Meet Cordelia...And Bring Her Home!

This is my daughter, Cordelia. She's waiting for me in an orphanage in Zhenjiang, China.  She's two years old (almost) and has Down syndrome.

I always wanted to be a parent, but none of my options seemed quite right.  Then one day I read an article about the grim hopelessness of growing up with a disability in China.  I felt something click into place; it was the idea I'd been waiting my whole life to have.

I looked into adopting through the Massachusetts foster care system.  There are no fees.  But I knew that a child in this country, even a child in foster care, has access to Western medicine and education. I felt drawn to China, despite the staggering expense of international adoption.  And so I found the China Special Children program at Wide Horizons For Children, which swiftly matches adoptive parents with special-needs children waiting to go home.  I was matched with Cordelia, whose Chinese name is Xin Yi, at the end of January.

To help fund my adoption, I am working with an organization called Brittany's Hope.  Click here to donate.They provide grants to unite prospective parents with special-needs orphans worldwide.  If I can raise $5,000, Brittany's Hope will match it.   Your gift will be tax-deductible, and you'll be part of the community of people who help to show Cordelia what it means to matter, to have a family and a future.

NO GIFT IS TOO SMALL, and I'd be so grateful.

--Jen

Remembering Bobby Mac

Last June Bobby and I did the Cycle Kids charity ride together.  It was a metric century, notable for its 4,000 feet of climbing, and I wanted to do it because it cost almost nothing, I liked the charity, and I thought the route was pretty.  Various people turned me down but it never even occurred to me that Bobby wouldn't do it, despite the fact that he was still recovering from his eye surgery with nasty complications.  During the summers, Bobby and I rode together almost every day, which meant I should have been an authority on the limitations of his vision.  Instead, I was probably more clueless than most because Bobby was just perpetually up for everything.  Nineteen MPH out to South Acton?  Sure!  100 miles round-trip to Newburyport because I wanted a really good bagel?  Absolutely!  Every ride was wonderful, every idea was a great idea...I took it for granted.  In retrospect I realized that he had made some noises about the climbing, but I was doing a lot of climbing last spring and just didn't see the problem.  You come to a hill, you climb the hill; what's the big deal?

The ride had a rolling start and Bobby and I got there toward the later end of the window, having decided, first, to ride the 15 miles to the start/finish, and second, not to get up at the crack of dawn.  After handing me my bib number, the ladies at registration directed me to "Bob," who was doing the pre-ride talk.  He asked what route I was doing.  "The metric," I told him.

His eyes widened.  "Oh, no," he said. "You're much too late for that.  You'll have to do a shorter route. If you do the metric you won't make it back in time for the barbecue."

"I don't think you understand," I responded.  I've got Bobby Mac with me.  We don't do shorter routes. We'll be at your barbecue."  And off we rode.  Bobby, who overheard the exchange, thought it was just great, and chuckled about it for the next hour.  He also sang, shouted, "Go, team!" at other riders, and consoled me when I got us lost in Sudbury:  "It's okay, Iris--bonus miles!"  But as we approached Stow, the hills started in earnest, and Bobby got quieter.  I knew better than to ask how he was doing, but the dearth of pep talks, dirty jokes, and occasional coaching ("Iris, I think you stand up too much") did have me a bit concerned.

Finally, we made a turn onto a new road and I gave Bobby an opening I was sure he wouldn't be able to resist.  "Look, Bobby, we're on Lover's Lane!"  Nothing.  No lascivious come-on, not even a "Yeah, babe!"  Just silence. God, I thought, I'm killing Bobby.  True to the rest of the route, Lover's Lane was a steady uphill grind.  Guilt overwhelmed me.  What had I done?  At the top of it, as I prepared myself to stop and forcibly suggest gu despite how much that would annoy him, he piped up behind me, loud and clear:  "I know why they call this Lover's Lane.  It's because when people get to the top, they're like, 'Fuck me!'"  And that's when I knew he'd be just fine.

The thing about Bobby was, he believed in being your best self.  I found out only later that he was terrified of this ride, sure he wasn't in good enough condition, couldn't do all that climbing, couldn't see well enough for the fast descents.  But he didn't want to be the blind guy with limited capacities.  He didn't want to be the one others had to look out for.  He wanted to be Bobby Mac, up for everything, champion charity rider and you'd better believe we'll be at your fuckin' barbecue (which we were--take that, "Bob").  He wanted to be what the rest of us saw when we looked at him.  He was overjoyed after that ride, ready for anything, and stopped using his white cane in public.

