I started riding in the PMC 29 years ago to honor my Mom, who fought two life-or-death battles with cancer.
Radical surgery and painfully intense radiation helped her survive breast cancer in 1970. When Mom discovered the lump in her breast, her doctors had told her she was not expected to survive. She was 42. Mom credited God's healing mercy for her miraculously good fortune, and with her naturally kind and strong heart, she lived a life of abundant appreciation and giving. Amid the mayhem of raising six children, working full-time and taking master's degree courses at night, she quietly celebrated each five-year, cancer-free milestone.
Cruelly, cancer returned 16 years later. This time, her chemotherapy was so toxic that it nearly killed her twice while the cancer steadily sapped her nearly superhuman lifeforce. She fought bravely, but she died in withering pain in 1990 -- still thankful to God for the mercy that had granted her the chance for a life of chaotic, abounding love.
I, on the other hand, could see nothing but anger and injustice. I raged for the next few years at the cruelty of a disease that could twice torture such a kind, strong, loving and caring soul.
My anger melted instantly, however, in the first few feet of my first PMC in 1994. As thousands of riders pushed off together, I found myself behind two grandparents on a tandem bike. The back of their shirts pictured the broad, crooked smile of a bald boy, their grandson, who had died that year at age 8. This innocent boy, and thousands like him, died the same painful death that my Mom had endured. But my Mom died at 62 -- after having been granted the gift of seeing six children grow to adulthood and meeting her first two grandchildren. This cancer-stricken boy had been robbed of his chance for the joy and love that we often take for granted.
In 29 years, I've missed the PMC only twice. -- when I was fighting my own cases of lymphoma. When a frightenly dire case of lymphomas threatened my life in 2013, I was saved by a drug that had not even been discovered when I started riding in the PMC. When a mild case of lymphoma returned last year, my oncologists were able to prescribe a much more palatable chemo regimen. I'm lucky enough to ride this year only because brilliant scientists found new and better ways to defeat cancer. And because donations like yours make their work possible.
I ride this year with a PMC posse that includes my brothers Paul, who started it all in 1992, stalwart friend Ken Surdan and his daughter Michelle, and Chip Greer, who rolls through 85-mile days with an impessive mix of humor and seemingly effortless speed. Together, Team Morris and Friends we have ridden more than 125 PMCs and raised more than $700,000 with the goal of helping those brilliant scientists save more lives. I hope you will join the cause, too :-)
Jim
p.s. I wrote this story of Sir Allen the Brave after meeting his dad on the PMC in 1998. I cannot think of the PMC without thinking of this little boy whom I never met.
My brothers and I were riding high at the last water stop of the PMC when the picture of a smiling boy stopped me with a shiver.
Coming in, we were making record time for the Morris boys. We would be rolling into Provincetown, Mass., the end of our two-day, 175-mile ride, before noon and ready to celebrate. Then my knees buckled at the sight of Sir Allen the Brave.
His picture was on his father's shirt. That can only mean bad news on this ride because the PMC raises money for children's cancer research. The boy in the photo was 3. He was riding a rocking horse, and he was beautiful -- blond hair, bright eyes and a smile that hinted at mischief, innocence, and wonder all at once.
His name was split above and below the photo -- Sir Allen the Brave. He had earned his knighthood fighting cancer. And he had lost the fight 18 months after he was diagnosed. His dad said Allen had loved being a knight. Whenever his father returned from work, Allen would meet him at the door with his orange plastic sword. Then he would hand the sword to his dad and bow his head, awaiting his father's touch of the blade to each shoulder.
Sir Allen died weeks after his third birthday. Half his life had been filled with chemotherapy, and through it, Allen had been as brave as any real knight could have been, his father said.
My exchange with his dad had been brief -- easily less than five minutes. I don't even know his name. I had approached him with hope of a story of survival and asked if Sir Allen was OK. He said he had lost him that year. Even now, I can't imagine asking a stranger if his little boy is still alive, but the PMC is about sharing both hope and loss, and this dad took the chance to tell the tale of Sir Allen's bravery and his father's pride in him.
I started riding in the PMC in 1994 in memory of my mother and the injustice of her death to cancer. I now also ride in memory of a three-year-old knight and thousands of children like him who face daily pain that no child should ever have to feel.
Jim Morris
I started riding in the PMC 29 years ago to honor my Mom, who fought two life-or-death battles with cancer.
