Ready To Ride

Last July my wife Dena and I decided to separate after 12 years of marriage.

It seemed like a good time to dust off the 1960’s vintage Bianchi road-bike my friend Jeremiah had given me a few years earlier. I started riding the hills of Berkeley and the valleys of the East Bay. To clear my mind. To strengthen my body.  Long rides calm the mind and I quickly found that endorphins help create a positive outlook when facing uncertainty.

1960's Italian Steel Frame Bianchi

I began riding with my friend Sarana who has a passion for cycling. Soon she invited me to ride with her in the AIDS Life/Cycle ride. 545 miles from San Francisco to Los Angeles in June to raise money to help end AIDS. She’d done the ride twice before and spoke of its power both as a practice in service of an important cause and as inspiration for what community can accomplish when people truly come together. My friend Tyler also did the ride and spoke of it in the same way. “It changed my life,” he said.

I don’t know that I wanted to change my life, but since my life was changing regardless of what I wanted it seemed like a good idea to take on a project that would help focus my mind on something other that myself and provide me with a physical challenge.

So I signed up.

I pledged to raise $5000 for the San Francisco AIDS Foundation and began a riding and running regimen that has put me in better shape–at the choice age of 43–than I have ever been in my life.

The theatre community has been hit particularly hard by HIV since the disease was first recognized 30 years ago. I’m riding for everyone we’ve lost and for all those living with courage, day by day, facing the challenge of this vicious disease.

This BLOG is a notebook of STORIES and REFLECTIONS about the Training and the Ride. It is inspired by the truth that we all face uncertainty in our lives.  The harshness of the modern world feels particularly jagged at the moment. Events beyond our control can interrupt our assured sense of self in an instant. Earthquake and nuclear catastrophe in Japan; revolution in the Middle East; diagnosis of a cancer or AIDS; sudden death of a family member; loss of a job or a home; even a tempestuous, hormonal adolescent can test our very mettle (note the parent writing here…).

And yet hope and inspiration are ever at our fingertips. People are doing amazing things for each other in this magnificent world.

As I ride my bike I sit perched between the wheels of Fear and Hope. I know I am not alone. The truth is that this life is full of both profound challenges and breathtaking beauty and grace. How do we make room for both and not go crazy?

My First Century (April 17, 2011)

I’ve been riding and running for months now but this day was a breakthrough and seems like a good place to start the narrative the journey.

I had run into Howie Miller at a party and mentioned to him that I was training for the AIDS Ride. I didn’t know that he was a cycling enthusiast. “Oh, you should come with us tomorrow. We’re riding a Century. Meet at Peet’s Coffee on Solano at 7am.” I had never ridden 100 miles. I was intimidated. He said it was mostly flat and not a big deal. I said I’d think it over.

Was this insane?

I suited up in the morning and arrived at 7:04am just in time to see 3 cyclists disappear around the nearest corner. (I guess meeting at Peet’s at 7am does not involve actually drinking coffee). I sped to catch up and they welcomed me. Howie, Morgan and Brian.

I hadn’t ridden the streets of Berkeley on a bike with a pack of guys since I was in grade school. We were heading out to Orinda, via San Pablo Dam Road, some 15 miles away, to meet up with another rider, Dean, a former Category 2 competitive cyclist. This means national racing. Hmmm. Out my league here perhaps. For a hundred miles?!

Older than the rest of us, at 51 I was told, he set a strong pace and I did my best to keep up. They taught me how to draft—stay within a foot or two of the wheels in front of you—which makes the cyclist in front your wind barrier. Quite nice actually. There were a few hills but 3 hours into the ride and we were way the hell out there riding past fields beyond Dublin and Danville. Gorgeous green pastures and rolling hills.

The only humiliating moment came at a stop light in Dublin when I got tangled up as I shifted a gear coming to a stop, couldn’t get my foot un-clipped in time and tipped over into the pavement. This was timed right as another pack of riders rode up to stop at the light. I was the novice in the asphalt amidst a dozen cyclists in their spiffy outfits. They all looked at me with a pitying smile and sped off as the light turned green.

