A note from Fatty:Jenni Laurita was the ambassador for Team Fatty at the YSC Tour de Pink. I’ve asked her to tell her story, as well as give us a video. I think you’ll agree she gets an A+.
Next year I want to ride the Tour de Pink as the number one fundraising team. I’m just putting it out there before we get started.
I love it when a plan comes together. One might say this plan started a year ago when Heather rode the TdP. I was excited and inspired by her ride report and by her story.
Like Elden, I believe I have superpowers. To date, my superpowers have proven to be holding things until they dry, standing in the light (any light source for anyone working on anything important, that is), and being able to sing one song while a completely different song is playing. The mark of a good ride I think forces you to discover new superpowers.
By that standard, this ride was a winner. I discovered two new superpowers: fearless switchback descending and that I lack any knowledge of my personal limitations. I obviously can’t tell you what my personal limitations would be since I lack knowledge of them, but what I can tell you is that I entered this commitment of 206 miles in 3 days and 12,000 feet of climbing without having trained or even ridden very much in the preceding months. I arrived with a fresh bruise on my arm from my most recent blood test and lingering pain from recent biopsies, but none of it would matter in the slightest.
I arrived at the hotel nice and early the day before the ride, and immediately had a chance to start getting to know people. Everyone was super friendly and happy to be reuniting. Organization and information was the best I’ve ever seen on any organized ride anywhere, and that’s saying a lot. I’ve ridden many events around the country–the care for the riders was absolutely top-notch, start to finish, morning to night. In fact, the worst thing I could say about the whole weekend was they were out of sandwiches by the time I finished Sunday afternoon.
Before I flew to California, Giant offered to hook me up with a loaner bike: A TCR. I usually travel everywhere with my pink custom Sweetpea, but I was excited to demo a new bike on what I already knew would be a tough course.
Thursday night, Giant, whose headquarters were just 3 miles away, showed up with trucks of loaner bikes. As I approached my bike, I couldn’t help but notice it was just a wee little thing. I was the Gulliver to its Lilliputian. Ironic it was a “Giant” frame, the XS sticker giggled noticeable at me as I stood and frowned. I’m 5’7”. Not going to work. Val, the amazing bike rep for Giant’s woman’s line, Liv Giant , tried to talk me into riding one of “her” bikes. Unfortunately for me, she used the word “comfort,” which evoked baskets and step-through imagery. I was not a willing participant, I pushed for an appropriate TCR.
I was given a less diminutive full-carbon/ultegra TCR and enough adjusting of saddle height to make me feel ready to ride. I happily told the mechanic my crotch was going to friend him on Facebook, I was so grateful for the care he took making sure I was comfortable.
The skies had finally stopped raining and everyone was astounded by an extremely rare (for SoCal apparently) double rainbow. Here’s my new friend, Val.
I made quick work of outfitting my bike with GoPro, Garmin, and an amazingly reassuring and motivating message from my sweetheart.
I totally got caught by surprise singing these words out loud as I rode up some huge hill and a pack of riders passed me. Awwwkard.
I can’t count the number of times I looked down at this, knowing people were pulling for me while I was pushing myself really made so much of an impact- this note stayed taped securely to the top tube of the bike all weekend. I loved watching people walk over to the bike to read it, more than one woman teared up at its awesomeness. I highly recommend before embarking on a tough ride to tape something inspirational to your handlebars or top tube, or surprising a friend and doing it for them.
Day 1
The first day’s ride was relatively flat except for a massive downhill on some of the best switchbacks I’ve ever ridden. Ok, they’re the only switchbacks I’ve ever ridden but that’s where I discovered my superpower of downhill bombing. We were told to go only one at a time on the switchbacks, but I quickly realized I had to pass, and pass I did, with aplomb.
Many years ago I famously missed the century cut-off time on the Austin Livestrong course because I stopped to pet the llamas. It has been a recurring joke in my core group that I am not to pet llamas anymore, and I was determined this time to make good time. I was nervous about being able to finish such an ambitious course each day, sagging out just wasn’t an option, but then I found too many reasons to stop. There were fields of red peppers . . .
There were interesting people with unique ideas of where to store what clearly must be an extra helmet or perhaps a woolen sweater…(how YOU doin’?)
There were diversions aplenty…
Fortunately, I made good enough time to enjoy myself every step of the way throughout all days.
