What Matters: December 2003
Tour de Smile
By Martin Strasmore SM '73
I traveled to Ganeshpuri, India in 1982 to study Siddha Yoga. My wife-to-be was a volunteer nurse on a hospital bus supported by the Ashram to bring medical care to villagers in the Tanza Valley, two hours north of Bombay. I remember the purity and the gratitude of the patients coming to the bus to be treated, and the great feelings of unity between the staff and the patients.
In 1990 we were back in India with my toddler daughter, helping to give out milk to school children in the villages surrounding the Ashram. This was the beginning of our involvement in the PRASAD Project—which has grown into a multinational project to improve the health and well-being of low income families in India, Mexico and the United States. In the US, the focus has been on improving under-privileged children's dental health, which the Surgeon General has called a national epidemic. It has resulted in children missing school and being poorly educated and ill prepared for new economic opportunities.
In the spring of 2003, I volunteered to design and facilitate a global conference for the directors of PRASAD from the seven national and international boards. Their mission is to help people rediscover their own sense of dignity and divinity; to support people in need to become self-sufficient; and to experience a circle of giving and receiving.
That was when I heard of the Tour de Smile, an opportunity to raise money for the US dental program and have a challenging adventure at the same time. The Tour was a relay bicycle ride, with the goal of having at least one rider for each of the 62 legs. No one had signed up for much of Utah and Colorado, and the dates worked out perfectly for me, so I signed up to ride from Escalante, Utah to Salida, Colorado. Soon afterwards I started an email sponsorship campaign, began training (only three weeks before leaving) and ordered a new road bike over the Internet to replace the bike I had bought while at MIT 30 years ago.
The following are excerpts from my journal as well as emails I occasionally sent to my sponsors from the road.
Training
I had rarely ever biked 20 miles in a day until I started training three weeks ago, now the day is fast approaching when I go off to Utah to start the first phase in my charity biking adventure. My goal is to bike 300 miles over nine days. My Utah hostess, Harriet, met me in Cedar City as planned and drove me through the mountains to the team. With the sun setting, we put my bike together on the porch, complete with the toothbrush baton, tested it and prepared for the first day.
Day 1: July 25
Escalante to Torre—67 miles and a 4,000 foot climb. As soon as there was enough light, at 6:50am on Friday with excitement and trepidation, I started out alone knowing that I was starting at 5,700 feet and going up. The first 25 miles were slightly painful—the next six miles uphill were very tough—got a ride over the big mountain—then, with Dyan's company, [Dyan is the director of the dental program, lives in NY, drove the RV and biked when other drivers were available] reached Torrey after 55 miles—beating my 20-mile Day 1 goal.
Day 2: July 26
Torre to Hanksville—48 miles. A three and a half-hour high-speed ride from Torrey (hitting speeds of 35 mph) for 50 miles to Hanksville, Utah at 4,500 feet and temperatures hitting 100 degrees. To get a leg up on tomorrow's long uphill climb, I decide to bike from 6pm to 8pm, a steady uphill for 26 miles, across a very hot, desolate landscape. It did not cool off until 7:30pm, so every 20 minutes Brad would pour water over me. Brad, a retired airforce colonel, mapped out and drove the route ahead of time. He also drives the support van. On our way back to the campsite we witnessed a never-ending sunset.
Day 3: July 27
For the next three days, I will bike alone—supported brilliantly by Dyan in the RV. Today's ride starts in Glen Canyon—beautiful formations of sandstone in multiple shades of reds and purples punctuated by an occasional oasis of bright green bushes. One could see how nature was sculpting the rock to form caves and arches. When I stopped, there was complete silence. Almost every terrain had its challenge. Glen Canyon early in the morning was shaded and cool, and the road curved gently downhill - but into a head wind!
There is something exquisite and serene about gliding along silently, surrounded by God's creation, with no one else on the road and no McDonald's or malls within 200 miles either way!
I don't think about anything much—this is really a gift to be completely present. I am aware that it will only take a small lapse in concentration to lose control. So far, resting, stretching, drinking, and eating small amounts of almond butter sandwiches have really helped. This is a warm-up for some tougher days ahead.
The longest day,
Canyon after canyon:
Glen, White, Short, Fry.
Gullies and rivers.
Dirty Devil and Colorado.
Up, down and up again,
Hotter and hotter.
Still the toothbrush keeps moving on.
Did I remember to brush my teeth today?
I am still riding at noon when the crew that we left this morning drives past. Their cheers give me a needed energy boost. My legs are hardly working on these long hills. I am not sure why I keep going—it's very difficult.
That night we camp out in Natural Bridges National Monument and hike down to see one of the bridges, Owachomo, walking under it and seeing it from all angles. We also watch a beautiful lightning storm, one of many to come in the afternoons ahead. The Utah scenery is dramatic and variable. We have been through high aspen forests at 9,700 feet, pine forests, dramatic red sandstone canyons, white hills of dried mud, black fields of lava, hot, flat desert, and green river valleys.
