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NO
– this is not a story about my physical proportions, sorry. About
a week ago my friend Tim sends me this autobiography book of Lance
Armstrong. We all know the
story – pro cyclist gets cancer of the testicles, lungs, and brain.
Goes to the brink of death, survives, becomes a husband and
father and goes on to win the Tour de France three times and counting.
Great reading. The
made-for-HBO movie can't be far behind.
The amazing thing is that the book has very little to do with
cycling. It's all about the
will to survive and the will to win.
Now, THESE are two attributes I could certainly apply to my own
cycling "career". I breezed through the book in no time and was counting the
days until my next race, which finally happened this past Saturday.
Certainly Lance's story would bring me a new sense of mission and
as he said numerous times in the book, "Never give up, never give
up, never give up".
Rock
– Yes, there was plenty of it. In
fact the entire trail was nothing more that jagged edges and sharp
babyheads. Not the typical
playground of an aluminum hardtail singlespeed. Rabbit
– The entire SS field, sans me, took off like rabbits and never turned
into hares. I on the other
hand was a hare who quickly turned into a tired, old, defeated hare. Mountain
– Yup, starts at 5200 ft and climbs 750 feet per lap, three laps. Again, not something to make your singlespeed day a romp in
the park. Aire
– Let's just say there was not much of it.
At least not much getting into MY lungs. Original
plan was to get out of work early on Friday and drive up to the race
site. Get acclimated to the
elevation, ride the course, camp with my comrades, etc.
Well, of course getting out of work early never happens
and also some family commitments, so what the heck it's only a 2 hour
drive. I'll leave Phoenix
at 5am on Saturday and get there in plenty of time for the 9am race.
So, I arrive at the race site about 7am and it's freaking
freezing. About 40 F, which
feels like zero to someone who has just left 100 degrees in Phoenix.
Luckily I brought arm and knee warmers.
I picked up my number plate and was amazed at how small the SS
field was. About half of
normal for this race series. Good
for me – a top 10 finish should be no problem.
Did the usual SS contingent know something that I didn't?
I took a short ride on a trail to loosen up. It was rocky as hell, so it certainly could not have been
part of the race loop. And
the huffing and puffing was just because of the cold air.
I’d be fine during the race.
I'll lay back on the first lap to learn the course and warm up
and then give her hell on laps 2 and 3.
Just like Lance climbing the Pyrennes. So
the gun goes off (SS is the first wave) and immediately I am looking at
the ass end of every other rider in the field.
I knew after 200 meters that I was in trouble. The race took off down the same rocky bitch of a trail that I
warmed up on – and climbed, and climbed, and climbed. I
felt like I had a choker around my neck preventing any air from getting
into my lungs and another one around my waist preventing any blood from
getting to my legs. Not
only did I walk most of the climbs, but I was so winded that I had to
pull off the trail at the top and just sit there as riders from the
following waves caught and passed me.
At the start they put a wave number on your calf in magic marker
so you can judge who you are passing on the trail.
Before I knew it there were 3's and 4's whizzing past me – and
the waves started 3 minutes apart!
I was ready to quit and I was trying to decide if it would be
easier to retrace my steps back to the start or to try to complete the
loop. I was sitting there
in a weird state of chill, sweating, near vomiting and general
pissed-offish-ness, just trying to figure out what the hell went wrong
and how to get out of this mess. A
nice rider from the 5th wave came by (Christ – I was 15
minutes down!) and saw me just sitting there.
He knew nobody could have bonked already so obviously I must have
some mechanical failure, right?. As
he slowed and rode past he said, "Hey buddy, you OK?
Do you need anything?".
As I watched his backwheel distance me, I yelled – "Yeah,
I need a fucking oxygen mask and a cup of coffee!"
I felt really bad yelling like that – he was just trying to be
nice. Me
at the Rock Rabbit with Dr. Fibber about to pass I
remounted and figured that what the hell, I'd rode/walked this far and
was probably near the top of the elevation gain, so why not just roll
down the rest of the loop and DNF after one lap.