Radical surgery and painfully intense radiation helped her survive breast cancer in 1970. When Mom discovered the lump in her breast, her doctors had told her she was not expected to survive. She was 42. Mom credited God's healing mercy for her miraculously good fortune, and with her naturally kind and strong heart, she lived a life of abundant appreciation and giving. Amid the mayhem of raising six children, working full-time and taking master's degree courses at night, she quietly celebrated each five-year, cancer-free milestone.
Cruelly, cancer returned 16 years later. This time, her chemotherapy was so toxic that it nearly killed her twice while the cancer steadily sapped her nearly superhuman lifeforce. She fought bravely, but she died in withering pain in 1990 -- still thankful to God for the mercy that had granted her the chance for a life of chaotic, abounding love.
I, on the other hand, could see nothing but anger and injustice. I raged for the next few years at the cruelty of a disease that could twice torture such a kind, strong, loving and caring soul.
My anger melted instantly, however, in the first few feet of my first PMC in 1994. As thousands of riders pushed off together, I found myself behind two grandparents on a tandem bike. The back of their shirts pictured the broad, crooked smile of a bald boy, their grandson, who had died that year at age 8. This innocent boy, and thousands like him, died the same painful death that my Mom had endured. But my Mom died at 62 -- after having been granted the gift of seeing six children grow to adulthood and meeting her first two grandchildren. This cancer-stricken boy had been robbed of his chance for the joy and love that we often take for granted.
In 29 years, I've missed the PMC only twice. -- when I was fighting my own cases of lymphoma. When a frightenly dire case of lymphomas threatened my life in 2013, I was saved by a drug that had not even been discovered when I started riding in the PMC. When a mild case of lymphoma returned last year, my oncologists were able to prescribe a much more palatable chemo regimen. I'm lucky enough to ride this year only because brilliant scientists found new and better ways to defeat cancer. And because donations like yours make their work possible.
I ride this year with a PMC posse that includes my brothers Paul, who started it all in 1992, stalwart friend Ken Surdan and his daughter Michelle, and Chip Greer, who rolls through 85-mile days with an impessive mix of humor and seemingly effortless speed. Together, Team Morris and Friends we have ridden more than 125 PMCs and raised more than $700,000 with the goal of helping those brilliant scientists save more lives. I hope you will join the cause, too :-)
Jim
p.s. I wrote this story of Sir Allen the Brave after meeting his dad on the PMC in 1998. I cannot think of the PMC without thinking of this little boy whom I never met.
My brothers and I were riding high at the last water stop of the PMC when the picture of a smiling boy stopped me with a shiver.
Coming in, we were making record time for the Morris boys. We would be rolling into Provincetown, Mass., the end of our two-day, 175-mile ride, before noon and ready to celebrate. Then my knees buckled at the sight of Sir Allen the Brave.
His picture was on his father's shirt. That can only mean bad news on this ride because the PMC raises money for children's cancer research. The boy in the photo was 3. He was riding a rocking horse, and he was beautiful -- blond hair, bright eyes and a smile that hinted at mischief, innocence, and wonder all at once.
His name was split above and below the photo -- Sir Allen the Brave. He had earned his knighthood fighting cancer. And he had lost the fight 18 months after he was diagnosed. His dad said Allen had loved being a knight. Whenever his father returned from work, Allen would meet him at the door with his orange plastic sword. Then he would hand the sword to his dad and bow his head, awaiting his father's touch of the blade to each shoulder.
Sir Allen died weeks after his third birthday. Half his life had been filled with chemotherapy, and through it, Allen had been as brave as any real knight could have been, his father said.
My exchange with his dad had been brief -- easily less than five minutes. I don't even know his name. I had approached him with hope of a story of survival and asked if Sir Allen was OK. He said he had lost him that year. Even now, I can't imagine asking a stranger if his little boy is still alive, but the PMC is about sharing both hope and loss, and this dad took the chance to tell the tale of Sir Allen's bravery and his father's pride in him.
I started riding in the PMC in 1994 in memory of my mother and the injustice of her death to cancer. I now also ride in memory of a three-year-old knight and thousands of children like him who face daily pain that no child should ever have to feel.
Jim Morris
I have chosen to keep all of my donors' information confidential; therefore it is not displayed on my PMC public donor list.