Bobby once confided to me, probably at the MS ride or something similar, "Iris, you don't know this, but this bike thing sometimes changes people's lives."  I looked at him in surprise, not because it seemed at all like a foreign concept, but because he seemed honestly not to know how much he'd changed my life.  Sure, he taught me all sorts of things: draft, eat before you're hungry, go at your own pace, know what to kiss and when.  But Bobby's real gift to me was a glimpse at my own best self, through his eyes.

I was nothing special before the Quad ride.  Often irascible, frequently isolated, sometimes depressed, more than a little bit shy.  But suddenly Bobby was there, extolling my virtues to whoever would listen.  Road captain!  Charity Czar!  Thousand miles for charity!  The lovely Iris Miranda!  I remember Bobby booming the results of my first race to the assembled multitudes at the end of the bike path: "TENTH PLACE!!"  "Bobby!" I said, mortified, "There were only thirteen women in the race!"  "Shh!" he said sharply.  "TOP TEN IN HER FIRST RACE!"  Last week, in his hospital bed, he told me, "You're amazing.  Everyone knows it.  I don't see why you don't see that in yourself."

I wasn't with Bobby until the end.  I wanted to be, and told him I would be.  I think a lot of us did.  But he had other ideas.  "THERE WILL BE NO FUCKING DEATHWATCH" he texted to me, just a week and a half ago when he got the final death sentence.  And I'm upset and disappointed; there were things I wanted to say and I wanted him to be surrounded by his loved ones. But I wonder if his "no visitors" edict once he left the hospital was his way of preserving his own best self.  So we'd never see him truly fall apart, lose the ability to entertain and inspire, give in to this appallingly swift disease.  He wanted to remain Bobby Mac, the living legend, in our eyes.

And how do I honor that?  Seriously, what tribute would, could possibly, be appropriate?  The group ride will continue.  I'm sure there will be a ride in his name, to raise money for some worthy charity.  While he asked for no funeral, we will gather together for him nonetheless.  But in the end, I think I honor Bobby by trying, daily, to live up to what he thought I was. If I can be that person, even in fits and starts, then maybe I can hold onto the best of Bobby as well.

Harbor to the Bay: Sept. 21, 2013

My day started at four in the morning with that disorienting feeling you get when your alarm goes off in pitch-darkness.  I turned on all the lights to try to convince myself that I was really away.  I got dressed.  I drank a cup of coffee.  At 4:30 my ride arrived and I found Bobby Mac, the blind man who was the whole reason I was doing this ride this year, in the passenger seat in street clothes.  He was too sick to ride.  He was coming in to see me off and help with mechanical support at the start line, but then I'd be on my own.

Shortly before 5, I settled down to breakfast in the basement of Trinity Church.

Bobby sat across from me, looking like Death.  We had coffee and oatmeal.  Various people rushed over to fuss over Bobby and nod vaguely at me.  I told myself the coffee was working

Outside, things picked up when we encountered the Sisters of Perpetual Indulgence.  By themselves, they'd be a reason to do this ride.  They drive around the course, cheering on riders at pit stops.  They're a big part of the quirky spirit that makes me want to be a part of this event year after year.  Another rider caught a photo of me taking a picture of Bobby with a pair of Sisters.

Excitement mounted as the start time approached.  I found a Quad teammate to ride with.  Speakers reminded us that this is an all-volunteer ride, so 100% of the nearly $400,000 raised so far goes to charity.  I love the start-line feeling of people coming together for a common purpose, that ramping-up of energy and spirit that makes something daunting feel completely possible.  It's all the excitement of racing without the fear--just the sense, as you listen to hundreds of pairs of hands applauding through padded bike gloves, that you're part of something momentous.

The ride itself went well, though I missed Bobby.  On a ride of this length (120 miles) you really can't speed up or slow down for other people; you just have to do your pace.  So by Pit One, I'd lost my teammate, though I found more Sisters:

I rode alone for a bit, then spent about 25 miles with a guy who was doing a good pace for me.  On long rides, it's good to find someone who can ride in front of you and block the wind.  Rob and I took turns and this got us to the lunch stop, where we parted ways.

