100 Miles After Cancer

From hearing "you have cancer" to crossing a 100-mile finish line, a story of grit, grief, and gratitude.

BY LAURA KHOURY

Last July, I heard three words I never expected at 28: "You have cancer."

After noticing a lump on my throat, fighting to be heard by doctors, pushing through appointment after appointment, ultrasounds, biopsies, I finally got the news I'd been dreading. Papillary thyroid cancer, slow-growing, fairly common, but treatable meaning half of my thyroid needed to come out. Doctors kept telling me I was too young and too healthy to be sitting in that chair. And yet, there I was, with absolutely no idea how to feel about any of it.

Fast forward to this spring when my friend Jen reached out about doing the Little Red Riding Hood ride in Cache Valley, Utah, a 100-mile cycling event supporting breast cancer research. The timing felt like the stars had aligned as this year marks 20 years since my mom passed away from breast cancer, and the ride would fall almost exactly one year after my own diagnosis. It was an easy yes.

Then the training began.

I'd never ridden more than 45 miles in a day. A hundred miles felt a bit out of reach. But cancer has a way of recalibrating what you think you're capable of. Jen, Josie and I did training rides up Emigration Canyon, loops around town, and a 50-miler out to Wyoming and back. Before we knew it, ride day was here.

The stoke was so high the morning of the ride. We packed our bikes, jammed to Pink from the Barbie movie in our matching Wild Rye jerseys, put pink bows in each other's hair, and rolled to the start.

The first 40 miles went down easy, laughing, snacking, desperately drafting off pelotons to hide from the wind. The next 40 got a bit tougher, and thank goodness for the angels at the aid stations who hung up my bike and filled my water as I shuffled around with approximately zero thoughts in my head. The last 20 were more of a sufferfest as they seemed to save all the hills for the end, and we were fighting a gnarly headwind the whole way. My feet went numb. Jen's back was screaming. But every time I wanted to quit, I thought about why we were there.

I looked over at Jen and said, "For Bev."

She looked back and said, "For Sheryl."

I'd be lying if I said my eyes were dry.

I've spent a lot of time on the what-ifs. What if they'd caught my mom's cancer earlier, what if the treatment had worked, what if she were still here? But the truth is I wouldn’t be where I am today if life hadn’t played out the way it did. I wouldn’t be riding with thousands of women all here for the same thing, to support cancer research and maybe one day be the reason people like my mom get to have a success story instead. 

The last 4 miles were the most miserable miles I’ve had on my bike ever, ok maybe I’m exaggerating, but after 96 miles and dealing with a 30 mile per hour headwind we were in rough shape. I’d stopped fueling and was low on water. The wind was whipping and blowing dust all around and it was so so hot. At one point Jen and I were so deep in the pain cave that we couldn't even speak to each other. We just looked over, locked eyes, and started laughing at how much we were suffering and wanted to be done right then and there. 

But we didn't stop. We crossed that finish line and the wave of relief and disbelief that hit me was something I hadn't expected. Last year, I couldn’t even breathe before my surgery, and today I just rode 100 miles on my bike with two of the best girls I could ever have by my side through it.

We ended the day at Bear Lake, splashing around in the water, making up for lost calories, and just sitting in the glow of what we'd accomplished. I've learned so much this year, about what my body is capable of when I stop underestimating it, about what it means to be loved and carried by the right people. I've never felt more supported than I do with Jen and Josie, and I feel so lucky I got to do this with them.

So last but not least:

Go ride your bike.

Tell your friends you love them.

And f*** cancer.