We lost Brian and then Dean by mile 65 or 70 as they had other directions to ride in. I convinced Howie and Morgan to stop for a taco. Damn I was hungry. Very unconventional, they assured me, but acquiesced. After our break we continued on and made it back to Berkeley by 3p where we hit our 100 mile number not far from where we had started at Peet’s (without coffee) at 7am.

Back home I hit a hot bath, (my left hamstring was very vocal), some serious stretching and then PASSED OUT on the couch.

But damn. I rode a hundred miles. Thanks guys.

Day On The Ride (April 23, 2011)

500 AIDS Life/Cycle riders arrive a Mike’s Bikes in San Rafael at 6:30am on Saturday to ride 65 miles in a training ride that will be very like a typical day on the journey from SF to LA in June. I register, get my number (519, my daughter Zoe’s birthday I note), and meet up with Sarana amidst the throng of helmeted, suited up cyclists that fill the interior of the bike store. We are led through some stretches, a safety speech (darn, we have to stop at ALL stop signs) and a touching welcome speech by the ED of the Foundation who reminds us why we’re riding. He invites us to think of those we’ve lost or those for whom we are riding and he lets us know that the ride coincides with the 30^th anniversary of the discovery of the AIDS.  The crowd is quiet and contemplative.

I’m struck by the fact that the people are gathered here to create change. Change in the science of modern medicine, change in the politics of discrimination, change in themselves by taking on a physical challenge. While I’ve always considered myself an activist, I don’t think I’ve ever taken on activism at this level before. My activism has mainly been through my art as a theatre-maker. But I am reminded of a powerful statement that Tony Kushner made about the fact that art does not replace activism. We have to do both. Art can help shift public consciousness and Kushner says, exercise our ability to engage with complexity. But activism is direct action: raise money to fund  programs and research that fight AIDS and supports people living with HIV.

Bumping up against each other as we all squat to stretch our IT Band, I can’t help but see the range of capability in the group. And the range of shape and style! Big burly bald biker men and small muscular women and men with big bellies and women with wide hips and quite a few older folks and plenty of young ‘uns and lots and lots of bunny ears. Fertility was in the air. That or just sex.

It’s 8am by the time we head out on the ride amidst clanking cowbells (yes friends, cowbells at 8 o’clock in the morning) and spirit is high. It’ll take more than half an hour in single file slow pedaling just to get beyond the streets of San Rafael. But once we do, the rolling hills of Marin County invite us into their glory. We’re riding out towards Petaluma/Pt. Reyes Highway and up through the back roads of Petaluma and back. And the air is fresh, the cloud cover protects us from the sun, there is no wind and we’re cruising.

The first rest stop is at mile 18 or so. At every rest stop there are snacks, bathrooms, a bike mechanic and a very festive atmosphere. This early in the ride, not much fatigue.

Sarana finds the legendary Rabbi Sydney Mintz who we’re riding with. They’ve done the ride twice together. While I might have asked the Rabbi for a blessing as we embark on this significant journey, I somehow only asked her to explain the use of “butt butter.” Little packets of the stuff are piled high in bowls by the porto potties. The Rabbi gave me instruction on the application, which I was a little confused about because it’s not actually for your butt. I will not repeat her precise instructions here. But I did learn that the “butter” is intended to keep from chafing, which can be an issue on long rides. (I still haven’t used the stuff).

Sarana introduces me to Gabriel who was giving out fresh fruit. Gabriel is HIV positive and says the ride literally saved his life. A few years ago he had come up from Mexico, where treatment for AIDS is not what it is here in the States. Getting involved with the AIDS Life/Cycle ride gave him hope and evidently led to the medical attention he needed to fight the disease. He was incredibly gracious and poised and grateful to the riders for inspiring him.