The next fifteen-mile leg was a bit depressing, as I wondered if I now had to resign myself to sixty solo miles into a headwind.  My speed dropped a bit as my motivation flagged.  At the Mile 75 pit stop, instead of quickly refilling my bottles, grabbing some sugar, and hopping back on the bike, I collected an assortment of snacks and sat down on the grass.

Which was when I saw Jane, the teammate I'd lost around mile 10. I was pleased to have found her, and even more pleased to see that she'd dropped her group, who'd been slowing her down.  We did the last forty-five miles more or less together.  Jane's stomach was bothering her--this can happen on long rides--and she dropped back a few times, but always caught up, and we chatted cheerfully for much of the ride while keeping up what I thought was a respectable pace.

Near the end, we came to the dreaded Hills of Truro.  Everyone talks about these with hatred and despair, and every year I sort of sail up them.  I always wonder if this is because of the adrenaline and sugar high, and if the next time I'll struggle.  But this year I finally had to conclude that the hills just aren't that bad.  And they're so close to the end--only five miles or so--that even if they were it really wouldn't matter.

Jane and I crossed the finish line together.  I did 120 miles in 7.5 hours of ride time, for an average of 16.1 MPH.  "Would you like some food?" a volunteer inquired.  "Oh, I'm not hungry," I breezily responded.  "We have some fresh, hot pizza," he offered.  I was halfway through my second slice before it occurred to me that maybe I should take my helmet and gloves off.

A gorgeous day!  A wonderful time for a great cause!  And you can still donate; just click here.  Thanks so much for all of your support.

Fall Charity Rides

On September 21, for the fourth year, I will ride 125 miles from Boston to Provincetown with the Harbor to the Bay AIDS ride.  This benefits four local AIDS organizations, most of whom saw their funding cut last year.  The programs were, bizarrely, too effective; the government decided to divert money from Massachusetts to provide funding to states who were struggling.  So these organizations need your help more than ever.

This year, I am not fundraising for myself.  I am fortunate enough to be sponsored by the State Street Bank team so I can ride as a guide for Bobby Mac.  Bobby runs my weekly group ride and has trained hundreds, if not thousands, of charity riders for this ride, the PMC, the Seacoast Safari, MS, and other events.  He is also legally blind due to macular degeneration.  Bobby and I are a great team, completing several sub-six centuries this year, and I'm thrilled and honored to be his eyes on this ride.  Please support us by donating here.

On October 13 I will participate in The Dempsey Challenge, a 100-mile ride starting and ending in Lewiston, ME to raise money for the Patrick Dempsey Cancer Center.  I'm riding in memory of my aunt Jackie, a heart-transplant survivor who passed away from cancer this past April.  Last year, I did this ride in her honor and it was a tough day.  It was 45 degrees and raining steadily at the starting line, and the weather didn't improve much.  I toyed with backing out, but I'd committed to Jackie.  The spectators were amazing--picture small children in head-to-toe rain gear, standing by the side of the road clutching cardboard signs reading "GO DADDY GO"--but even beyond that I was heartened by Jackie's frequent text messages, encouraging me to keep going, enjoy the chicken broth at the pit stops, think about how well I was doing.  It was like she was there with me.  She was an incredibly courageous person and I miss her.  To support me on the Dempsey ride, please click here.

The Triple Metric: 204 miles in 20 hours!

This was not a charity ride.  It was a brevet, which is a long, continuous ride during which riders are supposed to provide most of their own support and check in at specific "controls" along the route.  While it's not a race, there is a time limit.  A lot of the people doing these brevets are training for Boston-Montreal-Boston or Paris-Brest-Paris.

So on June 1, just before 5 AM, my friend Brian and I set out to do our first triple metric, riding ten miles to the start/finish line at Hanscom Air Force Base armed with headlights, reflective gear, multiple GPS devices and extra batteries.  Six o'clock was the official start, and we headed to Harvard and from there to a place called Tweedo's in Ashburnham, where we were met by my dad, Al.  I'm not particularly interested in being a brevet rider--I'd just wanted to do a triple metric--so Al was riding support, carrying food, Gatorade, extra tubes and wheels and even an extra bike.  We needed him just short of the halfway point in Northfield, MA, when my Garmin told us to take a wrong turn and we wound up on a dirt road in the middle of nowhere in Orange, with a flat tire and two torn spare tubes.  I figured that would set us way behind the other riders, but when we got to the barbecue joint in Northfield they were all there, happily consuming piles of pulled pork.

