The 2003 Tour of Hope
by Nat Cobb, MD

page last updated: 02/25/2008

Somewhere east of Rancho Cucamonga, things are starting to deteriorate. The road tilts up, it is 95 degrees, Beth is off the back, and Eric is bonking: “I think I’m going to puke.” Then he is off too, picked up by the van along with Beth. Wendy is next to fold, her Florida training didn’t include hills like these – and she’s been riding on a flat tire for miles! Bart, Patrick and I push on, sweat pouring, legs heavy from the 43 stoplight sprints getting out of Los Angeles. At the top of the hill we catch the headwind, a dry Santa Ana wind spinning thousands of giant wind generators in a slow science-fiction dance. At the time check we are 45 minutes behind the time our computer simulation projected for us; hot, dry and discouraged. This was only stage 2 of the Tour of Hope, a 50-stage coast-to-coast relay ride that 26 ordinary cyclists are trying to do in one week. Seven days for 3200 miles, an average speed of 20 mph, 24 hours a day. I try not to do the math, but can’t help myself. At this rate, we’ll miss the party in D.C. by 36 hours, maybe 39, counting time zones. Have we made a big mistake?

The idea for the Tour of Hope was conceived by Lance Armstrong and Peter Dolan, the CEO of Bristol-Meyers Squibb (BMS). Peter is an accomplished cyclist and friend of Lance, whose testicular cancer was cured by BMS drugs. The idea was to have a group of riders from the cancer community do a cross-country trek to spread the word about cancer research, particularly the phase of research called clinical trials. Problem is, the recent explosion of biotechnology has produced hundreds of new cancer treatment possibilities – but each needs to be subjected to rigorous scientific testing before the FDA will give its blessing for them to become “approved” therapy. Many cancer patients do not realize that they can volunteer to participate in a clinical trial, with at least the possibility of a more successful treatment. Our group was well selected to understand these issues: the 26 team members include clinical oncologists, basic researchers, oncology nurses, cancer survivors, cancer activists, and people who had cared for loved ones with cancer. We were also selected because we were strong cyclists: all had done century rides for charity or for fun and many were racers. For 8 weeks, since the group of 26 riders was chosen from 1000 applicants, we had been mercilessly trained by Carmichael Training Systems (CTS) coaches. We were outfitted with custom Trek bikes and Nike uniforms, flown to Princeton and to Petaluma for team-building and skills training, wined and dined and interviewed and photographed. We were divided into four teams of six or seven riders. Each of us had visualized riding two 60-mile stages a day, in dark and rain and glorious sunshine, along with our team. And now the rubber is on the road, and we are struggling.

The computer simulation model is a remarkable thing. A team from Trek Travel scouted the route by driving it both ways, entering a huge amount of data about distance, elevation, hotels, intersections, road conditions. Every 60 to 70 miles they scouted a transition point. Then a model was built that incorporated rider data from our time trials, road gradient, and prevailing wind; it came up with a projected time for each stage. Ha! Computer, meet reality – in the form of a gaggle of post-chemo, one-legged or one-breasted or one-testicled cancer survivors, a motley crew of middle-aged docs and nurses and researchers. The sun hasn’t even set on the first day, and I’m pretty sure we need to change the game plan.

Lance drops in for stage 3, injecting a needed burst of energy and enthusiasm. By that time my team is on the bus licking our wounds, getting a massage, and being driven to the next transition, but we catch the buzz. Lance is riding with us! He thinks we can do it! The anxiety is still there, but we start to regain our determination. It won’t always be a headwind. It will cool off. We will make up time. We can’t let Lance down. For people who spend their lives battling cancer, a little headwind is nothing. All of the teams start to settle down, ride more efficiently. We rotate riders on some difficult stages so we can ride harder and rest more. Ivana, CTS coach for our team, rides in the follow Subaru, watching us like a mother hen. Her voice is in our right ears, over the radio: “Let’s get organized. Keep rotating. Can you pick it up a bit?” She gives us our time and average speed every 20 miles. Our Tour of Hope has morphed into the Time Trial of Hope and some of us struggle with the transition, but ultimately we are all carried by the mission. This thing is larger than we are, and we’re not just doing it for fun and exercise.

I am still sizing up our team, figuring out what they are made of, and I am impressed. Wendy is so light the Texas crosswind takes her off the road, but since she beat breast cancer she has run her fifth marathon, first half ironman, and rode several stages of the Tour de France. Eric’s son had a brain tumor that left him blind, so Eric now goes all over the country arranging for disabled kids to ride tandems. Beth’s partner died of breast cancer, so now she rides to raise money for cancer research. Bart just donated bone marrow to treat his brother’s leukemia. When we first got together and everyone told their story, we were all in tears, amazed at the magnitude of suffering each of us had encountered. Now we are seeing the other side of that suffering, the Lance Armstrong side, that says: “I have seen Death. I will not back down.” I am humbled by the strength of this group, by the power of that message. After a dozen years of working with cancer survivors, I am learning the extent to which Lance’s story is present in each one of these remarkable people. For me, the physical challenge of the ride is reasonable; I have a lot of endurance and cycling experience, I believe I can make it. But lying in the tiny bunk as the bus rolls on to our next transition, the emotional enormity of this undertaking strikes me like a body blow. I will ride my heart out for these guys. We cannot fail.

