I ride because I know what it means to sit in a room and be told that your clock is ticking and your days might be numbered. There are moments in life that shift everything you thought you knew — the world cracks open. Moments when the air changes, when time feels heavier, when suddenly you begin to taste water differently, notice the color of the sky differently, and savor every ordinary detail because you understand how fragile it really is. I have lived through one of those moments, and it changed me forever.

I ride because I’ve walked hallways where the faces around me carried more strength, more grace, and more quiet courage than I had ever known. Their smiles — even in the heaviest of times — saved me. They reminded me that resilience is not loud or glamorous, but steady. It’s waking up again the next day, putting one foot in front of the other, and choosing to keep going even when no choice was given in the first place.

I ride for the people I met in the cancer ward whose stories are etched into me — for those whose laughter and light carried through the walls, for those who dreamed of seeing the world but never had the chance. I carry them with me, every mile, every climb, every breath.

I ride for my grandfather, whose life was cut short by lung cancer. Though my memories of him are faint, I remember the grief that shaped my father — turning loss into precaution, pain into care. That ripple of absence taught me that cancer is never an individual burden. It weaves its way through families, shifting the course of lives and leaving lessons we never wished to learn.

Cancer is unfair. It does not discriminate, and it does not wait. And too often we dress it up with words like bravery and battle — but the truth is, most days it feels less like a fight and more like trudging through mud, step by step, waiting for the finish line. That is why this ride speaks to me so deeply. The road ahead is long, exhausting, and unforgiving. But just like cancer, you do not endure it alone. You lean on others. You carry each other. You keep moving because you must, and because someone is counting on you to.

Texas 4000 is more than a bike ride to Alaska. It is a promise — a promise to carry the names, the faces, and the stories of those who can’t ride beside us. It is about channeling pain into hope, transforming helplessness into action, and reminding the world that no one fights in isolation.

I ride for hope — for the hope that research will bring better answers, that families will face fewer goodbyes, and that no one will ever feel powerless in the face of this disease. I ride for the stories I’ve witnessed, for the people I’ve loved, and for the countless faces I will never meet who deserve to live fully, freely, and without fear. I ride for those who dreamed of seeing the world but never got the chance.

Every turn of the pedal is for them. Every mile is a promise: you are not forgotten.

P.S.
Okay, that got kind of deep and serious (plot twist: I do have feelings). So here’s the lighter part: in the summer of 2026, I’ll be biking about 4,500 miles from Austin, Texas, to Anchorage, Alaska. Yep — Austin to Alaska. Yes, on purpose. Yes, on an actual bike. No, I don’t know why I thought this was a good idea either. My legs already hate me and I’ve barely started. But it’s all for the world’s largest annual charity ride to kick cancer’s butt, so worth it.

Here’s where you come in:

• Donate: Contribute whatever you can. No amount is too small (even “I skipped Starbucks once” money makes a difference).

• Spread the Word: Share my fundraising page with your friends, family, group chats, coworkers, and that one uncle who forwards inspirational WhatsApp messages — everyone.

• Share Stories: If someone in your life has been affected by cancer, I’d be honored to ride in their name. If you feel comfortable, send me their story — I’d love to carry it with me (and maybe complain to them in spirit when I’m pedaling uphill in the rain).

Yeah, this is the part in the movie where the music swells and the screen fades to black. Except it’s not a movie — it’s me, on a bike, probably about to pass out, definitely way less entertaining. Cue the end credits. ?

– Vignesh Sanagala