PMC 2018... Why I Ride
As most of you know, I ride my bike across Massachusetts the first weekend in August every year to raise funds that go directly toward researching a cure for cancer. Hopefully you have a few minutes to read what I've written for you, but if you just want the details to contribute, skip down to the nuts and bolts at the end. That said, if you can't make the space in your day to read this, you probably need to read it that much more:-) Thanks in advance, both for reading and contributing!
My kids would definitely say I cry at everything. Actually, I tear up a lot and rarely let them spill over, so it's not really crying. I am honestly not usually a crier, but yesterday morning was different.
The temporary traffic light in the middle of Jelliff Mill Road has been the bane of my existence for a little over a year. The bridge needed to be fixed, so the light was installed to allow one direction of traffic to safely flow at a time. I've known for a while that the project was nearing completion, with the road being even more of an irritation than usual as it periodically has been closed entirely over the last week.
But somehow early yesterday morning, even knowing full well the project might be finished, driving down Jelliff and finding the traffic light blinking yellow instead of holding red or green, made me cry. You might think happy tears, and that would make sense, but no -- I felt the kind of tears that come with a lump in the throat and a tightening of the chest and a bizarre, though very real, sense of loss.
While we all intimately know the hackneyed expression change is hard, I'm pretty sure that I'm not mourning the change in traffic pattern. When it comes down to it, the addition of that traffic light, that ridiculously long sometimes completely empty, usually extremely irritating traffic light at which I always tried to beat the yellow, was actually a gift. That frustrating light added space to my day, gracing me with 150 seconds of stillness in what might otherwise be considered a whirlwind of rushing from point A to B to C and back to both A and B, of checking that I have the right dance shoes or scripts or snacks in my car, of not forgetting to pick someone up or drop someone off or better still of how to pick two kids up in opposite directions at the same exact time, of looking at Waze to figure out the best way to get to work that morning without hitting the unpredictable Merritt traffic, of putting together the puzzle pieces of the day to make sure the day runs as smoothly as a finished puzzle feels. 150 extra seconds just for me, whether I wanted them or not.
Grieving so immediately and intensely for the loss of that tiny space really made me think. Why, when I truly had abhorred that light, and did I miss it so deeply? As I let my mind wander, the possibilities coming in and out of my thinking, one reason kept coming back to the forefront. In all my rushing, and teaching, and worrying, and doing, the time in my days to think and feel has been slipping away.
For the past many years, I've been committed to training for a long distance event, but this year I haven't been focused on putting effort into a physical goal. This year has been about planning the next Bat Mitzvah, graduating from eighth grade, completing junior year, figuring out the college process, training a puppy, and handling a plethora of daily minutiae. Without daily training for a goal, the hours of solitary space I have had for years evaporated into the craziness of living. I may not be a crier, but I am definitely a thinker, and gradually I've filled my thinking spaces with doing.
A couple of months ago I heard through the grapevine (probably much later than others heard because I'm not on Facebook), that a friend was diagnosed with lymphoma. While I had been much closer with the family when our kids were smaller, they have moved away from Stamford and we naturally drifted apart. Regardless, I still feel connected to them and was pretty devastated to hear this horrible news about a guy who I can call to mind only as lively, quick-witted and fun to be with. It honestly took me a few days to actually believe the news was real. As I heard it, Jon had been feeling more tired than usual and went to the doctor to figure out why. I can only guess that he probably never imagined he would end up beginning cancer treatment almost immediately. Within the smallest of spaces, our lives can shift surprisingly, drastically and sometime devastatingly.
Learning about Jon and thinking about his wife Lauren and their two kids dealing with life altering news overwhelms me. I wish I was closer to them and could do something, anything, to help make their lives easier as a gift card for dinners just doesn't feel like enough solution compared to the enormity of the problem. I hate knowing that they are suffering and having to handle being blind sighted by cancer. No one deserves it, least of all this loving, gracious wonderful family.
But the helplessness I feel comes from two places and it is important for my well being to acknowledge both. Not only am I so sad and frustrated (and angry) for my friends, but also I am remembering how incredibly important it is for all of us to make space for ourselves to feel and to appreciate every day. That blinking yellow light on Jelliff Mill Road suddenly spoke to me, not as a nuisance, but rather as a tangible reminder that I haven't been slowing down enough recently. I haven't made space to feel excited for Ella's upcoming simcha, to feel proud of Drew's graduation, to feel amazed by Josh's college process. It takes barely any space in the day to feel happiness and goodness, but the benefits of that tiny space are infinite. Completing the puzzle is meaningless if we aren't making the space to enjoy putting it together, especially since the table it's on can be overturned in an unexpected second.
