I will be the first to admit that of the various sports I do, I am least competent at technical mountain biking.

Unlike running, road riding, or even riding on packed trails, mountain biking demands mental effort as much as physical. While riding a twisty, rocky, trail — especially one with lots of steep drops — you have to constantly think of the best way to ride through. A mistake and you could very quickly be embracing the ground. (That’s about the time I say “I’m really getting too old for this sh*t..”)

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When you think of the word “medicine,” you usually will think of some nasty substance that you have to drink, eat, or inject. No one likes to take medicine. It’s just something you know you must take to make whatever is making you sick go away.

If you have cancer, then the medicine is particularly nasty. But you must take it because it’s what you need to fight the cancer cells that are trying to wreck your body.

But there is another type of medicine that I think does an even better job than the chemo. It is not produced by a lab, and you don’t need a prescription to get it. All you need is a group of people who love you and can make you smile.

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Today Stella and I are sitting for our seventeenth chemo treatment.

Once again we sit under the fluorescent lights, surrounded by the white hospital walls. The chairs are lined up against the wall in “bus station” style seating.

No, it’s not terrible.

Cancer is terrible.

The chemo that fights the cancer can be terrible.

The blood tests and scans and injections can be terrible.

The sick feeling and weight loss and hair loss and a bunch of other nasty side-effects can be terrible for both patients and those who care about them.

Sitting with no way of knowing what the next month — or even the next week — will bring can be terrible.

The word terrible starts with terror, and yeah, I get that.

So relatively, the lack of a homey atmosphere for those getting treatment is not the worst thing in the world.

But it can be much better.

And it will be. Very soon.

Today I met with the hospital’s architect and we discussed plans for making this treatment room a better place. And with the 170,000 shekels we raised from the bike ride and wrist band sales, we can quickly turn these plans into a reality. So within a few weeks, we will be sitting in a room with more color, more privacy, more of an atmosphere of comfort and healing. For all those who donated, for all the soldiers of Stella’s Army, for all those who have cheered us on and made these renovations possible, Stella and I thank you.

Of course no matter how nice these renovations are, I would love nothing more than never to see them. Wouldn’t it be good to leave the nicer room for others in the battle while we find things that are more fun for our Mondays? (It’s a low bar I know — root canal while sitting on a block of ice as wild dogs fight would be more fun.)

But we know that this room is where we will be spending our Mondays for a very long time. That’s just a reality. So all we can do is make the most of our reality and move forward, while all the time imagining a dawn of health for us and for all those fighting cancer.

The bike ride may be over, but Stella and I will continue “Riding for the Dawn.”

And we can hear your cheers.

Yarden Frankl,

Shaare Zedek Oncology Day Treatment Room

So now I must try and find the words to describe the ride… but I don’t know if it’s possible to describe how it felt and what this ride meant to me, and to Stella. When I rode the last kilometer through crowds of people cheering me on and screaming “Go Stella’s Army!” to beating drums, I was so overwhelmed that I started to cry.

Of course sitting on a bike for 13 hours could make anyone cry.

But let’s back up a bit…

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CLICK HERE TO MAKE A DONATION AND SPONSOR THE RIDE

Both my crew and I were very prepared and excited for the big ride tomorrow. Josh and I had gotten over stomach bugs and Trep was still in despite a nasty crash and falling on his knee. So while earlier in the week, the status of the ride was uncertain, we had reached the two day count down and were all set.

And just after I had started putting all my gear together, we heard the weather report. Heavy rain, flooding, lightening — from the Golan all the way to Jerusalem. I even called the weatherman to make sure he really meant it. But when he confirmed that this would be a bad storm, I had no choice but to POSTPONE the ride by one week.

We are trying to help a hospital, not end up in it.

I was disappointed. The guys in the crew were disappointed. Stella was disappointed. Without thinking, she even said “why would Hashem (G-d) do this? Your trying to do a big mitzvah!”

I gave her a look and said “Eh, you remember that you ARE the one with, eh, CANCER, right? If we get to ask a question of the Creator of the Universe, I don’t think we should waste it asking why he made it rain when I wanted to ride a bike.”

So here we are, planning to do the ride next week. Everything else will be the same. But if there is a silver lining, it is that we can use this week to sell the rest of the wrist bands and raise more money.

So even though nothing is finalized, I can give you all a little idea what you are helping to do. As I have written before, chemo sucks. And sitting in  a drab hospital room all day while the nasty stuff drips in does not help. So we are working with the hospital on how to give this room an extreme “make-over.” We want it to feel less like a “treatment” room and more like a “healing environment.” We are going over ideas that will make the area more comforting and relaxing. No, you can’t truly relax while fighting cancer, but we can make things better for those in the struggle.

You know, over the past year and a half, we have been through quite a few huge ups and downs. Compared to them, postponing a bike ride by a week is really just a tiny blip in the screen.

We’ll see you next week.

Weather permitting.

Yarden Frankl

P.S. Hey Potomac, We know about the solidarity bike ride. You rock!