Back on the road we were deep into the pastures of Northern California. The riders all thinned out now, I was able to find a good pace for myself and stretch out on the wide open highway. Nothing but grazing cows and open sky. A few hills provided some challenge but my training thus far allowed me to power up those hills with vigor. The payoff of course is a fast, smooth descent. So fun.

Lunch was in a park in Petaluma at mile 35. I was splayed out on the grass, chowing down a peanut butter sandwich chatting with other riders. Sun peaked out a bit. Sarana and Sidney rolled in and I was back on the bike with another 30 miles to go. I hit a groove with a pack of 3 or 4 guys who were riding at my pace and we rode a good part of it together. Yellow arrows dotted the route to keep us heading in the right direction and anywhere there might be confusion or an issue with traffic they had a volunteer posted there to steer us in the right direction.

This is an incredibly well organized operation.

Back in San Rafael the same cow bells that sent us off in the morning welcomed us home in the afternoon. It was around 3pm. A huge pasta feast was waiting. I didn’t realize how ravenous I had become . I devoured a heaping helping. And then got in line for a massage by one of the team of volunteers.  I had to work out a little shoulder tightness and the lactic acid build up in my calfs. Oh. My. Goodness. Hello calfs. (Calves?)

Home and hot bath and stretching. It was a good day on the ride.

Get A Bicycle

“Get a bicycle. You will not regret it. If you live.”
–Mark Twain.

25 days from today we will stand at the Cow Palace in San Francisco, point our front wheels South and start peddling towards Los Angeles. June 5, 2011. This date is exactly 30 years from June 5, 1981, the day that the US Centers For Disease Control reported the first case of AIDS in the US (though it wasn’t until a year later that they began to call it AIDS: Acquired Immune Deficiency Syndrome).

Some stats:

• An estimated 33.3 million people worldwide are living with HIV/AIDS.
• 2.6 million people are newly infected with HIV each year.
• Close to 2 million people die from HIV/AIDS each year.
• Of that 2 million, more than 300,000 are children.
• 76% of those deaths occur in sub-Saharan Africa.
• 25 million people have been killed by the disease.

When I think about why I’m waking up at 6am to get my tight bike shorts on, throw back a cup of coffee and get out on a training ride, I think about the size of this pandemic (that word scares me) and know that it’s the least I can do. And while many of us are struggling to make ends meet, or facing relationship challenges, or wrestling with the myriad of uncertainties that nip at our heals at any moment in the pressure-cooker of this thing they call the modern world, these sobering statistics gives me pause. And snap me out of being self-absorbed with my own struggles. Or as my friend Willard recently reminded me, “we are not the envy of the world because of our iPhones, iPads, air conditioning, fast cars, and so on, we are the envy of the world because we have ICE CUBES.”

Thank you Willard.

My 60's Italian Bianchi meets the Golden Gate

A week ago Tyler and I road 70 miles from Presido to Olema and back. Riding across the Golden Gate Bridge in the morning on a clear day is simply spectacular. Yes we have ice cubes. We also happen to have the most beautiful bridge in the world. Over the course of the next 5 hours we were beside the Bay, in the valleys and along the fields and dairy farms of Marin County, through the redwoods and across the streams of Samuel P. Taylor State Park, and winding our way down highway 1 with the Pacific Ocean, its blue as deep and dark as twilight, rolling out forever.

Somewhere along this ride, pushing up a steep hill, I remembered riding BART the other day. A woman sat down across from a young man. The man said, “How you doin’?” The woman said, “Okay. Good. Good. I’m good. I’m fine. How you doin’?” The man said, “I’m having a hard day.” The woman, maybe 10 or 15 years his senior said, with great enthusiasm and conviction, “Let. It. Go.” She looked him in the eye, “Whatever it is. Let it go. It’s not doin’ you any good to be holdin’ on to it. It’s probably not even yours. Let. It. Go. It’s just gonna fester. And you don’t want that. Just let it go.”

