Words by Erika Sallum | Photos by Diego Cagnato
“How much time will I have to stay away from my bike?!” I swear the question was the first one to cross my mind when my doctor said the most terrifying words I had ever heard: “Yes, it is cancer”. Only after that I thought about chemo, mastectomy, baldness, and nausea. “Do you think I will be able to ride my bike during treatment?!”, I added. “Absolutely. It will be essential that you do”, he said, smiling with all his heart.
I had never been so fit. Never smoked. Drank socially. Cycled a lot for the past 13 years. And the lump I had found in my left breast while taking shower didn’t even look like a tumor, according to my doctor. Plus, I was young, just 39 years old. But it was cancer. A rare type, called mucinous carcinoma, more common in women over 65 years old.
That was in January 2016, in Sao Paulo, Brazil. Everything happened so fast, like the wheels of my bike the day before my surgery, in February. Chemo started in March. My boyfriend from New Zealand was a jerk and left my house in April (“I read on the internet that chemo can be dangerous to MY health”, he said, while I looked at him thinking my hair could fall at any moment). I was invited, as the editor of Outside Brazil and Bicycling Brazil magazines, to attend the women’s Tour de France in July – and went there super bald and thin. Oh, I even did Rapha’s Women 100 in July too (yep, during chemo). In August, my whole body got swollen due to cortisone, adding kilos to my silhouette that simply do not go away. Last chemo session was in September. My new life started in October, and I went to Iran with my brother to celebrate in the beginning of November.
I never stopped cycling during those months. It helped me keep my sanity, even when I was ridiculously fragile and could barely pedal. “You’re the strongest cyclist and the raddest girl I’ve ever met”, my friend Talita told me while I struggled to climb a hill I used to glide up so easily. My eyes were full of tears. But I kept pedaling. It was more than an obsession; it was the force that kept me alive.
World champion Peter Sagan and I, in Sao Paulo, during his visit to Brazil in 2016, a few days before my mastectomy.
My friend and photographer Diego Cagnato took this pic of me during the ride with Peter Sagan, when I was devastated by the news I had cancer (even the green eyes of heartthrob Sagan was not enough to make me forget what was happening).
The day before the surgery, I had to go to a lab so a radioactive substance could be injected near the tumor for the doctors to find whether or not my lymph nodes were compromised by cancer cells. It hurt! A LOT. My crying face tells it all.
The night before my surgery, Diego went to my house and asked me if I could put my favorite bike clothing. I chose Machines for Freedom bib shorts. I was so scared that night. I look at these pics now and barely recognize myself. My hair is so different now. I was so thin then. My eyes were so sad.
The night before my surgery, Diego went to my house and asked me if I could put my favorite bike clothing. I chose Machines for Freedom bib shorts. I was so scared that night. I look at these pics now and barely recognize myself. My hair is so different now. I was so thin then. My eyes were so sad.
Finally the mastectomy day. I chose to remove both breasts. Thankfully reconstruction was possible at the same day. My doctor told me I couldn’t ride for one month after surgery. I was on my bike after 15 days at home (oh hell yeah!).
“Your hair will fall exactly 14 days after the first chemo session, so it is better to have a hair cut now”, my doctor told me. I thought he was exaggerating. But I decided to get rid of my long hair (and gave it to a cancer foundation). On the 14th day after the first chemo session, my hair fell during a meeting at my workplace. Scary stuff.
Before all chemo sessions, you have to do blood tests for the doctors to check your immunity, since the drugs make your white cells to drop greatly. And there I go to the lab after a ride. My friend Talita was there with me, always. We were a hell of a couple of riders on the queue.
The nurse tried to convince me not to move my arm too much after the blood test. I didn’t listen to her, of course. Riding to my house that day was bloody, but reinvigorating.
I only skipped my rides when I was too sick to get on my bike. Every time I tried to climb a hill, I felt like I was on the verge of vomiting. It was worthy though.
I only skipped my rides when I was too sick to get on my bike. Every time I tried to climb a hill, I felt like I was on the verge of vomiting. It was worthy though.
I only skipped my rides when I was too sick to get on my bike. Every time I tried to climb a hill, I felt like I was on the verge of vomiting. It was worthy though.
After having my hair cut really short, I had to shave my head. The short hair kept falling and falling, creating holes of empty space on my head. Ana Peres and Mauricio, my friends, went to my house almost every week to shave it.
After having my hair cut really short, I had to shave my head. The short hair kept falling and falling, creating holes of empty space on my head. Ana Peres and Mauricio, my friends, went to my house almost every week to shave it.
After having my hair cut really short, I had to shave my head. The short hair kept falling and falling, creating holes of empty space on my head. Ana Peres and Mauricio, my friends, went to my house almost every week to shave it.
Chemo sessions suck. One session can last for 5 hours. My protocol had two types: “red chemo” and “white chemo”. During the red ones, the nausea was so intense that it started the minute I put my foot in the clinic.
Chemo sessions suck. One session can last for 5 hours. My protocol had two types: “red chemo” and “white chemo”. During the red ones, the nausea was so intense that it started the minute I put my foot in the clinic.
When it was too cold, or when I felt too weak, I used my trainer while watching Giro, Vuelta or Tour stages on YouTube. Good way to sweat all the drugs.
Life goes on. Like the pedals of a bike. Tough climbs come and go, as well as fun descents. I’m cured now. Wiser. Still recovering from the treatment. Still trying to get back to my old shape. I will keep going. No matter what.
A few days before my surgery, world champion Peter Sagan visited Brazil. We cycled together for a few minutes, which briefly made me forget the nightmare I found myself in . My friend and photographer Diego Cagnato asked me that day: “How’s everything?”. I didn’t hesitate: “I have cancer.” On that same week we met again in a party. And he asked me if he could document my treatment with his camera. He was there when I arrived at the hospital around 5 am. When I almost vomited during chemo. When I had my hair cut. When I cried because cancer was nothing compared to the pain of a broken heart...
One year later, I look at these pics and feel grateful for having not only so many wonderful friends to hold my hand but also to have my passion for cycling. My bike was there by my side, and never disappointed me. Never. It may sound a cliché, but it is true – my bike taught me I was stronger than I thought. Cycling was never so wonderful.
Life goes on. Like the pedals of a bike. Tough climbs come and go, as well as fun descents. I’m cured now. Wiser. Still recovering from the treatment. Still trying to get back to my old shape. I will keep going. No matter what.