But it was really hot--that was the problem.  Ninety-six degrees with intense sun.  I felt just fine in Northfield, but then the wheels started to come off the wagon.  The next 20 miles comprised what was supposed to be the "recovery" leg--short and flat and hopefully an opportunity to pick up some speed as we weren't thrilled with our 14.6 MPH average.  Instead, we climbed 1000 feet, mostly on shadeless main roads in a headwind during the hottest part of the day.  Shortly after the pit stop in Sunderland, MA, I began to flag, and by the tenth mile of that next leg it was obvious that I was hitting the wall.  I was tired. I was nauseous.  My speed dropped to a 12 MPH average and the distance to the next pit seemed to stretch out before me.  An impromptu stop for ginger ale helped only very marginally.  I began to doubt my ability to finish.

By the time we rolled into Petersham, MA around 7:30, at mile 146, I was beyond exhausted, and lay in the grass staring up at the sky while other riders milled around and chatted.  I wanted to get in the car.  I was dehydrated and had wracked up a huge calorie deficit, but could not imagine eating or drinking.  Bobby Mac, who runs my group ride, texted and said it wasn't worth it and I should get in the car.  My friend Kate texted and said she knew I could do it and I should get back on the bike.  Another rider from my group, Tsun, said the worst of the climbing was behind us and the rest of the route was "not bad."  I drank Pepto Bismol that Al had in his car and ate half a slice of bread.  Then, somehow, I got back on the bike.

What followed was not pretty.  The sun was setting and I could not hold a line, instead swerving all over the road.  I'd try to focus on one object only to see four of them rotating in front of me.  My lips were numb and I had a hard time forming words.  Further, Tsun had lied, and this leg had just about the worst climbs of the entire ride.  We were headed to Sterling Center, 26 miles away, and I kept telling myself that all I had to do was get there.  Anyone can do 26 miles.  But in the back of my head I knew that would not be the end.  Who drops out of a 200-mile ride with 30 miles to go?  Who does that?

10:00 found me slumped in the doorway of a convenience store in Sterling, sipping a bottle of plain water, actually shaking with cold despite the 85-degree heat.  Brian chatted with Al, but I could feel him watching me out of the corner of his eye. I forced down a packet of gu and fought the urge to get in the car and turn the heat on high.  Then, somehow, I was on my feat and headed toward the bike.  I heard Brian tell Al, "OK, we'll see you at Hanscom."  And I realized suddenly that we actually were going to Hanscom, that we were going home, that we were going to finish the ride.  The decision had been made.

And once I grasped that, once I really wrapped my head around it, I was FINE.  Energy returned and we got our speed up over fifteen.  My appetite also came back and I ate the rest of my food as we rode. We skimmed through Harvard in the pitch dark and onto roads I knew.  Brian's Garmin died and I navigated.  My headlight died and I rode alongside Brian to take advantage of his.  I felt like a force field was actually pulling us in.  Side by side, we zoomed up the final hill and then glided down to applause at the finish line.  It was 12:40 AM and we'd been in motion for 20 hours.  Half the field had dropped out, probably because of the heat.  We celebrated with grilled cheese and beer provided by Brian's wife, and then I went home to discover that I was eight and a half pounds lighter than I'd been when we left.  It took several days to recover, but this ride was the ultimate triumph.

The Harbor to the Bay Ride

This is how your charity ride starts: you wake up at 4:11 in the morning.  Your alarm is set for 4:30, but your cat has decided that 4:11 is a more suitable time, and honestly, you're excited and don't need much persuasion.  After a flurry of last-minute text messages, your friends arrive a little after 5, and by 5:40 you're signing in in the dark outside Trinity Church at Copley Plaza.  You eat breakfast (oatmeal--it'll digest easily); put on socks, bike shoes, hat, gloves, helmet; affix your rider number (282) to your jersey, your bike, and the backpack containing a change of clothes that will go on the luggage truck.  You half-listen to the opening speeches; you try to be respectful but it's Time to Go.

I thought I could do well on this ride.  I'm in peak shape, had rested for the two days previous, and having learned important lessons over the summer about not dieting the night before a major event, I had consumed a huge plate of Pad Thai before going to bed early.  I was close to my fundraising goal and excited about that.  And when they finally sent us off I felt strong and solid, like I could ride for days.

