WELL that gives the wrong impression entirely. Unless your plane is going down, the ordinary usage is two words, and it’s a good thing—and it’s today! May Day, May Day, May Day. We’re in sync this spring here at the humble manse. We’ve got the winter cleanup done and have overseeded the wildflower gardens. We’re hoping for lots of summer-and-autumn-long color this year.
The cancer thing goes swimmingly. I was in the chair for an IV yesterday at Miriam Hospital. Everybody’s friendly. They give me free cranberry juice.
Went through the CT scanner about a week ago, rode the iron piggy to blood labs on Tuesday, reported for chemo yesterday and met with my oncologist afterwards. Everything’s proceeding as expected. The scan showed cancerous lymph nodes everywhere in retreat. There’s no cure for what ails them but they do tend to calm down when you dose them with cancer killers.
I must have misunderstood a detail or two somewhere along the line. I thought I had four monthly IVs to go, Doc says no, I’ll be done after two more. And by July he expects to cut the dose in half on the lenalidomide, from 20mg daily to 10mg. That’s the oral chemo I take once a day on a 28-day cycle: 21 on, 7 off. Cutting that in half will be good since most of the side effects come with that med.
Other than that, not much to report. Just regular life going on. I read, I write, I ride the motorcycles. I get out in the woods with the ’49 truck when there’s free firewood to be had.
For some reason I got stuck in the 16th century for a while after I wrote the Phantom origin myth for Mike Manley. I was reading Erasmus and Michel Eyquem de Montaigne, figured I had better get out of that century before Rabelais showed up.
Flash forward to the 20th century, Strangers on the Western Front; quite an interesting tale that filled a gap in my history education. I had never known that the British and the French enlisted 140,000 Chinese peasants as laborers in World War I. They worked in factories, built roads, railroads, and a fair number died at it, died of hostile fire, accidents, disease. Like European noncombatants, the Chinese were not infrequently bombed and shelled by the Germans. The survivors went home to China with European ideas that profoundly affected the course of events in their country.
In the last few weeks I’ve been mostly into short stories, Annie Proulx, John Gardner, the astonishing Stefan Zweig…
Read Gardner yesterday at the hospital until the IV Benadryl knocked me out. It’s one of the pre-chemo meds they send through the line to get a headstart on counteracting histamines, preventing nausea, inflammation… knocks me out every time—POW!—as we say in the funny papers.
Speaking of funny papers, here’s a case about a week ago where I made a long overdue departure from the lore. I never understood why Lee Falk thought the waterfall shower in Skull Cave ought to be freezing cold. The cave is in a jungle in East Africa, the land is volcanically active, it’s near the equator, explain this icy water.
With due respect to the founder of the legend, I contend that the natural shower in the idyllic Skull Cave is not only warm—it’s perfectly warm. Nature has set its mixing valve to a constant ideal: 41c, 105F, the perfect temperature for a long waterfall conversation with a woman you fancy in the buff.
Here’s a Falk thing I doubt I’ll ever update: Diana calls her husband Darling. I love that. I think I probably smile every time I write it. It’s oddly delightful.
Hauled home a couple of truckloads of 2026 firewood last week. Small stuff mostly.
I can do heavy work with a cant hook and a chainsaw for about half a day. That never would have been possible under the bendamustine regimen of 2019-20, but it’s, you know, modern times now (at least in medicine), the advanced meds are less toxic, the side effects more manageable.
Here’s one I won’t miss: Lenalidomide can give you tremors, which it has given me in spades. It’s a loss of fine motor control. I can pilot a motorcycle and run a chainsaw without hurting myself—no problem using the strength in my hands and arms—but when I try to lift a glass to my lips, my hand shakes like I’m Foster Brooks doing his drunk act.
I’ve got about three truckloads still in the woods. Bigger stuff. I’ll have to quarter it with an ax before I can wheelbarrow it out to the road and load it.
This was Pam’s car last Saturday at Mike Connelly’s garage in Warwick. For 25 years I’ve been fortunate to have lift privileges from a generous friend in the car business. Especially handy when its pouring rain. I took the plastic trim off the rockers on both sides to clean them out. They can collect sand over the winter. If you let it build up, the sand can abrade the paint. Rust will get started at the aft end of the trim and rot the dog legs at the front of the rear wheel wells. It’s a costly repair at a body shop, well worth avoiding through the investment of a rainy Saturday.
Rode the stalwart iron piggy to blood labs on Tuesday. Secured the camera on the nacelle just for yuks.
This footage posted below is nothing remarkable but I could listen to iron piggy all day. I have, over the years, on consecutive 500 & 600-mile days I can’t begin to count; day after day, week after week, month after month. When this chemo thing is over I hope to find I still have the long-distance road chops.
Please don’t hear that as a gripe in these grievance-driven times—for the road owes me nothing! For 15 years—my 50s and the first half of my 60s—I was free to ride whenever, wherever, and for however long I wanted. The poet William Ernest Henley said it in another context entirely, but to whatever gods may be, my heart holds nothing but gratitude for every last mile I rolled in those years.
My friend Nassif Ahmed, of Guwahati, India, is on the road as we speak, riding his Royal Enfield east to west across northern India. He’s bound for Manali, in the Himalayas. Here’s a Day 2 pic I swiped off his FB page.
Closer to home, the Lode Ranch, Wheatland County, Montana, a favorite place I discovered by accident. That’s so often the way: You’re rolling with it, seeing what happens, seeing where you end up. I found the Lode Ranch and lifelong friends there only because I had forgotten my passport at home, couldn’t get through Canada and headed to Alaska without it, had to squat somewhere while awaiting mail at General Delivery, Harlowton, MT.
Our friend Robyn texted me this pic last week. Her family’s place is a usual stop for me whenever I’m within a day’s ride. It’s been too many years since I have been, on account of lymphoma, then chemo, slide right into the pandemic, then the lymphoma flares again, now this second new & improved at-bat with the chemo thing. No biggie. We all put on our big-boy pants and do what we must.
That’s Two Dot Butte in the distance. Ride 150 miles farther west and you’re up and over the Continental Divide.
Robyn sent this one yesterday. The High Plains—beautiful country!
And this one today. The light’s always changing, and the land with it.
A parting word for astute readers of the Phantom daily strip: I mentioned Henley above; keep your eyes peeled for an echo of Invictus before the current daily story is over.
Kind regards to all, and thanks for reading.
Here’s that road footage I shot two days ago.
Tony DePaul, May 1, 2025, Cranston, Rhode Island, USA
