This weekend, for the fifth time, I am taking part in the MS 150 -– that’s a two-day bike ride from Houston to Austin to raise money for a cure for multiple sclerosis. It is one of the biggest such events in the country. About 13,000 riders take part and, over the past few years, the MS-150 has raised over $10 million a year for research to find a cure for multiple sclerosis.

I don’t just ride, I sometimes give speeches to urge people to donate money to this effort.

So how good is a speechwriter when he steps up to the podium himself? You be the judge.

In one of the speeches I gave -- in this case to my church -- I told our parishioners that I could talk to them about what a terrible disease multiple sclerosis is. I could talk to them about how it usually strikes people in the prime of their lives. I could talk to them about how there is a new case of MS diagnosed every hour. And I could talk to them about how there is still no cure.

But, I said, I’m not going to do this. I’m just going to tell a story. And I did.

The story went like this: One year, when I was riding the MS 150, I was stopped for a traffic light and I happened to glance over at the rider on my left.

Immediately, I took a closer look. He was riding alone on a tandem bicycle. What happened to the other rider, I wondered. Had he fallen off? Been taken sick? Had the two riders possibly had an argument and split up in the middle of the ride?

But as I looked even more closely, I noticed that the rear pedals on the bike had been removed. No question about it; this man was deliberately riding solo on a bicycle built for two. Why? I asked myself.

At that moment, the light turned, the other rider pulled ahead of me, and suddenly I had my answer. The rider had a sign propped up on the empty rear seat. The sign said: “Last year, I rode with my wife. This year, I’m riding for her.”

That was all I said -- or needed to say.