She didn’t know him. And he looked to her like his Aunty, perhaps. She gave him wisdom. And he listened. He was a bit broken, this kid. A vet from the Navy. Trying to get through school. He just learned that he wasn’t getting credit for a class at a JC he had taken, which meant he had to repeat the class and another year of school. He was so upset. The woman coached him. On BART. In public. With full voice. As if he was her charge. She cared so much for him. Almost moved right into him. He calmed down. Just needed someone to see him. To bear witness. Then she wished him luck and got off at MacArthur Station. As did I. The young man stayed on the train and sped off into the rest of his life.

How often do we see people caring for complete strangers?

And here I am, on this ride, pulling my ass up the steep incline of Highway 1 from Muir Beach towards Green Gulch Zen Center, 60 miles into this ride, and for whom? For my own well-being, yes. But mainly to benefit people whom I will never meet. For complete strangers who need care. And on June 5 I’ll be joined by 2500 other riders who will do the same all the way down the glorious coast of California.

And Mark Twain, we will live.

Another Hundred Miles and the Art of Discipline

I did not know Billy Wilson, really.

I took one class with him when I was an undergraduate in the acting conservatory at Carnegie-Mellon University. It was the class to determine which level we had the aptitude for: the real dance class (Billy Wilson’s) or the other dance class (i.e., the one for non dancers). I was sure I would make the cut. I had danced in musicals and even got P.E. credit for a year of dance class at Berkeley High (which got me out of team sports – a story for another time). I sashayed across the floor, worked the barre and did the best I could to meet the demands of this demanding teacher. Billy was direct, precise and he did not suffer fools lightly.

He broke me.

I was sequestered into the remedial dance class and suffered 2 years with an inferior teacher and a class full of students with two left feet. Three times a week at 8 o’clock in the morning.

Throughout the year I watched students emerge from Billy’s studio in tears. Sobbing. Enraged. Pushed to the limit. We were in conservatory. And our limits were being tested in every area. And we loved it. And they loved him. And yes we bitched and moaned. It was hard. No one in our entire class got above a C+ the first year. And yet, how refreshing to encounter master artists who demanded we step up with everything we’ve got. In a world rife with mediocrity, with so much settling for less than, what a gift.

Billy’s daughter Alexis was my classmate, one of my first scene partners, a lovely person, stunning beauty and remarkable dancer in her own right.

Billy was the head of the dance department at Carnegie after a colorful career as a dancer and choreographer on Broadway and in Europe.

Billy Wilson died of AIDS in 1994. He was 59.

Hwy 1

And I was thinking about him as Tyler and I rode a hundred miles on Friday. My second Century. From Presidio up towards Petaluma then West to Tomales Bay and down to Pt. Reyes Station. Then home. It was a strong ride, some challenging hills, and more of California’s natural beauty than many take in in a lifetime.

I was thinking about Billy Wilson on the ride because I had a brief exchange via Facebook with Alexis the day before when I was fundraising. A number of my classmates from Carnegie—some of whom I have not seen in 20 years—have come through with sponsorships. Facebook turns out to be good for revolutions and fundraising. And connecting old friends.

And I was thinking about discipline. The discipline that Billy and some of our other teachers in conservatory demanded of us. We were 18 years old. We were passionate about theatre. And we were quite full of ourselves. These teachers were all professionals from the field and they knocked us down. Notch by notch. And they offered to help us rebuild ourselves from the inside – out. To investigate our inner life. To meet the physical limits of our bodies. To stretch our intellects. It was inspiring and it was ruthless. Half the freshman class would be cut from the program at the end of the first year. Less than a third of the class would remain by senior year.  Only hard work and talent would be rewarded.