Day 1 finished with a horrific climb up to the night’s hotel; on this organized ride, hotel stays are included each night, along with all food. An absolutely incredible joy, you really only have to worry about riding your bike.
Day 2
Today was going to be a tough day, it was the longest and contained an optional massive climb. I was fortunate enough to have roomed that night with Val, that rep from Giant. We discussed how unhappy I had become on the TCR. It’s a fantastic bike, but completely wrong geometry for me; I was in a lot of pain. The handlebars were too wide and with an exceedingly long stem, I was reaching and suffering the whole day.
She offered me Giant’s AMAZING “Avail”- full carbon, Di2 shifting, women’s geometry- it was the “comfort” bike from day one, and I have to say I was never more comfortable. It’s absolute dream bike I started instantly planning to steal. On more than one occasion I was so impressed with the stiff response to my efforts I thought surely the electronic assist was helping to pedal.
It was on this day that I realized there is an absolute science to understanding route advice from other riders. I overheard one woman telling another that the beginning of this ride was going to be “brutal”, which scared me and likely the woman receiving this information.
After riding the decidedly not-brutal-for-me beginning of the ride, I started to qualify people in their ability to give route advice. I’m from New York, we have hills and mountains all over my base riding area. Another New Yorker needs no qualification, I’d accept their route advice point blank (unless of course they’re not a cyclist, I’ve fallen for that one before). If you’re from Iowa, or say, Kansas, your route advice comforts me, knowing full-well a brutal hill in Iowa can be the highway overpass. If you’re from Colorado and your route advice includes the word brutal, I’m going back to bed.
In any case, I got through the initial ride and set my sights on the who-was-I-kidding-it-was-never-actually-optional mountain.
At the decision point, my bike instinctively turned toward this climb, it was something like 1000 to 1400” climbing in just under 4 miles. Lacking knowledge of my limitations served me well here through the 6-13% sustained inclines. Along the course the organizers arranged for us to be riding with a team of professionals, the team name escaped me partly because I’m forgetful and partly because I sucked wheel so closely I could only ever focus on the space between my bike and whomever was fortunate enough to be pulling for me.
Cry O’Clock
The point is, on this climb there were a few pros peppered throughout the climb to help us along. Gil first came to me, and I told him to go away, I prefer to climb alone, partly because I was going just fast enough to stay upright, and partly because I was entering what I like to call, “Cry o’clock”.
Cry o’clock happens on every cancer-focused ride, and it’s probably the main reason I subject myself to suffering on the bike; cry o’clock gives me the opportunity to release what I’m holding and experiencing about the pain of cancer. As I struggle, I’m able to leave it all on the road. Sometimes I cry for myself, sometimes it’s for someone I know, but I always cry. I did not want someone with me for cry o’clock, it’s a somewhat sacred time. Admittedly, more than one Team Fatty member has helped me (or joined me) in cry o’clock, and I’ve always been grateful for them.
After finishing the — ok I’ll say it — brutal climb, we had time for a few pictures before zooming back down. The view was fantastic, but the people were better. What a great bonding moment to stand with other hypoxians.
SAG met us at the top and refreshed our water, and everyone was off again.
We continued on more or less together until we arrived at the hotel, which — we were not told — was on a cliff. At the end of the day where I climbed thousands and thousands of feet, the last .1 mile was straight up the driveway at easily 12% grade. It was like a fart in your open mouth. Just nasty. I cursed the whole way, and I was not alone or unjustified, but seeing the other women standing and cheering at the top made it almost worth it.
Almost.
Day 3
Day 3 seemed to be sketching a lot of people out- it was the shortest ride, 53 miles, but was supposed to have over 5000 feet of climbing up and through a canyon. At the morning mandatory meeting the organizers shared two short-cuts with us; one would end at about 35 total miles and cut all climbing, one would cut 8 miles and route around the worst of the climbing.
I really wanted to finish the whole course, but at this point my body was hurting, my energy was zapped, and I wanted to take the shorter routes. I had suffered enough, I did well enough. But something in me wouldn’t have it. There is such a beautiful synergy between battling whatever is going on in your life to battling against yourself on a bike. Perseverance takes over where physical ability wanes. Fortitude develops where fatigue festers. So, at each marking on the course, I put my head down into the wind and fought forward.
