150 Miles and One More Miracle
Bill Butler
It started out foggy and cool. I had to wipe my glasses several times to be able to see the bicycles ahead of me. We couldn’t see the houses back from the road, or much other scenery. But I was riding another MS 150. A year ago I might have told you I would never do one again.
***
I had ridden three of these 150-mile fund-raisers for the National Multiple Sclerosis Society. I always ask my friends and neighbors to contribute and support my ride. But in April of 1999 I developed a strange, intense pain in my left shoulder after a flight back from Ohio. The pain spread quickly to my neck and right shoulder, then down my back. Soon my neck was so stiff I couldn’t turn it left or right. I was unable to ride in the 1999 MS 150 that May, and I wondered what else I was gong to lose.
The chiropractor couldn’t help, and neither could the acupuncturist. My GP referred me to a rheumatologist who couldn’t diagnose it, even after x-rays and a bone scan. But he did find a medicine that controlled the pain—or perhaps most of it. Indomethecin, it was called, and it was known to damage the stomach. A second rheumatologist did diagnose my illness, using DNA analysis. I had Reiter’s Syndrome, or reactive arthritis, which is an auto-immune reaction to infection. Only a tiny population is pre-disposed to get this disease. I had never heard of it. But with the diagnosis came no cure. I began taking antibiotics along with something to protect me from the Indomethecin.
Although the pain and stiffness in my neck and shoulders were mostly under control now because of the medicine, the disease spread to my feet. My heels were inflamed, as were two joints on my left foot. I was referred to a physical therapist who put me through 2 months of thrice-weekly flexibility and strength exercises, and the feet stayed the same while my left knee became swollen to twice its normal size. I couldn’t get off the floor without holding on to something. I could barely walk—usually only taking steps half my normal stride.
The next spring came up, and the MS 150 was out of the question. I just wanted to survive. I did get a new job, a much better one, and I was thankful that they didn’t take a good look at how I walked—or if they did, that they didn’t hold it against me. At work, I was definitely not my best. I was still trying to go to the YMCA and work out every day. It hurt to have to reduce the weights on the weight circuit. I kept wondering which weight I would have to reduce next.
Then, on the first of October, 2000, came worse news. A bleeding ulcer, caused by the medicine I had been taking. My doctors had told me it would happen eventually—but I was hoping it wouldn’t be for a long time. I had never had stomach trouble. Now my rheumatologist took me off Indomethecin, and told me I could take nothing stronger than Tylenol. I asked him if there was a diet for this arthritis pain. He said no, there was no diet for this. He then referred me for treatment of the bleeding ulcer
My new GP put me on more medicine, this time for the ulcer. He assured me the ulcer would be healed quickly as long as I took no more Indomethecin. But within a couple days my neck was hurting so badly that I started to get really scared.
I took my daughter to the library one Saturday afternoon so she could work on a school project. I sat there trying to read a book on management. My neck hurt so much I couldn’t concentrate. I kept massaging my neck and wondering what I should do. A voice inside me said “You don’t need to be reading about management. You need to be reading about arthritis.”
I went to the card catalogue (which is a computer now) and looked up arthritis. A title jumped out at me. How to Eat Away Arthritis by Lauri M. Aesoph. I wrote down the number and went to find it. Usually I don’t find books I need. But there it was. I took it and went back to the table to read.
Fast for two days, it said. Then eat nothing but apples. When you get back to eating other foods, eliminate all chemicals (like artificial sweeteners and preservatives, caffeine and alcohol). Eliminate all refined flour and sugar. Eliminate milk products, fatty meats, and even nightshade vegetables (tomatoes, peppers, etc.). Then after the pain is resolved, trying adding a few things back in, one at a time, so learn your individual reaction to them. She had pages of testimonials from arthritis sufferers who had experienced great results from the diet. But it was confusing. How do you fast? How long do you eat apples?
I can’t fast, anyway. But we had some apples at home, so that evening I went on the apple diet. I sat in my lazy boy, feeling in some sort of shock, really quite terrified, and out of desperation started eating apples. Apples that night, apples for breakfast. Apples for lunch. My wife, Mary, went out and bought more apples, and I had apples for dinner. Luckily, October is a good month for apples, and I have always found a good crunchy apple quite delicious. Sunday night, as I went to bed, I noticed I felt quite a bit better. The pain in my neck was at least 50% less.