Day 4: July 28
(Looking at the tar filled cracks on the road)
Calligraphic road repair
Says "keep going
And don't look up"
(Traveling nearly 40 mph down a steep hill, a sign appears, "Loose Gravel")
Moving fast
Thin wheels
Loose gravel
Trust!
Biking over Salvation Hill, a place where a group of settlers finally saw the Blue Mountains they had been looking for. It is amazing to think that they could only travel at best seven miles in a day, and often only one or two miles. I am biking on smooth roads at more than seven miles per hour, so I truly appreciate the hardships they endured to settle this country.
Tour de Smile mountain climb:
Lance Armstrong never felt like this
I know I am leading the pack
But where is that lower gear?
Climbing mountain passes, I keep focused on the tarmac just ahead of the wheel. I don't look far ahead, so I stay focused on the present, no expectation the climb will end. When it does—joy!
Gliding down fast,
look far ahead
for what can throw you off.
What goes up in Utah,
comes down in Colorado,
After I have gone.
In the late afternoon, I am stopped by a dramatic lightning storm. Thunder clouds sweep across the plateau and there is continuous lightning hour after hour, at one time even from cloud to cloud.
Day 5: July 29
We reach Colorado, the Colorful State. We are on a plateau around 8,000 feet. What a difference. Suddenly the roads are wider, the traffic appears, there is a house or farm every few miles (instead of every 100 miles). The mountains are blue, the fields are shades of greens, yellows and browns—farmland. Prairie dogs scamper around in the grass.
We go through Dove Creek and, at 8,800 feet, it is the pinto bean capital of the world. Today, I make it to Dolores, all the way! After dinner, we meet a couple outside the small restaurant who get very excited by the Tour de Smile, one of their relatives is a dentist. We leave a brochure in the door of the local dentist office, next door to the restaurant.
Day 6: July 30
At my first rest stop we meet Marty and Dick, an amazing couple who have biked a lot, including around India, the Canadian Rockies and now live in Boulder. Dick, 78 with Parkinson's, can bike easier than he can walk. And he did.
Today is an experience of overcoming the mind. I ride about 40 miles, including a long climb. By 1pm I am tired. The topographical biking map shows that in total I have to climb 3,000 feet and the steepest part is yet to come. After a delicious pasta lunch and a snooze in the RV, off I go. Following a short, steep hill, I turn the corner to see Marty who joins me for the last five miles up Lizard Head pass, which is a beautiful gentle climb up to 10,800 feet with views of the San Juan Range.
I am ecstatic, only 20 downhill miles to Telluride. Wrong. There was a lot of downhill and one very long tough uphill—it seems even after scaling the heights life has a new unexpected challenge. Made it alone to Telluride. Another full day beating my expectation of what I could possibly bike. That night, we camp out under a completely star-filled mountain sky. As I lay down to sleep, tears rolled down my face as I think about the beauty of the day and the incredible love and courage I saw in Marty and Dick.
Day 7: July 31
Waking up I know that this day will be about supporting Marty and Dick. Smiles not Miles. At 7:30am I start biking—13 miles downhill from Telluride, along a steep, narrow canyon road, lots of trucks and lots of praying, and I am so cold that I need an hour to warm up. Then Marty and Dick join in, and with Dick leading at a pretty good clip, we bike up the Dallas Divide. Marty bikes with me the rest of the way to Montrose, giving her the "best experience of biking in 15 years" as she drafts behind me, so much so that she was in tears of ecstatic joy.
In the afternoon I start off alone from Montrose to discover that old cycling mirage at work again. I cannot believe how hard it is to pedal, even 10 mph, because it looks down hill. However the reality is I am going uphill, just at a slightly less-steep angle, so the road gives the illusion of going slightly downhill.
Day 8: August 1
We leave the Cimarron campsite and the narrow gauge railway, and wind our way up a nine-mile hill. I go one mile post at a time. On the way down at high speed I literally get a bee in my bonnet (helmet)—my first injury—a bee sting on the forehead. We end the ride at Western State College in Gunnison, Marty's alma mater.
Day 9: August 2
Austin, Dyan's 30 year-old son, has joined Marty and me. We enjoy biking along rolling hills in a long valley, going from dry sagebrush to lush pastures irrigated by a small river, with herds of cows munching away at the alfalfa, and surrounded by dark green forests of pine.
As the road starts to climb up towards Monarch Pass and the Continental Divide, Brad warns us of road work, and at about 10 miles and 3,000 feet below, in Sargent, Austin and Marty put their bikes into the RV. However, I decide to keep going as long as I can. "Why stop now," I say to myself.