So, please note if you are behind me coming down Jelliff Mill Road, I plan to slow down noticeably at the mill to take a breathe and remember to make space to be grateful and consider how I feel throughout my day. While emotions are fleeting and getting caught up in them can sometimes lead me to a quagmire of negativity, allowing myself to feel in the space of each separate moment can bring a deeper sense of joy, love and well being. I can't believe I had lost sight of that, even for a moment. That shit's slippery, said my friend about feeling amazing, strong and happy when I was flying high right after finishing my first Ironman. We have to be deliberate in making space to feel or we succumb to the busy-ness of our days taking over entirely. You can be sure I'll be feeling deeply through every mile of my bike ride across Massachusetts.
Of course, most of you know that I ride in the Pan Mass Challenge to raise funds that go directly towards finding a cure for cancer. I ride for my incredibly grateful and loving mother in law Nancy, for my remarkable and kind friend Deb, for Jon who is waging his own battle daily. I ride with my dear friend Pam who lost her beautiful sister Deb far too early and far too young. I ride for my grandpa Sol and so many other relatives, friends and strangers.
I do cry while I ride, because every single one of the 6,200 riders with me (and 4,000 volunteers) have made space in their lives to feel the pain cancer can bring and to feel love enough to help work towards a cure. There's powerful positivity in that, and it feels strong and important. Even if you choose not to financially support my ride (though I hope you do:-), thank you for reading this. Maybe you can find a little extra space in your days to feel a little more than you usually do, and just breathe with kindness, strength, joy, empathy, and appreciation.
The nuts and bolts: I will be riding in the Pan Mass Challenge the first weekend in August to raise funds for the Dana Farber Cancer Center in Massachusetts. Every cent raised goes directly to researching cures for cancer. Please help support my ride by sending a check made out to PMC to me at 17 Broad Brook Lane, Stamford, CT 06907 or accessing my personal page at http://www2.pmc.org/profile/SL0143.
Thank you in advance for your help. Unfortunately, I am sure you have your own connection to cancer… however much or however little; every penny helps to bring us one step closer to a cure. This is why I ride.
PMC 2018... Why I Ride
As most of you know, I ride my bike across Massachusetts the first weekend in August every year to raise funds that go directly toward researching a cure for cancer. Hopefully you have a few minutes to read what I've written for you, but if you just want the details to contribute, skip down to the nuts and bolts at the end. That said, if you can't make the space in your day to read this, you probably need to read it that much more:-) Thanks in advance, both for reading and contributing!
My kids would definitely say I cry at everything. Actually, I tear up a lot and rarely let them spill over, so it's not really crying. I am honestly not usually a crier, but yesterday morning was different.
The temporary traffic light in the middle of Jelliff Mill Road has been the bane of my existence for a little over a year. The bridge needed to be fixed, so the light was installed to allow one direction of traffic to safely flow at a time. I've known for a while that the project was nearing completion, with the road being even more of an irritation than usual as it periodically has been closed entirely over the last week.
But somehow early yesterday morning, even knowing full well the project might be finished, driving down Jelliff and finding the traffic light blinking yellow instead of holding red or green, made me cry. You might think happy tears, and that would make sense, but no -- I felt the kind of tears that come with a lump in the throat and a tightening of the chest and a bizarre, though very real, sense of loss.
While we all intimately know the hackneyed expression change is hard, I'm pretty sure that I'm not mourning the change in traffic pattern. When it comes down to it, the addition of that traffic light, that ridiculously long sometimes completely empty, usually extremely irritating traffic light at which I always tried to beat the yellow, was actually a gift. That frustrating light added space to my day, gracing me with 150 seconds of stillness in what might otherwise be considered a whirlwind of rushing from point A to B to C and back to both A and B, of checking that I have the right dance shoes or scripts or snacks in my car, of not forgetting to pick someone up or drop someone off or better still of how to pick two kids up in opposite directions at the same exact time, of looking at Waze to figure out the best way to get to work that morning without hitting the unpredictable Merritt traffic, of putting together the puzzle pieces of the day to make sure the day runs as smoothly as a finished puzzle feels. 150 extra seconds just for me, whether I wanted them or not.
Grieving so immediately and intensely for the loss of that tiny space really made me think. Why, when I truly had abhorred that light, and did I miss it so deeply? As I let my mind wander, the possibilities coming in and out of my thinking, one reason kept coming back to the forefront. In all my rushing, and teaching, and worrying, and doing, the time in my days to think and feel has been slipping away.
For the past many years, I've been committed to training for a long distance event, but this year I haven't been focused on putting effort into a physical goal. This year has been about planning the next Bat Mitzvah, graduating from eighth grade, completing junior year, figuring out the college process, training a puppy, and handling a plethora of daily minutiae. Without daily training for a goal, the hours of solitary space I have had for years evaporated into the craziness of living. I may not be a crier, but I am definitely a thinker, and gradually I've filled my thinking spaces with doing.