I started eating apples for breakfast and dinner, and salads for lunch. The pain continued to abate, although my feet were still a real problem. And now I had another worry. My office wanted me to spend 8 days on the road. I would travel to L. A., get to visit my parents in San Diego, then travel to Northern Virginia, upstate New York and South Carolina. How would I be able to walk through all those airports? I imagined myself riding in those carts they reserve for old people and handicapped people. But I was feeling a little better each day. I loaded up on apples and fresh vegetables and went to the airport.
I was able to walk through L. A. International without a handicapped cart! I spent a half day on my feet Saturday morning, then drove to my parents’ 55th wedding anniversary in San Diego. My brothers and parents noticed me limping, but to me things were better than they had been for months. My Mom suggested I add MSM and digestive enzymes to my regimen, which I still do. I ate fish and salad at the big dinner, had a lot of laughs with my family, then flew back east. I was eating from a plastic bag of celery and broccoli, refusing airline food, and feeling a little better each day. When I finally returned the following Friday night, I was charged up about everything.
I spent the rest of the month eating salads, fish, a little chicken, vegetables, and of course apples. Things continued to improve. Then, on Halloween night, as the Trick-or-Treaters were coming to the door, I ate some candy and two pieces of pizza. Within an hour the pain was back in my neck. But I felt better the next morning, and swore I wouldn’t get off the diet again.
In November I went back to my GP and he told me my ulcer was resolved. I also went back to my rheumatologist and he was amazed. He pronounced me cured. He said I didn’t need to set any more appointments. I told him he should recommend this diet to his patients, and he asked for the book title and author. I couldn’t remember it and told him I would call him back.
As the weeks passed, I found myself relaxing the diet more and more. By May, I was eating good breakfasts 100% of the time, good lunches and dinners 75%, and having bad snacks rarely—and I had not had even one diet soda in six months. My symptoms were so reduced that it was hard to tell them from normal aches and pains of aging.
But I never called my rheumatologist back. Why? I guess I didn’t really believe I was cured. Two years of illness had left me in a kind of shock. We would see if I was really cured. But how would I know? In January came the notice of the next MS 150, to be ridden May 19 and 20. That’s how I would know. If I could ride 150 miles on a bicycle in two days, I would consider myself cured. Then I would tell him about the book, and the diet.
***
I was really doing it! As we left the starting place at the Suffolk Airport, I was riding through a crowd of cyclists, getting through the start, trying to find a pace line. Some riders were much too fast for me, some were too slow. I weaved through the individual riders. For several minutes, I was also an individual. But then along came a line of 6 or 7 riders, going a little faster than me, but not too much faster. I jumped into line at the end, and that wonderful phenomenon happened again, just like I knew it would. My speed jumped from 15 to 20 miles per hour. I was drafting on them, and my speed jumped 33% with only a tiny extra expenditure of energy.
I rode with them for most of the first leg. We chatted a little, but it isn’t easy to talk with a person whose back is turned to you—or to a person behind you. We griped a little about the fog, about not being able to see the scenery.
At the first rest stop, I let that pace line get away from me by resting too long. At the rest stops, there are always lots of spring water, high carbohydrate snacks, bananas, and porta-potties. I stretched out, loaded back up on water, and headed out. Soon another group came up, going even faster. I got into line. Now I was going 21, 22 miles per hour. But this became tiring, and after 8 miles or so I had to drop back. Then it was time to bicycle alone.
I got into another line after the next rest stop, and met Maurice. He was a muscular African-American in a tight-fitting, matching cycling outfit. He had a shiny bike with his name hand-lettered onto it. He was full of spirit, passing us, dropping back, cheering us on, challenging us, making jokes, even singing religious songs. I followed him for a little ways, and he was off again. I was to see Maurice many times over the two days, because he was so noticable—he was striking-looking, loud, good-natured, and in no hurry to finish. He would drop back to be with people he enjoyed, chatting, waiting a long time at rest stops, then he would pass everyone again.
