The women with the canes.

This weekend I decided to join the 1,600 other folks in the area riding in the fundraiser for Multiple Sclerosis called “The Tour To Tanglewood.” This annual event seeks to raise money for, and awareness about, an awful disease, but, as I lined up for the 50 mile bike ride, all I was thinking about was handling the physical challenge ahead. As usual, I hadn’t trained and was ten years older since I last participated.

When the ride began, I struggled to get my cycling shoes clicked into the peddles, something I've never found as effortless as others. The day was bright, clear, and cool enough, and I felt good as we made our way out of the park. Within a few miles, however, I was already thinking about how much farther I had to go. Skipping the first rest stop, not wanting to waste any time, I tried to cycle as far as I could, as quickly as I could, but the "walls" were coming. Whether an unanticipated hill, or gust of wind, my pace decreased, and I wheezed myself into the next few rest stops. The final 20 miles were excruciating, and at the top of a few hills I wanted to quit. Even as I entered the park for the final few miles, I was questioning my ability to finish, but eventually I crossed the finish line.

It was great to complete the ride, but my 53 year-old legs were screaming their dismay. I joined the other riders, to discuss our experience over lunch, and all I could think about was what I had done, what struggles I had endured, and how sore I was.

As I walked awkwardly toward my car, I came upon them: three African-American women standing together talking, each with a cane. It didn’t take me long to realize they each suffered from MS. They were the reason for the event. They were the reason we rode.

Looking at them with their canes, the soreness in my legs became insignificant. All my moaning and complaining became an embarassment.  The day was not about me and my achievement. It was about the women and their canes.