Regardless of how self-assured people behave "on the outside," there is always more of a struggle within.  This is particularly the case with cancer survivors.  The survivor in me wants to forget about cancer and live a life without thinking about it in reference to me.  The psychologist/scientist in me wants to study survivors and determine if some mental or emotional toughness, immunity, or fortune distinguishes those of us who survive more than 5 years past the diagnosis.  The mother in me knows I cannot forget that my own mother died of it 14 years after her first diagnosis, and that I shall never rest easy until both my adult daughters pass menopause without a breast cancer diagnosis -- that's a VERY long time from now.

I cannot speak for all cancer survivors- only this one.  Every study that reveals some new possibility for improving survival brings with it a mixture of hope, worry,  guilt, and determination.  The hope is that I can deploy some new strategy to improve my survival. The worry is that I won't do it right or be able to stick with it, or read about some small, but critical, detail. The guilt is knowing there will be days I won't or can't comply, and determination to do what I can when I can ultimately prevails.

And so it was with exercise and survivorship. I have read much about the relationship between vigorous exercise and cancer prevention.  I love to work out, run, bike, hike, and play tennis and golf.  Somehow, it seems that I can't tear myself away from the office in time to get the workout that I need.  So, that my mother will not have died in vain, I decided to set and pursue a heckuva goal: ride 150 miles in the Bike to Finish MS (yes, multiple sclerosis, not breast cancer) Tour October 10-11, 2009.  I had no details, except that my company was a bronze level sponsor, and I loved to bike.

In April, I made the decision: I registered to ride in the 150 mile event and began searching for a training plan.  I was invited to join a team-- and became more excited about the experience. I learned that the first day was 100 miles (in actuality, it became 106 miles) and the second was 50 miles.   I went about my training methodically for weeks, gradually adding miles and more cycle classes per week, until my work and family obligations took precedence.

As the day drew nearer, I had to make travel plans to fly to Southern California, stay in different hotels, figure out how to get my bike to the race site, and wonder how I could possibly ride in a clump of cyclists when I was used to solo rides in the country. 

I decided to rent a bike after learning that triathletes do it frequently.  I had to take my bike into the shop and remove my pedals-- because they fit my bike shoes-- and pack a whole lot of gear: helmet, two pairs of cycling gloves, three pairs of well-padded bike shorts (the heavy gel ones were for the long ride), water bottles, practice jerseys, sports socks, sports watch, and more.  In my haste to leave the house on time for the airport, I forgot my entire makeup case, but nothing for the rides.  At least my priorities were straight.

When I checked into the Irvine (CA) Marriott, the headquarters for the MS Bike Tour event in Southern California, the lobby was loaded with bikes, cyclists, families, friends, and members of the Knights of Columbus, who had their annual event at the hotel, too.  The energy was palpable, and caused my heart to pound.  How would this thing work -- rented bike, first time rider on a team I had never met?  I remembered the Carnegie Hall line, so I practiced, practiced, practiced until I knew the bike and could click in and out of my pedals.  Anxiety reduction strategy 1: successful.

I had dinner with a high school classmate who lived in the area, a cardiologist who encouraged me -- he must have seen some misgivings! and then spent the night with my bike and all the equipment and attire carefully laid out for the early morning start.   I could hardly sleep for fear of missing the start.  My cell phone died-- and the battery refused to charge.  Visions of me stranded in a canyon with a head wound and broken leg,  with no way to call for help,  raced through my mind.

Finally, the wake-up call came at 5:15 am and I tore out of bed.  I packed my bag and took it down to the truck that would transport it to the finish line of the first day's ride.  When I returned to the hotel to pick up my bike and check out, the lobby was filled with chattering riders, a hundred or more bikes, and a long line at the Starbucks. It was scarcely 6:10 and I had  plenty of time to meet the team near the starting line at 6:30 am.

Wrong!  The elevators were filled with bikes, riders, and Knights of Columbus-- they were wearing emblazoned jackets and making their way to an early breakfast meeting.  10 or more elevators opened on my floor  and closed, filled to capacity with bikes and people.  Finally, I wedged into a 3/4 filled elevator, which, unfortunately went back up to the top floor before descending, stopping at every floor.  It was now past 6:30. I could not call the team-- I was in a slow elevator with no cell phone.

By the time I arrived near the starting line, it was 6:45 and the race director was advising the  150 mile riders to line up.  Where was my team?  The adrenaline was pumping; my heart was pounding.  I worried about being run over by fast-moving cyclists.  Light was beginning to dawn.  We sang the National Anthem-- it was really happening-- I was there- ready but alone and scared almost to death.  We had to reach various rest stops by certain cutoff times, or be shipped to the finish line.  I absolutely didn't want that to happen to me, but I feared going out  too fast and running out of gas.

I remembered my marathon strategy: start easy, stay with the pace if possible, and go steady.  I hoped I'd find the team.  The signal sounded. We were off!  I could not believe I was riding with a pack of other cyclists: teams such as Whole Foods, Intuit, Cox Cable, and 24-hr Fitness were all around me.  My heart pounded.

Not wanting to miss the first cut, I raced past all the rest stops except for a quick water fill-up at about mile 30 in San Clememte.   The next thing I knew, I was riding over Interstate 5 and heading to Camp Pendleton.  I  rode past companies and battalions of Marines  in training, and rattled down some rough pavement, stopping at mile 41, the last before the lunch cutoff.  I found the other two members of the team riding all 100 miles for the day.  They were hardy men-- had started about half an hour after me and caught me. 

I spied my Diesel Energy Powder Shot product on the tables-- people were picking them up!

I was energized, and made it  easily to the lunch stop, 3 hours before the cutoff time!  That was 56 miles into the ride. I still had my "normal" long weekend distance ahead.   We received route slips for the next 10 miles, another rest stop and cutoff point.  The grueling parts  lay ahead, and I had no idea just how challenging the word "challenging" meant until I rode the last half of the course-- which turned out to be about 106 miles, not 100.   The hill climbs were long, rough, with blind curvess and stoplights that prevented any momentum.

I was  riding uphill against the wind, solo-- no slipstream! No coastal cheering squads poised to motivate us.  My feet began to ache from hitting the fronts of the mountain bike shoes I'd worn.  They grew hot, and my seat began to hurt.  But I never thought of packing it in.  I'd made it to all the cutoff points well ahead of the cutoff time, and I wasn't  giving up.  I grabbed bananas for energy, picked out "rabbits" (other riders in front) and stuck with them as long as I could. 

Finally, 9  hours and 106 miles after I had pushed off from behind the Irvine Marriott, I pedaled to the finish line in a shopping center parking lot in Carlsbad, CA.  Tears welled in my eyes for a minute.  I could scarcely believe I had made it, even though quitting was never an option.

I was elated beyond belief, and the elation carried me through the next day, about 50 miles weaving up and down hills around the coast from Carlsbad to Mission Bay.

I wouldn't trade a minute -- not even the most grueling of minutes in a dusty headwind uphill, when my glutes and calves ached from grinding through it-- for any other minute of my life.  It was at those times that my will got into gear with my bike, and I felt truly ALIVE  and grateful that I had the strength to do it. 

Seven years earlier, by this time of year, I had had two chemo treatments, had lost my hair and a good part of my memory.  I had read the Lance Armstrong book, It's Not About the Bike, and here I was pedaling  my way along beautiful Mission Bay, with one clear objective: to finish the race.