Fortunately I’ve ridden long enough courses through my life to know I can handle 53 miles of just about anything. Well day 3 was all of the above; it started with having to climb a large section of the previous day’s “optional” climb, it had fierce headwinds AND rounding out the hat-trick of awesome, the temperature eventually read 100 degrees.
I rode mostly alone; climbing just isn’t conducive for me to stick with someone. I employ the JenniMethod™ of riding my friends have come to know as yo-yo riding. Sometimes I’m very fast, sometimes I’m incredibly slow. I have no interest in altering this method to try to stay on someone’s wheel. So day 3 was me and the road.
And one by one I watched seemingly everyone around me sag out. At one point the sag wagon came along side me (not unusual, they gave us encouragement the entire ride, it didn’t necessarily mean they were trying to get me in) and in the most lady-like tone I could muster, I declared I would not be getting in their pretty wagon, though I’m pretty sure instead of pretty I said muttered a vulgarity.
Somewhere after oh you know, the 20th mile of climbing, I got to enjoy the gorgeous sweeping downhill, and met up just at the end of the course with another survivor. We rode in the last few miles together, to (wait for it), ANOTHER uphill finish, where I first collapsed…
And then realized there was only one good use left for the buckets of then-ice water used to soak towels for our heads (by this point, the party was breaking down).
I quickly hatched a plan to steal what has become one of my favorite bikes of all time…
And finished out the night with lots of hugs and friendship, especially from Team Fatty sister, Heather, one of the sweetest people I could have ever been blessed to meet.
Highlights:
Sisterhood from everyone- this is after all the Young Survival Coalition. I was perfectly in place to share my story and hear the stories of every other young survivor, and for once, I did not feel so alone
No mechanical problems at all
Getting to ride Giant’s Avail
Knowing I contributed to an amazing cause I will be supporting for many years in the future
Lowlights:
Not actually coming home with the Avail
Meeting and loving new sisters who are currently battling cancer- as joyful as I became to meet and bond with them, I was concurrently saddened that they are still battling breast cancer, or other kinds of cancer
My stupid GoPro mount snapped for no reason and my GoPro camera went hurtling into traffic- the case was run over, the card flipped out, the brand new wifi attachment scratched
Never actually got to set foot in the ocean
Not having enough space here to write about each amazing woman or every incredible part of the weekend.
PS: My extra pictures of the trip are on my flickr page.
If I had known it was going to be a day like this, I’d have stayed in bed.
In fact, I nearly did anyway. My knee felt ok — I could walk with only a slight limp — but it sure didn’t feel great.
We checked the weather: 40% chance of rain, pretty much through the day. That was actually good news, for two reasons:
40% was lower than the 60% the forecast showed when we went to bed the night before.
40% is better odds than a coin toss.
So we started getting ready. We put food and rain clothes in each of our two drop bags, figuring it was best to be safe. We made breakfast burritos, again, hoping they would be easier to eat that day.
They were not.
The profile and distance for the day weren’t too dissimilar from the first day of the race.
42.4 miles of singletrack, with 6322 feet of climbing.
We got to the starting line, which today was in the heart of Breckenridge.
We stared at the sky, which was dark and grey. In my mind, I increased the odds of rain sometime during the day to 100%. The only question was when. And how much. So I guess that’s actually two questions.
The starting time arrived. And then it passed (the only day the race started late). We continued to look at the sky, worried.
It began to rain. Big, slow drops. The kind of rain where you don’t get hit often, but when you do you can feel it.
The Hammer and I decided we’d better get the windbreakers (because we each have two rain jackets, which were in our drop bags) we had with us out and put them on.
As we did so, the race started.
And so we got to have the peculiar experience of standing at a starting line, struggling into jackets, while watching every single other racer ride away from us.
To Aid Station 1
The first few miles of riding in the rain are always wonderful, because they allow you to picture yourself being hardy and steely-eyed.
The Hammer and I found ourselves in a good-sized group of people, all laughing about how muddy and wet we all were already, as well as how grity our drivetrains already sounded.
None of us were thinking — at least out loud — about what the day would be like if this rain continued. And especially, none of us were talking about what it would be like if it got worse.
And why would we? After all, the rain was letting up a little bit, to the point that The Hammer and I took off our semi-soggy windbreakers and ride in short sleeves. We were wet, sure. But we were climbing, so we weren’t cold.