It was not hard that morning. There was no wind, and headwinds are a cyclist’s curse. There was no sunshine, so we didn’t overheat. Once, three years ago, it had gotten up to 97 degrees and I had become dehydrated. That was the day I learned to force fluids at every rest stop. If I ever left a stop without urinating, I was becoming dehydrated. But today, there was little chance of that. If anything, it might become too cold. And there was a forecast of thunderstorms in the afternoon and evening, and perhaps rain tomorrow for the ride back.
There are always 7 rest stops, with about 10 miles between them. The middle stop is lunch. Lunch is always the same: peanut butter and jelly sandwiches and pasta salad. The bread isn’t whole wheat and I am sure had preservatives in it, but I ate and sat in a comfortable outside chair with arms on it.
It is called lunch because it is halfway to the destination—but it usually comes at about 9:30 or 10 AM, because we start at 7 AM and have had breakfast at home an hour or more before that. We are happy to sit and eat. Then we stretch and get back on those bicycle seats.
After lunch the griping begins in earnest. The most common gripe is about our sore fannies. Some people have sore hands, numb hands, or “numb-nuts.” Some are getting just plain winded. For me, however, there was also the problem with my back and neck. To ride a road bike you have to get into an aerodynamic position, hands down low on the “drops” (the lower part of the handlebars),while the seat is raised to allow for a full leg extension for power. My lower back and neck have always bothered me in that position. But on recent practice rides it was worse than ever. I found I could stretch out my neck the opposite way by forcing my chin to my chest and holding it there. That had the disadvantage of not letting me see the road ahead of me. But I could give everything a good look first and it would work. The back was a tougher nut to crack. I had gone to a chiropractor to fix the back, and had taken a preventive dose of 800 mg of ibuprophen before the ride started. Now I found that when I dropped down into the full aerodynamic position, the pain returned. But with my hands on the top part of the handlebars, the pain stayed away. For a while.
As the day wears on, the faster riders are well past me, and the slower ones are well back. That’s when I tend to ride alone, or with one other person. I met several nice people to chat with—a Navy radioman from Pennsylvania, a man named Jim who worked for an insurance company, a Baptist youth minister from Richmond named Mark. Sometimes we would ride side by side so we could talk. There was no use in hurrying, now. We were tired, and no more pace lines would be passing us that we could perhaps join.
The sun did come out that afternoon, and it was a very nice day. Finally it was hot enough to remind us we were working. The sweat was dripping down my face onto my glasses. I cleaned them at a rest stop and noticed that the sun now lighted up the green colors of the North Carolina countryside. Pines, hardwood, bushes and grasses, even some wildflowers—red poppies--sewn along the roads by the North Carolina Highway Department.
And then we were in Murphreesboro, and Chowan College. I cruised in with Mark. At the finish line they greeted us with clapping and cheers, and even better, a cold towel taken from a barrel of icewater. A volunteer threw it over the back of my neck and I hollered with shock and delight. I found my favorite swinging chair, attached to the limb of a giant oak tree in the shade. I just sat there and vegged. Finally I had the energy to take a shower, retrieve my gear from the truck which had carted it down here, and set up the tent under that big oak tree. I pulled the sleeping bag out, laid it on the grass, and fell asleep on it.
I awoke in time for dinner in the Chowan cafeteria—same menu: baked chicken and spaghetti, some vegetables and salad. There was ice cream, too, but I skipped it. Then we all sat on the quad, in the grass under the great oaks, and waited for the ceremony.
We found out that we had raised $320,000, $15,000 over the previous record, for the MS Society. We heard some speeches and many people were honored. One man has ridden the MS 150 each of the 21 years it has been in existence in Hampton Roads. And the leader of the 65-person team from the Peninsula, the largest team and most successful fund-raisers, had died of cancer this past year. Then they had the drawings for gifts donated by local bike shops—and my number was one of the winners called! I won a nice long-sleeved cycling shirt, a pump, and an electronic odometer, plus some music tickets for a concert in Williamsburg.
I was exhausted as I crawled into my tent to sleep at 9 PM. I felt like God had been showering me with gifts. I would have been more than satisfied to just complete this bicycle tour, but now I also received these nice gifts!
I slept like a rock. I woke up twice to the sound of rain on my tent, but went right back to sleep. Then, at 5:00, I was up for good. I had some green tea while I waited for the cafeteria to open, then had breakfast chatting with a nice couple from Hampton. I hurried back to the tent, put everything away, and was on the road at 6:50.