Discipline. I was thinking about the discipline it has taken the activists, advocates and scientists to change the way AIDS affects people through education, policy and treatment, all of which have allowed many HIV+ people to live active, normal lives today, 30 years after AIDS began its rampage. As I climbed a monster hill on the Marshall/Petaluma Road I was thinking about the discipline it takes to accomplish something worthwhile

Spiritual teachers call it practice. The Dalai Lama says,

“Developing the mind depends upon a great many internal causes and conditions, much like a space station depends on the work of generations of scientists who have analyzed and tested even its smallest components. Neither a space station nor an enlightened mind can be realized in a day…However, unlike the space station, which is constructed by many people working together, the mind must be developed by you alone. There is no way for others to do the work and for you to reap the results.”

There is no one else on the bike but you. Pedal, pedal, pedal. Eight hours of riding allows the mind to open up. To meet itself. Hello mind. Nice to see you out here. There is no one else at the barre but you. There is no one else staring down the obstacles that present themselves in the studio, on the road, in the kitchen, at the office, in the classroom, in the lab. The walls we push up against. Discipline is the courage to stay with it, day after day. Mile after mile. Plié after plié.

The culture we live in rides on immediate gratification and speed. But discipline is on a different timeline. Slows down. Progress is measured over the long run. No short cuts.

I’m sad that Billy and so many others had their lives cut short by this wicked disease. Even with inspiring discipline, there are uncertainties that we cannot prevent. I’ll take from it that we better strive for great things while we can. But approach them day at a time. Moment at a time.

And then another hundred miles.

Two weeks to go ‘til the Ride.

TARA. (June 4, 2011)

Tara in Bike Parking awaiting Day 1

We named my bike today. “Tara,” after the female Buddhist Bodhisattva.

Tārā is known as the Mother of Mercy and Compassion. She is the source, the female aspect of the universe, which gives birth to warmth, compassion and relief from bad karma as experienced by ordinary beings in cyclic existence. (Since I’ll be living a cyclic existence over the next week, I thought this was appropriate).

Tara engenders, nourishes, smiles at the vitality of creation, and has sympathy for all beings as a mother does for her children. She offers succor and protection from all the unfortunate circumstances one can encounter within the samsaric world. And she expresses maternal compassion and offers healing to beings who are hurt or wounded, either physically or psychically.

Tara and I are riding to help end AIDS.

It’s 10pm. Opening ceremonies start in 8 hours. What am I doing awake? Maybe the pasta carbohydrates feed for dinner is pulsing through my veins, keeping me up. Maybe I’m just a little bit excited…

I’ve ridden 1000 miles since April 1 training for the ride. I put new tires on Tara yesterday and cleaned her up a bit. Wrapped her handle bars in bright green tape. Tightened her breaks. A few final adjustments. She’s ready to take me on a 545 mile journey to LA, with 2500 riders and another 500 volunteer roadies. There’s a good chance of rain in the morning.

I am rider number 6058.

I’ve raised over $5,700 for the San Francisco AIDS Foundations, $700 beyond my goal, from more than 90 people. Thank you to everyone who stepped up with a sponsorship.  And thanks to everyone else who has lent moral support.

Sarana gets a big shout out here. She had to pull out of the ride because of a nasty bout of pneumonia that took her down for 3 week and knocked her off her training game. She’s just about back to 100% now, but not in time for the rigor of the ride. She’s the one who inspired my signing up. Will miss riding with you this year my friend.

With Tara,
towards a more compassionate world,
for the end of AIDS
and for all of us in need
of loving kindness.

DAY 1. June 5, 2011

6am at the Cow Palace with 2500 riders, 500 crew and hundreds of friends and family.

Opening Ceremony for AIDS Life/Cycle 10.

Most moving: the Riderless Bicycle, wheeled in in somber procession to honor those we’ve lost to AIDS. A deep silence in the giant hall. Tears.

How do you get 2500 cyclists on their bikes and on the road in an orderly fashion? Slowly. Hundreds of cheering well wishers lined the path out of the parking lot. After months of training and fundraising, days of frantic packing and fretting over rain, and a damn early morning cup of coffee and bowl of oat meal, we we were finally on our way.

It felt like being part of something so much bigger than me.