As for my knee, well, it was doing OK. I wasn’t riding fast, but I was riding. Plus, I had loaded up on Advil, and had more in my jersey pocket. Which I would take later in the day, kidneys be damned.
Then, shortly before we got to the first aid station, the rain picked up. So we arrived at the first aid station completely soaked. We swapped out to our full-on rain jackets. Unfortunately, because we thought that rain would become a worse problem later in the day, we had put our best rain gear in our second drop bags.
For example, the gloves I had put in this drop bag were $10 semi-winter gloves I had bought at Kohls a couple years ago. And the jacket was something I had bought at a tourist trap during a hiking trip about ten years ago.
To Aid Station 2
We headed out of the first aid station . . . and into hell. A very, very wet hell.
The rain went from “hard” to “torrential.” People’s faces were completely black from mud. Several times I was especially glad that I had two eyes, because a gob of mud would fly into one eye; I could blink blindly with that eye until vision cleared, while I used the other eye to continue riding.
Because we never stopped. We just didn’t ever want to stop.
Somehow, we knew that if we stopped, we’d become even colder. That the shakes would hit us even harder. That the rain would feel even fiercer.
So we kept going, actually passing a lot of people that day. I noted to myself — more than once — “that person looks even more miserable than I feel.”
Now that I think about it, though, I expect other people were thinking the same thing about me.
My knee began hurting. The rain came down, harder. The climbing remained steep, and technical singletrack became running streams.
And I confess: I began to complain. But only in my mind. See, I would have complained out loud, but The Hammer was still smiling and being positive and riding along like this was some kind of exciting adventure. Even though she was just as wet and muddy as I was.
And she was quite a bit colder than I was, judging from her shaking and chattering teeth.
Yet, The Hammer abided, riding strong and staying positive.
So I kept my trap shut. Most of the time.
Survival Mode
We made it to the second aid station. The Hammer quickly switched into her better, warmer, drier rain jacket.
I did not.
Nor did I change into my water-resistant gloves.
I have no reasonable explanation for this, other than to try to describe what I was thinking, which kind of went like this:
I’m really cold. And wet
I wish I had my better jacket and gloves on.
But in order to put my better clothes on, I’ll first have to take the (completely soaked and basically useless) coat and gloves I’m currently wearing off.
If I take my jacket and gloves off, I’ll be even colder than I am.
I don’t want to be colder than I am. Not even for a second.
So I’m not going to change clothes.
Yeah, it’s possible I wasn’t thinking at my very very best at that moment.
As The Hammer changed and I stood around constructing addle-brained syllogisms, other cyclists arrived, some looking even colder and wetter and worse than I felt.
A volunteer got on the radio and made a call to Mike McCormack, the race director.
“Racers are starting to look kinda sketchy as they come in,” the volunteer said.
Mike replied, “Give them the option of pulling out of the race. If the weather keeps getting worse, we’ll make it compulsory.”
The part of my brain that still processed language noted how awesome it was that Mike had just used the word “compulsory.”
I looked at The Hammer to see if she had heard what was going on. She had.
“We’d stand around waiting and shivering and freezing longer if we stopped here waiting for a ride back to town than if we just finished the race,” The Hammer said, pragmatically.
So we kept going, hoping that the last big climb of the day — which was coming right up — would help us warm up. And it worked. We both felt warmer, although we had to slow way down because my knee was such a mess.
And then we hit the singletrack, which was now a fast-flowing river. The Hammer took a fall in this, splashing hard and smacking her hip into a rock.
Meanwhile, I could no longer use my left leg to pedal at all.
Then came the downhill to the finish line, chilling us both to the bone. But we made it. We got to the finish line.
The problem was, we then had to ride — downhill — another three miles to get to our condo.
It was the worst, slowest, three miles of my life. I could barely turn the cranks; The Hammer kept distancing me.
I began to wonder if I would make it back to the condo at all.
But we did. Somehow, we did.
Back at the Condo
So we parked our bikes in the underground parking, not even bothering to lock them up. Hoping, maybe a little, that someone would steal the bikes and let us off the hook.
We went up the hall to our condo, got out the little plastic keycard, and swiped.
Nothing.
I swiped again.
Nothing still.
I swiped and swiped.
More nothing.
The Hammer got out her keycard and swiped.
Nothing continued to happen some more.
We began to fret. If our keys didn’t work, we’d have to bike to the center of town to get replacement keys. And we did not want to leave the house.
