Personal Profiles
June 8, 2008
Robert Freedman
Katelynn's Ride evokes sweat and memories for one survivor
Robert Freedman cuts the ribbon to begin the 2008 Katelynn's Ride.
The ride hasn't even begun, and I'm halfway through my second bottle of water when a stranger looks at my bike and says, "A mountain bike? You're just making it harder on yourself." He walks away. While I know some kind of gauntlet has been thrown at my feet, I'm more worried about the 90-plus degree heat and humidity that waits for me along my 50 miles of Katelynn's Ride through the Connecticut River Valley of Western Massachusetts.
The ride honors Katelynn Battista of West Springfield, Mass., a patient at Dana-Farber's Jimmy Fund Clinic who was 11 when she died of leukemia in 1997. "KRide" was born in 2001 as a sanctioned Pan-Massachusetts Challenge event, and Katelynn's father, Domenic Battista, is awed by its growth. Today there are 350 riders from age 5 to 73 traveling routes of 10, 25, 50, and 100 miles, and KRide has generated more than $1 million over the years to support Dana-Farber.
Katelynn has also inspired bone marrow drives that have produced thousands of donors and numerous matches around the world, according to Battista.
I first did KRide in 2005 and again in 2006. Last year, shortly after finishing my fundraising, I was diagnosed with prostate cancer. I watched the 2007 participants gather at the starting line, then turned in the money I had collected and went home. It wasn't until after my surgery that I thought again about biking and about Katelynn. I'm 59 now, and in early May I pulled my blue and dusty Mongoose from the basement and had it cleaned and tuned. My training "saddle time" was two hours along a friendly bike path, plus almost daily workouts at the gym.
Hampshire College in Amherst is our starting point on June 8. The ride begins not as a cavalry charge, but with me as part of a slow school of fish heading upstream – road bikers quickly taking the lead as the whir of 10-speeds overtake me. Above me are the watchful eyes of the Seven Sisters – a series of ridgeline mounds running east to west along the Holyoke Range that rise steeply between 300 and 1,000 feet over the valley. This is not a race, but I imagine those Seven Sisters cheering me on as I shift gears and pedal faster.
Twelve miles out at the first water stop, I ask a volunteer making peanut butter and jelly sandwiches why she takes part in KRide. Her disbelieving face tells me I've asked something stupid. "For the kids," she answers. "They're our future."
I keep heading north, and the rich brown earth of this valley is in bloom: white flowering potato fields, and corn seedlings stitched green into precise row after precise row. A man and woman probably in their late 20s and a little girl are carrying baskets. "What are you picking?" I call out. "Strawberries!" they shout. Everywhere there is lush green, orderliness, and renewal.
Robert Freedman participates in his third Katelynn's Ride.
Guarding the Connecticut River crossing is the looming rock-face of Mt. Sugarloaf. I'm over the bridge and along the back roads, alone except for the sound of crickets. Near Greenfield I meet a fellow cyclist. I ask him why he is here. "Three years ago this week I had surgery to remove a brain tumor. I'm celebrating my anniversary."
Soon I'm on what seems like a detour – a new bike path cutting through woods. The cooling shade reminds me of a Seattle bike path I had traveled with my cousin Deborah. She died in 2002 after her bone marrow transplant was rejected. She was 52.
Another rider I meet has had diabetes for many years. He hopes that fundraising will lead to a cure for cancer, and then for diabetes. Two years ago, leg cramps put a premature end to his KRide, and he didn't take part last year.
I've been pedaling for three hours, and in a hollow at the bottom of a hill I encounter a blanket of intense heat. With my head down, I bike through it and up another hill. I see the tallest of the Seven Sisters and wave.
My older brother, Richard, died of oral cancer in 2002. He was 58 and lived in Arlington, Mass. After his death, his wife and daughter became volunteers at Dana-Farber, where he had been treated. But in this moment on this road I remember only one thing: his English Raleigh bicycle. When we were kids it was always too tall for me.
I'm closing the distance to Hampshire College and the end of KRide. Nearly four hours have gone by as I approach the school and the last hill. My climb begins in the lowest gear possible, and I ask myself how and why I keep pushing. Maybe it has something to do with giving something of myself to someone else. Maybe it has to do with wanting to be a part of a community. I heard recently that cancer research is vastly underfunded by our government; maybe this is another reason why we do what we can. Flanking the driveway are photos of Katelynn and her own words. "Nothing is ever too hard to do if your faith is strong and your purpose is true." Katelynn gave me the answer I was looking for.
My journey is done as I complete the course in four hours. Seconds later, a member of the medical team approaches and tells me I look "wobbly." He leads me to a chair. My blood pressure is elevated, and my resting heart rate is 125. Someone drapes water-soaked towels over me, and I drink and drink – like the others who have been treated for dehydration. Thirty minutes go by, and my vital signs are normal. A medical team volunteer asks me how I am doing. "Good," I say. "Good."
While loading my bike onto my bike rack, I see one rider moving up the driveway in a slow but straight line. It is the man with diabetes. This year he will finish.
Robert Freedman, a retired postal worker, is a theater director and photographer living in Northampton, Mass. For more information on the event, visit www.KRide.org.
