaustion, befuddledness, vertigo...and healing.

I believe that a body recovering from one trauma, when faced with another, can't keep up, and healing is compromised.

It's anecdotal; I'm no scientist. But it passes the sniff test.

...

This weekend I am committed to ride 180 miles to end cancer.

Should you be doing this?

- - -

My mind's a mess. I wrote about it in some detail.

...but there's more.

Isn't there always?

It's Pelotonia week. It brings back memories...

- - -

I've ridden in each Pelotonia.

After the first life-altering year, each subsequent edition has brought something new, and wonderful. It's been the focus of every summer.

I've ridden it strong, as an heroic cancer survivor, finishing among the first in Athens.

But one year I only rode half. And I've regretted it ever since.

In 2011 I injured myself days before Pelotonia. I had torn my calf muscle, partly off the bone. It was a serious injury. I rode anyway.

I then spent the winter with a cast on my leg.

That was a difficult winter, and not because of the injury. My marriage dissolved, and in June I separated from my spouse of 14 years.

Injury, life-trauma. Not a lot of training happened leading into 2012. So, I planned to not ride in 2012. I volunteered.

And then I rode.I was at the opening ceremonies for my volunteer gig (helping with bike repairs and setup).

Overwhelmed, I was. The energy. The purpose. The joy. The pain.

In ten minutes, I called my friend: "Talk me out of riding."

"Um, yeah. You shouldn't ride."

"Right, I shouldn't ride."

Click

In ten minutes, I called my friend: "I just registered."

"Of course you did."

- - -

I've ridden it strong, finishing among the first to cross the line in Athens...

2012 was different. I rode on a single-speed. I paced myself. I rode with people I'd just met. It was fun.

But I didn't ride the second day. I did not ride 180.

And I've regretted it ever since.

...

I clanged the cowbell and cheered and jeered and showed my support. But every cell of me screamed that I should have been riding. I could walk. I could ride. And not riding was letting them down.

I don't know who them was. But I've since learned.

And them is driving me today.

Which wolf wins?
The one that you feed.

- - -

We all have our demons.

I've been facing mine.

And what I've seen haunts me. What I've learned pains me.

Them. Is. Me.

I'm a saboteur.

I am the architect of my own defeats.

I am mine own executioner. And I have been for time immemorial.

(I cannot express the "why" in this moment; someday I will.)

It's fashionable to say: "I fear success."

But the insidious truth is: I fear failure.

My fear paralyzes me, sending me into self-destructive spirals from which I don't recover.

Ah, but a man's reach should exceed his grasp,
Or what's a heaven for?

Countless times. I've positioned myself for success. Countless times, I've shied at the last moment, hiding. It's one thing for your ambitions to exceed your reality. It's quite another to dream the dream, and then never make the effort.

That's cowardice.

I'm a coward.

And I hate me.

...

Disappointment follows in my wake as I cross the dark, fear-filled waters of my failures.

I've let so many people down. People who have loved, trusted, and supported me.

And I hate that.

And I hate me.

The wolf howls, triumphantly.

...

People are boring. It's their contradictions that are interesting. We are the sum of our contradictions.

That statement is the lens through which I view the world. Nothing is more fascinating to me than observing the way people realize their lives. None of us are what we seem. And our contradictions are the keys to truly seeing us for whom we are.

...

I'm a coward.
But I've written and lived this:

I fear. I fear the unknown before me.
I fear the fall.
But I've leapt.
And I hope to fly.
And to be thrilled by the grace of flight.

I'm a failure.
But I've nurtured them:

I'm a coward.
But I've lived this:

What will be will be what will be.
I've got this.

I'm a failure.
But I've survived cancer.
   ...Twice.

I'm a coward.
But I'm writing this blog.

I'm a failure.
But you are reading this.

...

Them. Is. Me.

Which wolf wins?

We are the sum of our contradictions.

Should you be doing this?

I shouldn't...And I have to.

- - -

I was watching Sherlock. Moriarty said something that stopped me dead:

Pain, heartbreak, love, death, it's all good.
You always feel it...you don't have to fear it.

It made me think of Looker, John Looker.

In his second decade fighting cancer, he's made a decision I hope never to have to make. He decided to stop treatment.

Let that sink in...

He decided to stop treatment.

Quality of life is more important than quantity of live. He wants to live.

For John, it's not a question of whether, but of when.

And of which.

Multiple cancers are eating away at him.

He's riding.

I asked him if he wanted to ride a tandem on Day 2. He demurred. He said he wanted to do both days on his bike.

I get it.

And I'm humbled.

He is one reason why I feel like a whiner...

He's a super man. A Superman. And I want to be like him...

Yet...

I know his secret.

Let me re-phrase that. I know his secret.

He fights the same battle I do. Differently. But it is the same. 

It's a continual fight. Every day it's a fight...So, for the rest of your life, you're stuck with that shadowy figure...always, always, coming at you. Always coming at you...

And inside he is a mess. A hot mess. A swirling morass of twisted emotion, conflict, pain, fear.

So, really, I am like him.

John finds hope and inspiration in you. And me. And in this event.

And he rides.

Until he can't.

He found something that matters. In Pelotonia he found joy. He grasped it. He clings to it, digging his nails, white-knuckled, with hot tears and gasping breath. He holds it.

And it holds him.

And it is beautiful.

He's been through hells that I cannot imagine. And he knows what's coming.

And sometimes he's at peace. Other times he's devastated. And every moment of every day he slides along the spectrum in-between.

But he has hope. And so, he rides.

If not us, who?
If not now, when?

So, what's my excuse?

Pain, heartbreak, love, death, it's all good.
You always feel it...you don't have to fear it.

- - -

Should you be doing this?

I shouldn't...And I have to.

Fewer than 400 cancer survivors are riding Pelotonia.

I'm one of them. I am going to ride.

I will ride with the cancer community. Mindfully. Purposefully. With attitude.

There's a special magic in Pelotonia. It makes real these words :

• Cancer breeds hope, just as it nurtures death.
• Cancer inspires; the good become great.
• Cancer brings light, and love, and beauty, though it is a challenge to see it.

 ...

I've been weighed and measured; I've been found wanting.

I ride because I must.

Let's do this...together.

What will be will be what will be.We've got this.

 - - -


 Postscript

There are so many stories. So many more stories to tell:

• The Pelotonia rider who learned of a genetic predisposition for breast and ovarian cancer—a woman who lost half her family to cancer—who is now a survivor of that damnable (and inevitable?) breast cancer.
• The Pelotonia friend—a man who donated thousands to support a young rider who had been riding in memory of his young sister—who just learned that his father is in Stage III.
• Jessica, the young, cancer-fighting superbabe who—despite her pain—brings joy to everyone she meets.
• The readers of this blog who send me notes, sharing their stories with me.

In this space I cannot tell them all.

But I can tell my tale, as honestly as possible.

We are the sum of our contradictions. I hope by shedding light into mine, someone, somewhere finds a little truth and a little comfort, knowing that they are not alone.