I started machine-gunning the card in and out and in and out and in and out of the key slot.
Nada.
Finally, I looked at the card, which was wet and slightly muddy. Maybe if I wiped it off? Dried it?
But we had nothing to dry it on. We sere altogether soaked.
So I peeled up my bike shorts and rubbed the card on my relatively clean thigh, then waved the card around madly in the air for a minute.
I swiped the card, and it worked.
Never have two people laughed with more sincere relief.
We stepped into our condo. I planned to immediately strip down — get out of these freezing soaking clothes as quickly as possible.
“Wait, there’s the camera,” said The Hammer. “Let’s get pictures real quick.”
And I am so glad we did. Here they are. All of them.
What I love about all these photos is that The Hammer’s got her teeth clenched exactly the same in every single shot. Like her moth is frozen in that position.
Afterward
We left our clothes and shoes and helmets on the kitchen floor, in a soggy muddy mess. Later, we’d take them to the carwash, where we’d hose them off, along with our bikes. And then we’d wash them (we had been smart enough to rent a condo with a washer and dryer). Twice.
For now, though, we just wanted to get warmed up, via approximately an hour in the shower. Thank goodness for a hotel-sized water heater.
Even so, we continued to shake violently through two episodes of Judge Judy. I refused to ice my knee, saying I would go near nothing cold until I stopped shaking.
We didn’t go out to eat, opting instead to stay inside and make spaghetti — which we both agreed was the best thing we ate that week.
“If it’s raining tomorrow,” I said, between mouthfuls, “I quit. I will not get on my bike.”
The Hammer did not argue.
PS: At the award ceremony that evening, I talked with CyclingDirt. Here’s the interview:
PPS: Did you catch my lie in the interview? Did I sound convincing?
A Note from Fatty: Free Verse Friday is taking a break today, because I want to write this instead.
From time to time, I get an email that hits home. Here’s one I got yesterday:
I wanted to ask if it would be okay to use “Crying is for Climbing” as one of my class materials for a didactic I’ll be teaching to new chaplains on Spiritual Care of the Caregivers that I’ll be teaching next week.
I’m a board certified chaplain, and while my specialty is trauma and disaster response, Crying is for Climbing is really quite universal. I will be spending some time talking about the role of physical activity in self-care of the caregivers, and understanding how certain people (many people?) process emotion through physical activity.
I’ve found “Crying is for Climbing” to be a great short piece that describes this effect in the most clear and concise way I know. I also like that it’s not overtly spiritual, so it’s highly applicable in the multi-faith chaplain world that I need to teach in.
In other news, I’ve also often found “Like Dandelion Seeds” to be incredibly useful in my line of work. I’ve lost count of how many times I’ve been with families the day they get the “yeah, you’re not going to beat this” talk- they know it’s going to be a sh*tstorm, and I can’t tell you how many people feel better being able to read Dandelion Seeds and know that someone else has put words to the storm.
They appreciate that you did not sugarcoat it, and that you know it gets bad. It’s been a great piece to have in my toolbox when people ask me the “what do I do next” question. I hope you get to realize at some point that, even though you wrote that at some of the worst moments of your own life, it’s been incredibly helpful to plenty of other folks, and continues to be helpful.
Please do let me know if it would be okay to use “Crying is for Climbing” in a class for new chaplains. Good luck on the next race!
Thanks much-
Betsy Tesi
Assistant Rector, St. Mary’s Episcopal Church
Eugene, OR
First, this email made me grateful: grateful that someone is finding Susan’s battle helpful to others. That’s her legacy. Or at least one of them.
Second, this email reminded me that it’s been months since I’ve written anything for the Fight Like Susan book. I’ve had a fun summer racing, but I need to get back to work.
By all rights, today I should be writing about stage 2 of the Breck Epic. And I was really excited to write about it, too. Because it was immediately after stage 2 that The Hammer took this picture of me:
And I was not hamming it up for this photo, either. That look — the “I have been through hell” look — is absolutely genuine.
But I’m not going to get to talk about it ’til Monday (because tomorrow is Free Verse Friday), nor am I going to get to post the even better equivalent picture I have of The Hammer ’til then. Which is unfortunate for you, because I’m looking at it right now for the millionth time and it is still cracking me up.
Instead, today I’m going to subject you to my in-progress reasoning on USADA’s Reasoned Decision on Lance Armstrong.
