It's a Small World After All

It was his laugh that confirmed it.

I hadn't heard it in nearly 25 years, yet I knew it was him.

The re-introduction? A formality.

"Scott Razek?" I asked.

Quizzically, displaced, he looked at me.

"Ray Whitney," I said, by way of re-introduction.

Recognition. Memory. Smiling, he bellowed: "Ray Whitney! What are you doing here?"

What was I doing there, indeed...

A Little Background

It's debatable who had better hair...or more confidence...
Elvis? Or Scott? And yes, this is Scott's page from his
Senior yearbook. Let's just say that he stood out!

Columbus is Scott's hometown. His being there...made sense. Me? Not so much.

When I attended Gunnery my family was living in Saudi Arabia. I had grown up in New York, and I had no concept of Columbus, OH.

To be honest, I was more familiar with foreign countries than I was with the Midwest. If you had told me in the 1980s that I would find a second home in Columbus, I would have laughed.

But then, life has a way of mocking us, doesn't it?

Scott graduated in '86, I escaped in '87. We were soccer teammates and social acquaintances. Neither of us would have described the other as a friend, but we were certainly friendly and thought well of one another.

So, what were the odds that two Gunnery alum would run into one another—within a crowd of thousands at a charity event in...Columbus, OH?

It's not like we were in New York or Boston—prep school enclaves where many of our classmates settled. This was the Midwest!

Columbus proved the old adage: it's a small, small world.

There for a Purpose

We were at the opening ceremonies for the inaugural Pelotonia event, a two-day charity ride with a simple mission: end cancer.

Surprise!
And he still has the hair!

Simple, no? That explains everything!

OK. Not really.

I have told my story before. In a nutshell:

I am a cancer survivor. I am also a cyclist and a fan of the sport. I discovered my testicular cancer because I had read Lance Armstrong's "It's Not about the Bike" some years prior to the onset of my "issues." Somehow my deeper memory remembered details long forgotten, and I recognized my symptoms. I saw the doctors. I had treatment, and I survived.

Years later—through a set of serendipitous circumstances—I learned about Pelotonia, its purpose, and that Lance would be there.

I had to go.

And there I was: in Columbus.

I knew one person—a work-related contact with whom I had only had email and phone contact. I was wandering around the event registration, taking in the whole of the experience...

And then I heard Scott laugh.

Riding the Wave

Where will you land?

Life is filled with random events. Like waves upon the sea, they influence our passage. We may spend countless hours and endless energies planning and plotting our course, only to be hit by a rogue wave that redefines everything. Cancer is like that wave—it tosses you about with disregard. And if you're lucky, you wash up on some safe shore...somewhere.

It's what happened to me. And I learned from it. One of the many lessons it taught me was to roll with the waves. I learned to stop holding the tiller so tightly. I learned to let go, to listen to life; that everything happens for a reason

It's how I ended up in Columbus, standing there, shocked stupid by seeing Scott. I had let the small waves guide me, and I washed up upon his island.

And what a place it is!

It's His Town

Make no mistake, it's Scott's world, and we are all guests at the party.

I remembered Scott as one of those rare people who made everyone comfortable and happy—just by being Scott. I remembered him as eternally positive and a magnet for good times.

How could you possibly NOT hug him?

I also remember him as Moncheechee—a nickname I don't think he remembers. He was short, hairy and cuddly. And eternally cute. To see him was to smile.

Memory serves. In adult form (are we really this old?) Scott is a raconteur, a sybarite, and an all-around nice guy. He has a winning smile and an infectious laugh. He is—in a word—fun! (You'll have to ask his wife about the cuddly-ness.)

He's also damned serious about ending cancer.

Scott embraced me—literally—and after a quick "catch up", he declared that I was with him. I had no idea what that meant. Three years later, I'm still amazed!

Scott knows everyone in Columbus—everyone. If he doesn't, just give him a minute. He will. And we all know his work. He's the Creative Director for Bath & Body Works. He's a man of impeccable taste and clear vision. He's a leader.

My head swam as he introduced me to scores of people. I found myself in a conversation with a short man in a bow tie (how was I supposed to know that it was E. Gordon Gee, president of The Ohio State University?). I had a serious discussion with the Dr. Michael Caligiuri, director of the James—the cancer hospital we were supporting. I met the family who own Limited Brands (you know, The Limited, Bath & Body Works, Victoria's Secret, and others). It was heady stuff. And I had only been with him for two hours!

At the center of his world are three people who sustain him. Scott is a family man who derives strength from his charming wife and his delightful son. They keep him anchored. Their love is palpable. He takes clear, deep pleasure from his role as a father and a husband. It is beautiful to witness. And then there's his incorrigible father, Edward.

Ed is a marketing genius. How do I know? He's the gentleman responsible for Victoria's Secret. He picks the Angels.

Ed the Magic Man...
Note the hair...