The problem was that even the roll down was an absolute bitch.
Just jagged, rugged ledges and not a let up in sight.
I passed absolutely NO one.
Yup, the entire race, I never passed a single person.
I don't that's ever happened to me before.
There were so many numbered legs screaming past ME that it looked
like Pi to the 200th decimal place.
As I plodded on, I started to think about the Lance book again
– Never give up, Never give up. But
I was shot. The BEST I
could do would be to make it back to the start/finish.
I jack-hammered on and there started to be a few more spectators
lining the trail indicating that I was probably getting close to the end
of the loop. All of a sudden the lead SS guys come blowing by me.
Damn – Lapped already. These
guys were riding more than TWICE as fast as I was.
Never give up, Never give up.
The spectators were encouraging me on, no doubt confused into
thinking that I was riding with the lead SS'ers – fat chance of that.
Well, I was riding with them, just a full lap behind. The trail continued to be very rocky and narrow.
Continued down and down toward the start/finish.
I had guys right on my ass with no place to pass and the trail
was actually worn into a ditch of singletrack about 20 inches wide and
12 inches deep. Like a trough – just hang on and GO. And GO I did, bouncing like a bucking bronco on the verge of
control loss. I finally was
launched completely out of the trough and crash landed in the grass and
dirt – dirty and scraped up a bit, but mostly OK.
The start/finish was in sight and I thought about the book again.
Never quit, never quit, never quit … Moment of decision …
Dig deep … Suck it up …
decision, decision, decision ... Ah hell, Lance Armstrong can
kiss my ass. I QUIT! Here's the really embarrassing thing – they have this special little chute at the finish line marked DNF. You're supposed to go in there and they log out your number if you are a "Did Not Finish" racer. The trick is to fake some mechanical and drop out with dignity, right? But as I rolled in, the damn DNF table and race marshal were not even set up yet! They must have figured that nobody would be dropping out THIS early. Way to shock 'em, Dave. Walked back to the truck with my tail between my legs and made a bee-line out of there. As I drove back down the hill toward Phoenix, I thought again about the Lance book. Yeah – never quit? Well, I guess I'm just not like Lance Armstrong, am I. But then it HIT hit me. Yes I WAS just like Lance Armstrong. That's it! Of course I did awful in the race! And so did Lance in the fall of 1996. Because he had cancer and he didn’t know it yet. That was IT. I must have cancer – can't be any other reason why I rode so badly. I knew it, I knew it, I knew it. I pulled off the highway and did a quick check of my testicles – seemed normal to me (although I admit that I have not examined a lot of other testicles in my life!). One honk from a semi-driver who must have gotten a glance at what I was doing. But even though there were no external signs, it MUST be cancer – thank God at I know why I rode so poorly. That would explain everything. I got on the cell phone and scheduled blood work and an MRI for Monday morning plus a consult with a specialist in oncology. I requested Dr. Fibber because not only is he a well respected physician, but I knew he was also an avid amateur bike racer. Surely he would understand just what I was going through. On Monday, after the blood work and MRI, I waited for what seemed like an eternity in his office waiting room. I was preparing everything in my mind – treatment, finances, wills – you name it. How should I break the news to my family and friends that I had cancer. Just then Dr. Fibbers receptionist came to me and sincerely apologized that the doctor would be unable to see me today because he was still recovering. I asked, "Recovering from WHAT?". The receptionist sheepishly admitted that the good doctor was still winded from winning the Singlespeed division at Saturdays Rock Rabbit race in Mountain Aire !!! By
the way, all blood work and MRI results were negative.
When I did finally meet the doctor, he prescribed a strict
regimen of training, hills, intervals, weights and improved nutrition.
I continue to do frequent testicle self-exams and I can assume
you that I am no longer Too Big For My Chamois. Ride
on Lance and Dr. Fibber, Dave (May 2002) |
