Elizabeth McGowan - Outpedaling the Big C

Absorbing a cancer diagnosis from a doctor feels the same as tumbling to the ground from a bicycle, smacking the unforgiving asphalt. Its scary and hurts like hell. You can choose to lie there in a dejected heap, waiting until an eighteen-wheeler squashes you into roadkill. Or, you can pick yourself up and get on with living. I chose to climb back on the bike.

I n the spring of 2000, I was thirty-nine and had reached a major milestone: five consecutive years of cancer-free living. My oncologist in Wisconsin had just given me a clean bill of health after an exhausting eleven-year escapade with an insidious type of cancer called melanoma. Most people know melanoma as a skin cancer that can be tamed if caught early enough. What they dont know is how deadly it can be once it penetrates the skin. It will kill 7,230 men and women nationwide in 2019, according to the latest estimate from the American Cancer Society. More than 96,480 new melanomas will have been diagnosed that same year.

For years, I had been toying with the idea of cycling solo from the Pacific Ocean to the Atlantic Ocean. Now, I had a legitimate excuse. But I wanted my transcontinental journey to be more meaningful than simply checking off an item on a bucket list. I envisioned my undertaking as a fundraiser for cancer research in southeastern Wisconsin, where medical specialists at Waukesha Memorial Hospital had labored so diligently to keep me alive.

My ride was also about resilience. I wanted people to see that it is possible to survive the frightening plunge into the black hole of cancer and emerge with renewed physical and mental vigor. That meant being forthright and adept enough to talk about cancer in small-town diners, corner stores, health clinics, campgrounds, and peoples houses as I explored new territory. For a few shining moments, I wanted to galvanize folks across a horizontal sliver of this glorious, sublime, complicated, and often frustrating country that we all call home.

Why would an ordinary recreational cyclist bother to devote an extraordinary effort to engaging in daily conversations about this disease? As corny as it might sound, I believe that most people want to be part of the greater good. Sometimes you have to be the one who holds the door ajar. Deep down, we all know that nobody gets out of here alive. But I think most of us have the urge to make our stay, however brief, somewhat memorable.

Another reason I was inspired to pedal coast-to-coast was to pay tribute to the spirit of my father, Ronald McGowan. I wanted that time on the bike to give me the courage to delve into the pain of his death twenty-four years earlier. Melanoma, the same type of cancer that had wrapped its voracious tentacles around my skin, lymph system, lungs, liver, and abdomen, had dogged my father for decades. It devoured him whole in October 1976, a month after he turned forty-four. I was just fifteen. When I received my first melanoma diagnosis as a new college graduate, was it any wonder I figured his fate was mine too?

My route included several places where my father and I had spent time together. I wanted my journey to be cathartic so I could understand the complex person I believed he was. My childhood memories seemed too one-dimensional and superficial. I remembered his charm, quick temper, dedication to teaching, and how he minimized being consumed by a disease with no cure. I wanted to expose the connective tissue that bound those disparate pieces. This pursuit would allow me to seek my own truths about my father because I realized that I could never know who I was if I didnt know him. What surprised me is how my journey also let me dig deeply into my grief over his death, deep sorrow I was hardly aware I had been lugging around since high school.

I named my cross-country endeavor Heals on Wheels because the rhyme was catchy and the title was succinct. As my plan took shape, everything seemed perfectly aligned. I had my health, the luxury of time, and the proverbialand mandatoryfire in my belly. Every cell in my body was itching to go. Before I could settle into the next stage of my lifewhatever that might beI absolutely had to ride that bike. I outfitted my bike, fleshed out a fundraising proposal, and settled on a sensible west-to-east route.

Then, I started pedaling.