To call Ed exuberant is like calling a kitten cute—it communicates the thought, but not the experience. The exuberance is genetic. Scott is just like his father in this regard: to be around him is to be energized—to see possibility in all things.

It's a kind of magic.

It's uplifting.

It's irresistible.

Comrades!

So, with Razek as a guide (how easily we fall into old habits, using labels from years ago), I was introduced to a number of people I would come to consider comrades...and friends.

I shared dinner with my future peloton. Some looked ready, others looked...scared. All were excited.

Make no mistake, the next morning we were faced with a hard effort. The first day would be 102 miles long. Day 2 would be 78 miles. We would be facing a few leg-burning climbs.

It would be fun.

And it was a perfect opportunity to get to know one another.

From Strength to Strength

Pelotonia is about fundraising—not about riding. Cycling happens to be the activity that attracts participation, but the thousands who ride are rallying around a cause: end cancer.

I had no idea what I was getting myself into, as far as raising money was concerned. I didn't have a clue.

Scott, on the other hand, is a natural. As we walked through the crowd, he'd check his phone and declare: "I got another donation! I'm up to (some amazing amount of money)". It seemed like his phone buzzed every five minutes with more. (In reality, it was every 10 minutes, please forgive the exaggeration.)

I was below my required fundraising amount. Frankly, I was a embarrassed by it. I wanted to pull my weight, but it was simply not my strength.

It is Scott's.

There was a way, however, that I could pull my weight. I am a decent cyclist, considering my age.

Hills...lots of hills...

Long, hard rides are—in the cyclist's parlance—called "sufferfests". With respect and love, I must report that there were times when some of our group suffered. Untrained legs and lungs struggled with the route. Here I could help.

I had the legs and the lungs to lead. So I did. I took long pulls on the front of the group. I took us up hills, and circled back to shepherd our occasional stray. As a group we pulled it together. We had will and spirit. And it's amazing how far that can carry you.

I was not the strongest fundraiser, but I could contribute my cycling strength. I could help them and focus them. We were stronger for it.

Interlude

That sounds a bit arrogant, you narcissist!

But, it's not meant that way at all.

I'm a cancer survivor. I know the pain of cancer. And I survived recovery. I now rejoice in my pain—it reminds me that I'm alive.

That's so cliche.

Maybe. But it's true.

I didn't choose cancer. I didn't choose to wake up screaming in the recovery room because my anesthesia had worn off and I was allergic to the meds pumping into my veins. I didn't choose to look down at my distended belly to see a zipper-like line of staples restraining my recently removed-and-replaced innards.

Aren't you being a bit dramatic?

I've had better days...

Look, I didn't choose cancer.

I didn't want to be half-neutered. I didn't want to be disemboweled.

I do, however, choose to ride.

I choose to reinforce life and validate strength with each pedal stroke.

So yes, the pain reminds me that I am alive.

And on this ride, pain reminded all of us of all those who are suffering through their cancer battles.

It may sound silly, or stupid, or trite, or absurd, but it's real. When your legs and lungs burn and you just want to stop...

And you look over and see a child—bald from chemotherapy—holding a sign that reads: "Thanks"...

And you look up and the rider in front of you has "Survivor" on the back of his jersey.

You look into yourself and keep pedaling

Cancer is insidious. The cure can be far more debilitating than the illness. Chemo is a race to the death—yours or the cancer's.

So, who's afraid of a few hills?

Back to the Narrative

Ride, but not mission, accomplished.

We came. We saw. We rode.

We overnighted in Athens. We returned the next day.

Our group of five crossed the finish line as one. It was planned.

We wanted to share our hard-won success—achievement through unity and teamwork. We had accomplished the ride together—but remember, it really wasn't about the ride.

What We Accomplished

That first year we contributed to the $4,511,868 raised to support the James.

In year two we helped raise the bar—reaching $7,846,705.

In 2011? Who knows what we can achieve.

Lasting Bonds

I drove back that afternoon, motivated to see my girls.
It's a long drive with 180 miles in your legs.

We celebrated together, and then we went our separate ways. I drove back to Maryland, and my comrades got back to their lives. We kept in touch via Facebook and email, planning for the following years and motivating (read: abusing) one another to train harder!

As we prepare for our third Pelotonia, I find myself reflecting on the past two years. I realize that I went to Columbus a stranger and departed Columbus a friend. I was reminded that it truly is a small world, and that shared passions lead to enriched lives. When I read this, it seems like cliché. But when you're in the middle of it, it doesn't feel that way. It feels real, and powerful.

We're two months away. Our ride? it's practically tomorrow; that's how quickly the summer passes. I'm looking forward to it all, once again: laughing through the reunions, charging up the hills, and working toward our mission: to end cancer.

Afterward

During my final edit this song fixed itself in my head. So I thought I would share...

We've come a long long way together,
Through the hard times and the good,
I have to celebrate you baby,
I have to praise you like I should