One August afternoon as I was walking in Manhattan, I recognized someone. Dark-skinned, in a gray suit with a pop of red on his collar. A short man, with a round, discerning face. A spitting image of my grandfather in his youth. I could stare for only a moment before he disappeared into the subway station.

My grandfather spent his twenties in another Manhattan — Manhattan, Kansas — as a musician-turned-architect with a rotating selection of leather jackets and white sneakers. That is a version of him I never knew.

The one I did know belted the spaghetti-and-meatball song in his deep contrabass, making my brother and me ache with laughter. He held his family together as my grandmother battled cancer, rebuilding with three young children after she passed. He wasn’t always a jolly man, but I often saw him laugh at the dinner table, surrounded by food and family.

We were gathered around that same table the evening he lost his battle with cancer. On the morning of his memorial, we did the same. It was a simple ritual: let us gather, nourish ourselves, and carry onward — reminded we do not do this alone.

***

The simultaneously beautiful and devastating thing about cancer is that it is not usually an individual experience. It rearranges the lives of family members, who drive to and from appointments and caretake at home, and friends, who carry grief in private. But in its face, I've witnessed incredible resilience.

I ride with Texas 4000 to honor this resilience. I push the limits of my body and spirit to embody what patients and families endure without choice. I fundraise for those who, beyond the disease itself, face a healthcare system designed to leave their communities out.

When the sun presses down and the miles grow steep, I will think of my aunts, uncles, my grandmothers, and my friend’s parents. I will think of my grandfather — his voice, his red scarves, his resilience. Then I will turn to my teammates and remind us: let us gather, nourish ourselves, and carry onward — we do not do this alone.

As I train and ride, I would be honored to carry your story, or that of someone you love, with me. If you feel moved, I invite you to support this ride with a donation. Any amount helps — some companies offer donation matching, and funds go towards cancer research and support services.

Thank you for your encouragement and support.

To Alaska and back,

Katie