This day was overcast and cool. I worried that it might rain—once I had ridden for an hour in a downpour, but that had been on a hot day. It had been a problem, but we all gritted our way through it. I remember wringing out my socks like a wet washcloth. But today was cold, and rain would make it very difficult to ride. I had not brought adequate clothes for a cold day: just bike shorts, a T-shirt, and a cheesy rain-shirt in my front pannier.
I found a line to ride in, but we soon discovered another problem. We would be fighting a headwind the whole day. The cold wind blew down from the north and made the riding hardly enjoyable for me, although some of the riders appreciated that it wasn’t too hot. We all hated the headwinds.
First my right ankle, and then my right knee began to ache when I pushed myself hard. Those were new pains. I had to let a pace line go off without me and slow down. I could lock the ankle and just push with the leg, and the ankle stopped hurting. But I needed to flex the knee. The last thing I needed was a seriously bad knee. I found I could push harder with the left knee, the one that had been so affected with arthritis, and slack off on the right side. Several more times that day, the right knee began to hurt, and I used that pain as a reminder to lessen the stress on it.
I got into a line and stayed behind a massive guy, riding upright on a mountain bike. How he was doing it, I don’t know, but I suspect it had something to do with being young and strong. He wasn’t riding fast, he was holding his place in line. He blocked the headwind pretty well for me. The ride got a little easier for me. But suddenly he took off, passing the two people in front of him, leaving us in his wake.
It must have demoralized the leader of our group, the “pull”, because soon he dropped back to the rear, making me number two in the line. I got nervous; they were going to really expect me to take my turn leading the pack. The woman ahead of me did a great job, holding the pull for about ten minutes, and then she dropped back. We thanked her for her effort. I gritted my teeth and took my turn.
It is so much harder to be the leader. All of the headwind hits you full force. I tried to get my head down, to streamline myself against the wind. I grabbed the drops, in the full aerodynamic position. But I couldn’t maintain that position for long and came up on the handlebars. I just had to gut it out. Where I got that spurt of energy, I don’t know. But I held my position for a good ten minutes before I dropped back—knowing that if I maintained any more, I wouldn’t have the energy left to stay with the group, even in the last position. As I dropped back, the group gave me the same encouragement they had given the last leader. It felt good.
In the back of the line I began to regain my strength. After a while, another leader dropped back, then another. I would have to take the pull again. But I was saved by the lunch stop, which appeared mercifully.
At lunch I learned a new stretch. I always did the Achilles stretch and the quadriceps stretch, plus the chiropractor had taught me to arch my back to counteract the posture which made my back ache. The new one was the “swing stretch”: we lunched at an odd park that included a graveyard and playground equipment. A young man sat on the swing, held the ropes, and leaned as far back as he could. I did the same thing and found it did wonders for my back. Another thing also happened which was good for my back—and my fanny, my hands, my neck, my knees. I had run out of ibuprophen but a nice stranger gave me a couple to get me through the day. Bikers are all Good Samaritans, I have found.
I also noticed an odd sight—an attractive woman smoking a cigarette at the lunch stop. I laughed out loud, although nobody heard me. It was even funnier 5 minutes later. I was back on the road and I was passed by a tandem bicycle, a bicycle built for two, ridden by a man up front and the cigarette-smoking woman in back. I asked her if I had seen her smoking a cigarette, and she said yes, so I told he I ought to be able to keep up with her. We all three laughed, and I stayed right behind her as her beau up front, with her help, “pulled” me through miles of countryside. A tandem bicycle blocks much more wind than a regular cycle, perhaps as much as the man-mountain I had followed an hour before, and their pace was just right for me. At the next rest stop I noticed something even more remarkable—she was pregnant!
The tandem couple left before I was ready, and I found myself alone again on the road. I rode slowly, relaxing, ready for somebody to pass who wasn’t going too fast. There had been quite a few at the last rest stop. Soon who should come up again but Maurice. I told him I was glad to see him, and he said “I’ll only be here until my leader catches up!” Up came a motorcycle. He got right behind it and they accelerated into the distance together—he was drafting behind the motorcycle! The motorcyclist, a woman, was calling out their speeds as she accelerated, and he was yelling “a little more! A little more!” They went around the bend and out of sight like that.
