Getting Back on the Bike

I was angry at my body for letting me get cancer. After my first triathlon, I realized I owed my body a big apology.

Sweating and pedaling up a hill in Vermont, my cycling companions and I began to bemoan the inevitable soreness we'd face the next day. We were all middle-aged, and we were all on vacation, exerting ourselves more than usual. We knew we were going to pay.

"You know," one of my friends joked, "when I was young, I'd see those old people with all these aches and pains, and I thought, "I'm never gonna do that."

Ah, didn't we all? Didn't we all make such naive vows, about how we'd stay slim and healthy and somehow will ourselves immune to the indignities of aging? And didn't our bodies, eventually, betray us? Maybe just in little ways-an age spot here, a wrinkle there, a few sore muscles after a bike ride that wouldn't have fazed our younger selves. Or maybe with big betrayals-disease, disability.

And yet, I learned, even again, battle-weary bodies can perform small miracles. I'll never pass for a twenty-five-year-old, but I can appreciate my forty-three-year-old body's strength and wisdom in ways I never did before.

My story starts with my body's biggest betrayal-cancer. When I was thirty-four, I was diagnosed with Hodgkins lymphoma. That first bout in 1994 wasn't so bad; I weathered chemo and radiation sporting colorful hats and fun wigs. And I was confident because Hodgkins is the "good" cancer, a highly curable kind.


But in 1997, when the Hodgkins recurred, I entered that no man's land of gut-gnawing uncertainty. This time I felt divorced from my body, utterly betrayed. "Body," I said, "you've really blown it this time."

Even though we weren't on speaking terms, my body managed to survive with stoic grace, "sailed" through treatment, as my doctor put it. It didn't feel like sailing, but I had no problems other than the expected nausea and fatigue. After twenty-three days in the hospital for a stem cell transplant (a type of bone marrow transplant), I was so weak I could barely walk the few feet from the car to my front door.

Gradually, I began to recover, but my energy level remained low. Having exercised regularly before, I knew I'd have more energy if I exercised a little. But I viewed my body as gimpy and flawed. Better not push it. I slept instead.

As fate would have it, in early 1998, my crafty editor asked me to interview cyclist Lance Armstrong for a newspaper story. After a fierce battle with testicular cancer, Lance had just returned to competitive cycling.

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Mary Jacobs
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