Life becomes a time tunnel, focused three-hour blocks of riding like the wind interspersed with fuzzy off-bike time. Finish the stage, get on the bus. 20-minute massage. Eat. Sleep an hour in a bunk. Get off the bus, find your room at the Best Western. Shower. Eat again. Sleep another 90 minutes in a real bed. Wake-up call, time to get suited up again. Next stage starts at 2 AM. Team A is cranking, 20 minutes ahead of schedule! They arrive, we cheer and take off, warming up for maybe a mile before we are up to 22 mph. Every second counts! Arizona, New Mexico, Texas, Arkansas, Missouri are all behind us. Lance joins our team in Illinois for a night stage. He is excited to ride at night, thrilled by the rising moon, energized by us. We sprint to the county lines, whooping and laughing. Some kids on a street corner in a small town recognize him, and can’t believe it. “Holy cow, it’s really him! It’s Lance!” He smiles. Can you imagine high school kids in the Midwest recognizing a champion cyclist ten years ago? Lance has done a lot for our sport.

We are being totally, hopelessly spoiled by our support staff. They make sandwiches and hot meals for us, massage our legs, do our laundry while we sleep, hand us up food and drink and manage the transitions like a 2-minute drill in football. They would like to be riding, but they are excited to be part of this, thrilled to see us keeping our time. They are at least as sleep-deprived as we are, maybe more so since they have chores to do while we snooze. And snooze we do, every possible moment. We sleep in the lounge at the back of the bus, piled like puppies. We sleep sprawled across tables when we stop to eat. We are reaching a steady state, no longer worried about when to sleep and when to ride, we just do it. I call my wife from a Best Western: “Where are you?” she asks. I try to focus on the address on the phone. “Illinois, I think. No wait, it’s Ohio.” I love maps, love knowing where I am, but now it doesn’t seem to matter. We finished stage 38 ahead of the computer time, that’s all I know.

Much of the route is beautiful, fall colors and small farms and rolling hills. It’s amazing how much of America is rural. We seem to be going through it much too fast, before we can get used to one scene it has changed or been left behind. I’m still caught up in the momentum of the ride, but feel a bit wistful when we blast through a sunset without admiring the view. I try to take pictures as we ride, but the pace makes it difficult. Wendy manages to keep a journal and email it to her work every day – she is news anchor for WESH TV in Orlando – but the rest of us use spare time to recover.

Pennsylvania now, almost there, and our first real rain of the trip. We do an entire stage through the Alleghenies in pouring rain at 40 degrees. We warm up on the climbs, and our support staff hand us up water bottles filled with hot coffee. We freeze on the descents, trying not to lose it on diagonal tracks and slippery turns. Drivers here seem to be impatient, even angry. Must be getting near the East Coast. Then, amazingly, all four teams are at the same hotel in Maryland, just 30 miles from D.C.! Some of us get a full night’s sleep, and the last team rides in at about 3 AM, three hours ahead of schedule. Take that, computer! In the morning Lance is there, and Peter Dolan, and together we ride the last leg through beautiful fall sunshine, escorted by motorcycles and photographers. As we enter D.C. we are joined by the U.S. Surgeon General, Dr. Richard Carmona, and two members of Congress, New Mexico Rep. Tom Udall and Minnesota Rep. Jim Oberstar, leader of the Congressional Bicycle Caucus; they ride the last 9 miles with us. Our group is so excited we can’t slow down, but somehow the VIP’s keep up with our yellow peleton. At the finish, we ride on grass behind the bleachers to reach the stage. Suddenly I hear a bang like a rifle shot, and I am thrown forward onto the grass. I remember to relax as I land, and do a roll with the bike. The rear wheel is taco’d by the impact of the media ATV that ran into me. Like a good cross rider, I throw the bike on my shoulder and run to catch up. Then the Surgeon General’s aide hands me his bike, and somehow I ride the last 50 feet and climb up on stage, knees bleeding but mostly unhurt. On stage with the team, I feel disoriented, listening to speeches and looking out over a crowd with the Washington Monument behind. The transition is too abrupt. Shouldn’t we still be riding? Was it only a week ago that we were roasting in the California desert? Are we really finished??

Back home in New Mexico my first day at the office is torture; the details of daily life and work seem trivial. For that week the 26 of us were totally focused on our goal, and now the single-minded purpose in our lives has ended, been replaced by more complex and subtle pressures. I have completely lost track of how to sleep through the night; for several days I keep getting up at random times. I feel lonely, like I am supposed to have my teammates around me. I long to be on the bike, riding, riding. Why can’t life be like that?

Nat Cobb, MD

for more details on the Tour: www.tourofhope.org

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