A couple of months ago I heard through the grapevine (probably much later than others heard because I'm not on Facebook), that a friend was diagnosed with lymphoma. While I had been much closer with the family when our kids were smaller, they have moved away from Stamford and we naturally drifted apart. Regardless, I still feel connected to them and was pretty devastated to hear this horrible news about a guy who I can call to mind only as lively, quick-witted and fun to be with. It honestly took me a few days to actually believe the news was real. As I heard it, Jon had been feeling more tired than usual and went to the doctor to figure out why. I can only guess that he probably never imagined he would end up beginning cancer treatment almost immediately. Within the smallest of spaces, our lives can shift surprisingly, drastically and sometime devastatingly.
Learning about Jon and thinking about his wife Lauren and their two kids dealing with life altering news overwhelms me. I wish I was closer to them and could do something, anything, to help make their lives easier as a gift card for dinners just doesn't feel like enough solution compared to the enormity of the problem. I hate knowing that they are suffering and having to handle being blind sighted by cancer. No one deserves it, least of all this loving, gracious wonderful family.
But the helplessness I feel comes from two places and it is important for my well being to acknowledge both. Not only am I so sad and frustrated (and angry) for my friends, but also I am remembering how incredibly important it is for all of us to make space for ourselves to feel and to appreciate every day. That blinking yellow light on Jelliff Mill Road suddenly spoke to me, not as a nuisance, but rather as a tangible reminder that I haven't been slowing down enough recently. I haven't made space to feel excited for Ella's upcoming simcha, to feel proud of Drew's graduation, to feel amazed by Josh's college process. It takes barely any space in the day to feel happiness and goodness, but the benefits of that tiny space are infinite. Completing the puzzle is meaningless if we aren't making the space to enjoy putting it together, especially since the table it's on can be overturned in an unexpected second.
So, please note if you are behind me coming down Jelliff Mill Road, I plan to slow down noticeably at the mill to take a breathe and remember to make space to be grateful and consider how I feel throughout my day. While emotions are fleeting and getting caught up in them can sometimes lead me to a quagmire of negativity, allowing myself to feel in the space of each separate moment can bring a deeper sense of joy, love and well being. I can't believe I had lost sight of that, even for a moment. That shit's slippery, said my friend about feeling amazing, strong and happy when I was flying high right after finishing my first Ironman. We have to be deliberate in making space to feel or we succumb to the busy-ness of our days taking over entirely. You can be sure I'll be feeling deeply through every mile of my bike ride across Massachusetts.
Of course, most of you know that I ride in the Pan Mass Challenge to raise funds that go directly towards finding a cure for cancer. I ride for my incredibly grateful and loving mother in law Nancy, for my remarkable and kind friend Deb, for Jon who is waging his own battle daily. I ride with my dear friend Pam who lost her beautiful sister Deb far too early and far too young. I ride for my grandpa Sol and so many other relatives, friends and strangers.
I do cry while I ride, because every single one of the 6,200 riders with me (and 4,000 volunteers) have made space in their lives to feel the pain cancer can bring and to feel love enough to help work towards a cure. There's powerful positivity in that, and it feels strong and important. Even if you choose not to financially support my ride (though I hope you do:-), thank you for reading this. Maybe you can find a little extra space in your days to feel a little more than you usually do, and just breathe with kindness, strength, joy, empathy, and appreciation.
The nuts and bolts: I will be riding in the Pan Mass Challenge the first weekend in August to raise funds for the Dana Farber Cancer Center in Massachusetts. Every cent raised goes directly to researching cures for cancer. Please help support my ride by sending a check made out to PMC to me at 17 Broad Brook Lane, Stamford, CT 06907 or accessing my personal page at http://www2.pmc.org/profile/SL0143.
Thank you in advance for your help. Unfortunately, I am sure you have your own connection to cancer… however much or however little; every penny helps to bring us one step closer to a cure. This is why I ride.
| 2022 | $385.00 | PMC Fundraiser |
| 2018 | $4,230.00 | Wellesley to Bourne (1-Day, Sat) |
| 2017 | $5,806.00 | Wellesley to Bourne (1-Day, Sat) |
| 2016 | $4,246.00 | Wellesley to Bourne (1-Day, Sat) |
| 2015 | $5,052.00 | Wellesley to Bourne (1-Day, Sat) |
| 2013 | $3,600.00 | Wellesley to Bourne (1-Day, Sat) |
| 2012 | $3,100.00 | Wellesley to Bourne (1-Day, Sat) |
| 2011 | $3,103.50 | Wellesley to Bourne (1-Day, Sat) |
| 2010 | $6,309.00 | Wellesley to Provincetown Monument (2-Day) |
| 2009 | $3,460.00 | Wellesley to Bourne (1-Day, Sat) |
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Susan Leferman
