This month is the 5th anniversary of my diagnosis of desmoplastic melanoma. The prognosis my surgeon gave me after cutting it out of my face was “Not good.” That translated to a five-year survival rate of 1 in 20, given my age and the tumor’s location and size. Well, I’m still here, and I’ve been cancer-free for most of that time. That’s a good outcome, no matter how you look at it.

A few months ago, someone on Facebook asked me if getting such a dire prognosis had changed my outlook on life in any way. That was a good question, because I hadn’t put much thought into it.

When I heard, “Not good,” the first thing I thought was, “Well, I always wondered how I was going to die. I guess I know now.” I never expected that cancer would get me. I live a clean life and have never gotten involved in smoking, drugs, or alcohol.

However, I do spend a lot of time outside, so I was concerned about skin cancer. Clearly, that concern was not misplaced, though my idea of skin cancer was something they’d burn off without drama. Instead, it was something that they had to dig out of my face and required a skilled plastic surgeon to make the best of the aftermath. I certainly underestimated what sort of skin cancer I would get. I had never heard of desmoplastic melanoma, a malady that strikes about two in a million annually in the United States.

Fortunately, my “battle” against cancer wasn’t very exciting or heroic. Rather than going through the torture of radiation, chemotherapy, and more surgery, I was treated with pembrolizumab. Better known by its trade name, Keytruda, this immunotherapy wonder drug solved the problem, to the tune of $10,000 per dose every three weeks for a year. I must be very important for the insurance company to splurge like that!

While it wasn’t supposed to have side effects, I developed some indications of autoimmune issues. Because that could kill me, treatment was cut off at nine months. I asked my doctor about it, and he told me that the year-long regimen was a guess. It could work in a month or two, or it could take a couple of years. Regardless, it looks like nine months were enough to get the job done.

Now, onto the question of whether the experience changed my outlook on life.

I would say it didn’t make much difference. Riding motorcycles as much as I do creates an elevated level of risk, so I know that any ride could be my last. Though I expected to live into my 90s or whatever, I also knew that something unexpected could happen in a few seconds, and it’s Game Over. That’s also the case day by day, anyway, as any number of car crash videos will show you. I had great expectations, but also knew I had no guarantees.

When I start each day, I look in the mirror, and I have the unmistakable reminder of the cancer surgery. The round scar is not subtle. That sets the tone for a moment, as I realize that I’m lucky to be here.

I most often think about my possible fate when I’m having a great motorcycle ride. Along the way, out of the blue, I’ll reflect and say to myself, “I could have been dead and gone, and not be here right now.”

It’s similar to a thought I previously had on great rides after my dad died. I would think, “I wish he were here so I could call him up and tell him about it.” That’s not going to happen, though I still think it. Any slight twinge of sadness is tempered by remembering that it was his time to go, and he wouldn’t want his being gone to ruin anything.

Another change is my perspective on someone else having cancer. I always hope they have it as easy as I have, and end up with my result. Sadly, I know that’s not the case. Via social media, I know other people who have had desmoplastic melanoma, and not all of them make it. When it’s someone with young kids, that’s a hard reality to take.

All things considered, my perspective on my cancer journey is impressively shallow. I view it as something that happened, and I’m still around. I don’t navel-gaze over it, as there’s not much to consider. Either I was going to make it, or I wasn’t. Either I’d still be here writing this column, or the March 2026 Editor’s Letter would be by someone else.

I’m glad I’m still here. If it hadn’t worked out, I would have never made it to places like Sardinia, Cyprus, Nice, Newcastle upon Tyne, or Uruguay — all new riding destinations for me over the last five years. I also would have missed more incredible times and rides with my wonderful wife.

If you’re looking for a takeaway from this column, it’s that you want to make the most of the time you have here, as you rarely know when it’s going to be over. I am quite sure, though, that you already knew that. You ride motorcycles, after all.