I apologize in advance.
You Should Know Me By Now
I’ve been writing this blog longer than some of you have been alive (assuming some of you are younger than eight years old). Which means that — thanks to the twin miracles of a big ol’ archive and a search box in the top-right corner of my blog — if you take the time to look, you can see that this is not the first time I have been witness to the drama of a top American cyclist being implicated in a doping scandal.
Nosirree.
You might find it instructive to go back and read what I said about Tyler 1.0. Or Floyd 1.0. (For what it’s worth, I believe Tyler is currently in version 3.0, while Floyd is still having a rough time getting 2.0 into beta).
Just in case you couldn’t be bothered — and I wouldn’t blame you, though my feelings might be a little bit hurt — to read those two posts (and, for bonus credit, the posts that came before), there’s something similar about them.
I presume innocence until proven guilty.
This isn’t just me parroting the US justice system. This is a personal philosophy, and I work hard to apply it in every aspect of my life. I even extend it, and presume good intentions until bad intentions are proven (not just suspected).
It’s a philosophy that works for me. I like it, and I’m keeping it.
The thing is, if you know me at all (i.e., read my blog, as opposed to just parachuting in to chide me from time to time for hiding my head in the sand), you had to know that I would apply this philosophy to Lance Armstrong as well.
Reports from single-source “reporters” who clearly have an axe to grind? Pfff. Allegations? Well, they’re called “allegations” for a reason.
But when Armstrong didn’t contest those allegations, thereby hastening judgment and — now — the reasoning behind that judgment, that’s a finish line that’s been crossed.
To me, the (uncontested, nor seriously disputed) evidence is compelling. In the absence of any compelling counterargument, the threshold of proof has been crossed, and I can’t presume innocence.
I hate writing “Lance doped,” but to continue presuming innocence now flies in the face of my personal philosophy every bit as much as presuming guilt prematurely does.
So. What does this mean to me?
The Penalties
I’ll start with the easy one first. Based on what I’ve read, it’s impossible to reassign who won what, or which records were set during a big swath of time for pro cycling. Should Lance keep his seven yellow jerseys?
I dunno.
Should George Hincapie be allowed to claim he has raced in more Tours than anyone else?
I dunno (although USADA seems to have decided he should, since it backdated suspensions to begin after his retirement).
Should anyone get to claim anything from that period, seeing as how it’s vastly improbable that everyone who was doping during that period has confessed?
I dunno.
But I’m being facetious when I say, “I dunno;” I really mean, “It doesn’t matter.” Because no matter what is done officially, some people will regard that change (or lack thereof) as illegitimate.
And frankly, I don’t care very much about this part. It’s too messy to argue. It’s impossible to resolve.
But how about the suspensions and bans (not just for Armstrong, but for the numerous people named as witnesses)? Are they too harsh? Too weak? That’s hard to say, because it requires you to assess what is a fair punishment for varying amounts of cheating. No matter the conclusion, it never sits right.
LiveStrong
The part of Lance’s life that I really care about, however, remains unaffected by USADA’s reasoned decision: LiveStrong.
Lance — supported by an incredible cast of talented and hard-working people — created a foundation that does an immense amount of good. I’ve experienced that good firsthand. So did Susan. So have my twins. So have a large number of people I’ve referred to LiveStrong, to get the support and help they need.
Lance cares more deeply about the fight against cancer than people know. Lance has worked — and continues to work — incredibly hard at making LiveStrong fulfill its mission. It’s what drives him.
And he’s gone out of his way to help me in my efforts to support LiveStrong. He’s been a friend to me and my family in hard times, and I value that friendship.
I expect that LiveStrong will be hit hard by this decision, but that doesn’t even remotely affect my intention to continue supporting it. The fact is, the closer-up I see LiveStrong, the better it looks.
Do Something Good, Redux
Of course, I don’t expect everyone to agree with me on that, and honestly I’m not particularly interested in battling it out with anyone.
Yep, you don’t get off the “help the fight against cancer” hook so easily as that. In fact, today is the last day in a contest where you can win a Giant TCR Advanced SL, set up with a Shimano Dura-Ace 9000 group. Or a GoPro camera. Or Dura-Ace pedals. Or other things. So click here for details, and then click here to donate.
Whether you align yourself with LiveStrong, YSC, World Bicycle Relief, or anything else (or everything else) is up to you.