I was alone again, but I knew somebody else would be by. Sure enough, after ten or fifteen minutes a group came up, including Andre, a wiry African-American, a couple named Patricia and Bruce, and a chunky guy named Mark—a different Mark. Mark led us for quite a while, and then he dropped back, and we all took shorter turns in the pull. I was more tired than ever and I told them I didn’t think I could do it. Mark said “You can, you can, you the man!” When it was my turn I took it like before and they all cheered me on—and again, it was difficult, but a source of extra energy kicked in and I did fine. Mark said to just hold 13 mph, but I held 14 for most of that pull, into the wind. When I dropped back, they all cheered and urged on the next guy. We began to talk about how the pain and discomfort we were experiencing was nothing compared to that felt by those with MS. We reminded one another that this was a sacrifice for others, for people who would probably be glad to change places with us if they could. As trite and obvious as that was, the sentiment buoyed us. For all of us, the sustained struggle was more mental than physical now. We knew we would make it physically. But we still had to talk our bodies into continuing.
After a while Patricia and Bruce and the others dropped back, and it was just Mark and I. He told me he was a physical therapist, I told him I was a social worker, and we talked shop for a while. I told him about my experience with a physical therapist that previous year.
At the next rest stop, I watched Mark, and when he seemed to be ready to go, I was ready, too. But he said to wait for Bruce and Patricia and Andre. “You dance with them that brought you,” he said. In a few minutes we were all back on the road together. My odometer was off (I had forgotten to punch it at one rest stop) so Mark’s was the only one among us. He kept shouting out the miles left to the final rest stop. We were all moaning about how hard this was, how we needed a rest. We stayed together, taking turns in the pull, that entire ten miles. We rolled in to that rest stop together.
There was only five miles to go now, and we set out together on the last leg. After a couple miles, Mark and Andre became a bit rambunctious and surged on ahead. I caught them and asked if they planned to race to the finish. The said sure, why not. We got back into line, and I was thinking about bicycle races I had watched on television. The first guy out tries to sprint, but uses up all his energy, while the other two, taking turns in the pull, gradually reel him in. Then he is out of it, and the last two fight it out to the end. I thought Mark and Andre must have been thinking the same thing.
Suddenly we were going down a hill, and Mark broke to the front, Andre also racing but not drafting on him. They had gotten the drop on me. I put my head down and pumped as fast as I could. I felt a surge of power in my legs and my sense of fatigue left me. I caught and passed Andre, then caught Mark. I rode with him a little and he seemed to drop back, while I pushed forward. I didn’t dare look back, but just rode with all my power. Soon we were at a little upgrade and I was slowing down. Mark would surely pass me now. But I got to the top of the grade and I was still in the lead. Now it was flat all the way to the finish, and I could see the Airport off to my right. How close behind me was he? I couldn’t hear him. I tried to look behind me, but didn’t see him.
When I got to the final turn, a 90 degree turn to the right, I finally could look over my right shoulder to see how far behind Mark was. I couldn’t see him anywhere! I coasted right up to the finish and the volunteers cheered. I really didn’t feel tired at all. I had time to get off the bike, get out the disposable camera, and take photos of my adopted teammates as they cruised in.
We all put up our bikes and reclaimed our gear. They had hot food and cold drinks prepared for us, and I found both Marks, sharing a little time with each of them. As we sat on the grass and ate, I found out that the second Mark and I had worked as consultants with the same medical practice in Virginia Beach. It was a small world after all.
When I finally dragged myself into the house an hour later, I was very tired. Mary and the girls were glad to see me, and Mary gave me a light kiss from a distance—I was pretty stinky and ugly looking, I guess. But I told her I was now cured. I may be older than most of those riders out there, but I am doing pretty well. It was the culmination of another miracle.
I still wonder if the people who put together these fund-raisers really understand the opportunity they give to the riders. I am sure I'm not the only person whose life is enhanced by this. So I want to thank the MS Society, and also those friends and neighbors who contributed money to the MS Society in support of me. We like to say it is for the victims of MS, and it is, I guess...but it is really for the riders!