An hour later Brad drives down the mountain announcing that on Saturdays there is no construction. The road is clear! I have mixed feelings. I am exhausted but how can I resist the challenge of biking over the Continental Divide, the highest point on the Tour?
A lunch break and rest is needed. Those last interminable five miles from about 9,800 feet up to 11,300 feet - every bend I hope to see the pass. Finally YES! "You can do it," I yell out loud to myself, echoed by people in passing cars and, yes, I made it all the way. The exhilaration, the view, the cool air, the sense of meeting the toughest challenge. Only a rainstorm stops me from going right on, re-energized. The toothbrush baton is at its highest point in the ride. So, much to my surprise, I have biked over the Continental Divide—and then down to Salida, unassisted, two days before my 56th birthday.
Day 10: August 3
I finish with a quick early morning bike of 30 miles along the rushing waters of the Arkansas River from Salida up into the hills just past Cotapoxi, passing the baton to Austin, before leaving for my flight home. This was so much fun, that I decide to join the last two days of the Tour in September.
Eastern Phase: September 13
At 5:15am Saturday morning, we drive off from Weston, Connecticut heading to Philipsburg, New Jersey. My wife, Kassandra, will drop me off and head back home. It starts drizzling and she wants to put on the weather forecast. "Why bother," I said, "I am going to bike it anyway."
Tim, a 37 year-old Scottish dentist and serious long distance biker, and I set off, biking alongside the Delaware river. Then it starts pouring rain—a new experience for me but commonplace for Tim who has biked a lot in England and Europe with plastic bags on his feet.
After about four hours, I am really tired and realize we have climbed about 1,200 feet and gone 47 miles in the rain. We agree to meet the RV for lunch at the 60 mile mark. Good lunch break, Tim manages to snooze—I take off ahead, knowing he will catch up.
Leg 61 ends after another 30 miles and 1,000 feet up through the Delaware Gap reaching Barryville, New York. Brad, a retired Air Force colonel who mapped out and drove the route ahead of time, is waiting with the van … But no Liz. Liz is the California organizer of the ride, who joined as I left in Colorado and hung in all the way to the end, driving the RV and biking when she could.
No RV and no cell phone service. We wait, damp, cold and getting stiffer. I just want a hot shower and dry clothes. We finally realize the RV has died only one day short of its destination and after two months on the road. We all get in Brad's van with the bikes and find a motel and restaurant. This has been the most miles I have ever biked in a day—91. Tim is happy he has all his gear on his bike. I have nothing dry so Brad provides dry clothes and plastic bags for socks.
Final Day: September 14
Many bikers join us at Barryville and then more join at two other rest stops on the way. It is quite a change from Utah: police escorts, food and drink stops. Today is relatively easy (now that I have a new perspective), only 44 miles and a 1,000 foot climb. I feel rather sad the Tour has finished.
By the time we finish at Sullivan County Community College there are about 50 cyclists. Perhaps that was why I was given a prize for biking the most miles: a free weekend of bike training with one of the sponsors, Mike Fraysee Sports (in England that is called a busman's holiday).
Over the course of 11 days, I have biked 700 miles at an average speed of 11 mph (from 5 mph to 40 mph), climbed about 21,000 feet, ate innumerable almond butter sandwiches (fuel), got stung once and spat out a bee once, just in time, and had lots of fun and excitement.
I wasn't quite Lance Armstrong in the Tour De France, biking 3,400 kilometers at an average speed of 25 mph over the course of three weeks but the lessons I learned from this trip are life lessons. Maybe the most powerful one for me is that when I am focused on serving others, and follow my heart, trusting the universe, then I can do far more than I imagined possible. That is when limitations disappear and the possibilities seem endless.
About the Author
After working as a chemical engineer in the United Kingdom, Martin Strasmore graduated with a master's degree from MIT's Sloan School in 1973. He has been a management consultant with CRI, then SIAR (a Scandinavian Consulting company), and later with RHS&A (Stamford, CT). He has been an entrepreneur, a turnaround manager, a senior executive and is now an international management consultant and executive coach. He has lived in England, India, Brazil, and Germany and now lives in Weston, CT, with his wife, Kassandra, and 16 year-old daughter, Sharada. He is an active volunteer in the Weston community and co-leads a Siddha Yoga meditation and chanting group. He founded Silvermine Consulting in 1990, focusing on organizational change, leadership, and transformation. His mission is to work with courageous leaders to create high-performance organizations in which individuals fulfill their highest potential. Contact Martin Strasmore at mstrasmore@alum.mit.edu.
What Matters is a guest opinion column written by a different MIT alumnus or alumna. The views expressed are entirely those of the author and do not necessarily represent the views of the Alumni Association or MIT. Interested in writing a column? Email whatmatters@mit.edu.
