I found Livestrong by accident. I was on a page, trying to measure out how far I went on one of my first rides this summer when there was an ad banner for the Livestrong Challenge in Philly. “Go ahead, pick a fight” it read. Sure, I had heard of Lance Armstrong, his foundation and I had definitely seen those ubiquitous yellow bracelets floating around, but I always thought it was some elitist jock thing – a club to which I would never belong. But something compelled me to click on that link and read more about the LS Challenge, and LAF itself. I joined livestrong.com (different from the .org) and created a profile – using it to help me lose some weight and get into shape.
There were different length rides to choose from, but I was still riding my boys’ size mountain bike at the time and had never ridden with a group before, so I was a little intimidated about signing up to ride – but I did see that they needed volunteers. I saw that as my opportunity to get involved and contribute to something that I so believed in. My pops is fighting cancer, and I was doing it just as much for him as for myself. You see, I am my father’s daughter to a “T” (is that how you write that?) and with the medical history of my family, I have to be very careful.
I signed up for a few shifts on Friday and on Sunday, the day of the ride itself. I showed up on Friday to help assemble the goodie bags that participants would get upon check in with some coupons, trial products and advertisements from big sponsors. The volunteer coordinator, I think her name was Lindsay, was organizing two tables of mostly moms and kids who were working in an assembly line – each one adding a new piece to the stack and passing it down. Since I didn’t bring anyone with me, I volunteered to be the one cleaning up garbage and restocking cards and supplies to each of the two assembly stations as they needed it. It worked out perfectly because I am skilled at opening and breaking down boxes with pocket knives and didn’t have to be sandwiched between two kids who would wonder who the hell this beefy lady was and why she didn’t know anyone.
Also, I got this awesome t-shirt (also pictured above)which had to be washed because it was a million degrees out on Friday and I was running around and sweating my buns off, and I had to wear this shirt on Sunday:
I got to PowerStop #2 on Sunday about a half-hour later than I was supposed to (if you know me, you know that this is par for the course) but lucky for me, the ride actually started later than scheduled and I didn’t miss anything. Of course, being late also meant that I had no idea what I was supposed to do and too embarrassed to ask anyone. Did I mention that I was late because I was partying the night before and was hung over? Way to Livestrong, Cattio, I thought to myself, and desperately wished that I got more coffee.. I was alone again and didn’t know why I was here.
PowerStop #2 was one of eight total stops on the 100 mile ride where riders could come in, stop at a portapotty, grab a bite to eat, drink, (not necessarily in that order) bring their rig over to a mechanic or see someone at the medic tent for a wrap or some Bengay.
The stop I was stationed at (click here for the course map) was located right before the route splits off, and if you’re on your way back, right after it comes back together. It was located on a gradient, which means that on your way into the course, you were going uphill, on your way back from the course, you had to cross traffic on the downhill to get into the stop.
The folks who gathered at this stop cheered like hell when they saw the first chunk of riders to come up the hill. I was clapping, still hung over, not much for yelling or cheering yet. After a small pile up right at the mouth of the stop, one of the volunteers began directing traffic to get riders to go up and park their bikes at the rack instead of just stopping in the travel lane. For more than afew minutes, it was absolute mayhem.
After the knot of riders thinned out, the woman who was directing traffic needed to go do something else, so someone asked me to step in.
“Are you working here?” she asked.
“In theory,” I replied.
She explained what I needed to do and I went out and cured my hangover with heat, sun and soon – screaming. It didn’t take long for me to find a groove here. I realized that this would be the last rest stop for riders on their way down to the finish, and for most of them it was a hilly, ugly course. (For accounts of the ride itself, visit FatCyclist – Elden, aka Fatty, is an amazing writer and I have been following his blog for a few months now.)
The lady who was running the show (I think her name was Maureen) over there was from UPenn, they sponsored the PowerStop. She wondered how I, completely alone, came to volunteer at their stop. I just picked something off the list, I said. She smiled with surprise and said she was happy to have me.
I thought everyone could use a cheerleader at this point. I clapped so much, so hard that the next day the knuckles on the palm of my left hand were swollen and painful to the touch. I yelled so much, things like, “good job, rider! keep it going, rider! come on in, rider!” anything to keep these guys and gals encouraged.. I recognized some people coming down who I saw going up, someone wearing an Eagles jersey who was really a Giants fan (poor guy, I asked him if he lost a bet, oddly he said no). I saw a bike messenger sporting a full beard, sporting his Chrome messenger bag – looking fully out of place amidst a sea of bright colored spandex and lycra.. When I saw him coming back down I pointed and yelled, “yeah! there’s my messenger!” and the biggest smile unfurled across his face.
I also pissed off some locals. See, coming back down was really dangerous for these guys because they had to cross traffic on a hill, so I got out in the middle of the road with my hand up to oncoming traffic until a line of riders passed or ducked into the PowerStop. One lady who was trying to get in to see her son as he passed almost ran over myself and a guy named Dan who was helping me – her Volvo barreled right over the orange cones we had set out on the grates at the mouth of the entrance, a cone got wedged up under her bumper and it took a few minutes for a volunteer to dislodge the thing. She crushed the cup of water I had sitting there on the asphalt. I was happy it wasn’t myself, Dan or a rider she decided to run over. By the way, her son didn’t show up at the stop for another 40 minutes or so, so she stood there, eyeing up the road – I hope she was embarrassed – she could’ve killed someone.
The whole time leading up to the Livestrong Challenge I was thinking, I’ll volunteer this year and ride next year. I thought that I would love to be able to pick a fight with cancer by rocking the century. Except something changed my mind: riders were saying thank you. A lot of them. “Thank you for being here,” they would say. “Thank you for volunteering.” and I said, “you’re doing all the heavy lifting, thank you for riding.” I think I might continue to volunteer next year – do the exact same thing I did this year because by the end of the day, not only was I pretty damn good at it, but I realized it was one of the most rewarding things I’ve done in a long time.
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