Friday, Oct. 25, 2002 | 9:22 a.m.
Susan Snyder's column appears Fridays Sundays and Tuesdays. Reach her at [email protected] or (702) 259-4082.
The last time I saw Joaquin Alvarez really happy was the day I turned 40.
It was back in February 2001. A group of us had rented a condo at Utah's Brian Head for a weekend of skiing to mark and mock my passing into middle age.
It was a hallmark day, for sure. Joaquin had lost a kidney to cancer five months earlier and was making the kind of recovery that made it easy to forget he'd been so sick.
The night's storm had passed leaving fresh powder underfoot and a dazzling blue sky overhead. We stood at the top of a black-diamond expert run pocked with moguls.
"You first," I shouted to Joaquin who stood a couple of turns below me.
He grinned and plunged forward, but I'd stood looking too long. I chickened out and traversed to the adjacent, more moderate run.
Joaquin gave me a good ribbing at the bottom -- for the rest of the weekend, in fact. He plucked a pin from the lapel of his ski jacket and affixed it to mine.
"No guts. No glory." it says.
Joaquin had both. He taught middle school math, a vocation that deserves some kind of medal.
But I didn't know him as a teacher. I met him as a cyclist. We belonged to the same bicycle club. Joaquin was a strong pedaler and helped me train for a two-day, 150-mile, California charity ride the year my significant other had a broken leg and couldn't ride.
He dragged me over hell's half-acre, around Henderson and to Boulder City and back more times than I can count. He never skipped the hills or cut the miles, and I spent a fair number of miserable hours trying to hang within six inches of his rear wheel.
His enthusiasm was infectious. His patience and standards unwavering. And I can only imagine how much his students must have liked him and learned from him.
In November Joaquin placed 109th out of 693 cyclists who rode in the 50-mile event of the annual El Tour de Tucson bicycle race. He finished in two hours and 37 minutes. That's pretty fast for a 57-year-old guy. Shoot, that's fast for anyone.
But cancer is an indiscriminate thief that comes back for more without warning. It steals bit by bit, day by day.
Joaquin's came back with a vengeance. It slammed him hard at the Tour de Palm Springs this past February.
There were more tumors and more surgery. Recovery was harder, slower. Cancer has a way of replacing what it steals with hopelessness and despair.
As cancer survivor Lance Armstrong was pedaling to his unprecedented fourth consecutive Tour de France win in July, Joaquin was fighting for his life.
Armstrong put the face on cancer that we all want to see.
Joaquin wore the one we're more likely to encounter.
There was no peloton or Champs-Elysees for Joaquin. He finished his race quietly Sunday evening at Nathan Adelson Hospice.
Armstrong is a hero. He's also an anomaly.
The war on cancer isn't over. Its battlefield is strewn with the once-strong bodies of our families and friends.
Ride on, Joaquin.
No guts, no glory.
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