I rode with Jerry, a guy from my team who proudly wore his Positive Pedalers bike jersey on this AIDS benefit ride.  He and I were reasonably well matched and drifted in and out of other groups.  Charity rides are not really about speed, except that sometimes they sort of are, and I was pleased to be in a large group of guys and going fast.  The idea when you're riding is to stay out of the wind as much as possible by keeping other people in front of you.  In a group like the one I had, it often doesn't make much sense for me to "pull" (or take the lead) because I can't go as fast as a guy in good shape and because I'm short enough that they can't really get a good draft off of me anyway.  So for the first thirty miles I got sucked along, averaging between 18 and 19, before we stopped at Pit Two and I got my picture taken with the Sisters of Perpetual Indulgence:

Then my heros started to drop off.  They got tired.  I did not.  Jerry and I took turns on the front until we got to the "lunch stop" (at 10 in the morning) at Mile 60--the Sagamore Bridge--averaging 18.3.   There I rested:

After lunch we walked across the bridge to begin the second half of our ride:

This is where the fun began in earnest, as we began to pick off other riders--slower folks, who were just doing 60 miles and had started at the bridge, and others who had started with us but were now starting to feel the distance.  We passed everyone we saw.  No one passed us.  I felt like a rock star.

Our next stop was the Mile 90 pit.  One of my favorite things about his ride is the pit stops.  On most rides, the organizers take direct responsibility for staffing the pits and providing supplies.  On Harbor to the Bay, though, each pit is sponsored by a different AIDS-related organization, and they're encouraged to personalize.  The Mile 90 Pit is one of my favorite places out of all the rides I do.  It's run by the Seacoast Gay Men, and they have managed to encapsulate every positive gay-male stereotype into a single pit stop.  They all wear grass skirts and hand out leis. Sometimes, though not this year, they play show tunes.  They offer a wide range of baked goods--regular and gluten-free--along with fresh fruit, and the drag queens who come out to support the ride congregate there.

I ate two brownies--a volunteer tried to sell me on a hummus wrap but all I wanted was sugar--and hopped back on the bike.  We did twelve miles on the Cape Cod Rail Trail and then got onto Route 6.

Things got hillier.  And windier.  I had taken the lead and, after pulling for a while, pulled to the left and gestured for Jerry to pass me so I could rest behind him for a while.  Nothing happened.  So I looked back and saw nothing but empty road.  At some point I had dropped Jerry and was on my own, riding into a headwind, fifteen miles from the finish.

Undaunted, I pressed on, passing still more riders, climbing a series of wedding-cake-shaped hills in Truro with an energy born of a surfeit of sugar in my system (I'd also been eating Oreos all day).   And finally, there it was, up ahead:  a crowd of people in orange "pit crew" t-shirts, waving flags and ringing cowbells and cheering.  The finish line.  Victory!  With an average of 17.8 MPH and a ride time of 6 hours and 42 minutes, I was the first woman to cross, and can therefore claim that I WON THE CHARITY RIDE.

This was a fantastic day (we even avoided all the rain) that raised over $450,000 for AIDS foundations (you can still donate; click here) and pushed people to previously unimagined heights.  One woman cried as she crossed the finish line.  One man crossed, tried to get off his bike, and tipped over sideways.  A bunch of volunteers rushed over and I could hear him, sitting on the ground, saying, "I'm just a little tired; that's all.  I'm just a little tired."

Some people rested.  I got up the next day and rode another 82 miles--still on a high.  I'm just a little tired myself.  But it was an awesome experience and I feel great.

Upcoming Charity Rides

Click on the links below to learn more or donate.  All donations are tax-deductible.

Harbor to the Bay:  September 15, 125 miles, fundraising minimum: $1000.  Money for this ride goes to support four local AIDS organizations.  These groups saw their funding slashed last year--paradoxically, because they were too effective.  The federal government decided to shift the funds to states that weren't doing as well.  So they need your help more than ever.

H2B is one of my favorite rides; it's the longest one-day route I do (though next year I will try a triple-K) and has the best volunteers, including an all-female biker group called the Moving Violations who ride around on their Harleys, directing traffic and just generally looking menacing.

The Dempsey Challenge:  October 14, 100 miles, fundraising minimum: $150.  This will be my third year doing Dempsey, which raises millions for the Patrick Dempsey Center for Cancer Care and Healing in Maine.  It takes place over 100 hilly miles starting and ending in Lewiston, involving more climbing than almost any ride I've done (Tahoe was more).  It's a great ride that hundreds of spectators come out to support.