7 miles of road were closed as the crowd thinned and we made our way West and then South. By 10:30a we were at Rest Stop 2 in Half MoonBay. Lunch some miles later at Geronimo Beach on the Coast. Some riders ride with photos of loved ones they’ve lost on their bikes. There was a commemorative exhibit at the lunch stop reflecting on 30 years of AIDS.

Rain stayed away. Some headwind on Hwy 1. And by 4p, after 82.5 miles, I rolled into Santa Cruz and to our first camp. Parked Tara in bike parking. Got luggage from the gear truck. Set up the tent on a sports field. Hit the shower trucks. Dinner. And soon to sleep.

The organization of this enterprise is inspiring. Sinage and volunteers spotted the route in key areas. Each rest stop complete with food, bike mechanics, hydration, porta potties, music, and high spirit. And each camp, a veritable touring village, is set up and torn down each day as we ride down the coast.

The sense of community is strong. The knowledge of common purpose remarkable.

I think I’m a little tired. It’s 8 o’clock.

Good night.

DAY 2. ALC10. La Mariposa Loca

5am rise after a fitful 8 hours sleep with light rain clearing by morning. Big breakfast and brown hot water masquerading as coffee. Major bike traffic jam getting out of bike parking. Worse than rush hour on the Bay Bridge.

Stopping and starting at traffic lights through Santa Cruz I met a couple of guys who complimented me on my Butterfly Jersey. One wore a Cinderella figurine on his helmut. The princess watching over us all to keep us safe on our journey, he told me with an ironic smile. His family was from Puerto Rico, his friend’s family from Mexico. Both live in LA. This is their 4th ride. They were in high spirits. Flirting with me and everyone else around. “La Mariposa Loca!” they called me as the light turned green and I sped off.

First rest stop at mile 14, Manressa State Beach. Surfers in the waves. Sun out. California shining. Long way to go today. Can’t jump in the surf like I want to.

Heading inland now, through the central valley. Strawberries and artichokes. Thousands of acres of farm land and the hard working men and women bent over picking.

Stop for fried artichokes. A feeding frenzy of cyclists crammed at a little side road stand. Can they feed us all? When you ride this much you can eat whatever the !$@*!! you want. Yesterday someone on the side off the road handed me a donut hole at the top of big hill. Just placed it in my hand as I rode by. Why not? Tasted hella good.

The fried artichokes, also hella good, held me over til lunch in Salinas. Mile 46. Only 60 miles to go.

Otter Pop Stop. The Bears host a party handing out otter pops and dancing to Lady Gaga in fabulous bare(bear?)chested half-dress. Its a furry affair. The Cookie Lady is here too, handing out 2500 home made cookies she’s baked for us. Yum.

Onward.

Through beautiful vineyards, the hills on one side of the valley light up as the sun blazes between scattered clouds. Cross a bridge over the Gonzales river.
Toss my bike to the side of the road with a pile of other bikes. Been riding for 8 hours by now. Scamper down into the ravine. Join a posse of skinny dippers in the cold and revitalizing river. Squeals and laughter and howls of delight.

What? There’s more?

Back on the bike and onto Rest Stop 4. 94 miles into today’s ride. Yesterday the boys of Rest Stop 4 were Lumber Jacks. Today they are Boy Scouts. What manly role will they take on tomorrow?

12 miles to camp. Roll in after 6p. Set up tent. Eat. Ready to pass out.

zzzzzzzzzzzzzzzz.

DAY 3. ALC10. Namaste Bitches.

Wake at 5a. Breakfast of eggs, pancakes and oatmeal. More hot brown water to wash it down. Short ride of 66 miles today.

A little stretching would be good. Yoga on the grass with a verbally abusive yoga teacher in dreads. “I never learned positive reinforcement” he assures us. All in good fun. “Fuck you, I said straighten your knee.” After 20 minutes of good stretches, considerable ribbing and a few laughs, “Namaste Bitches. Let’s Ride.”

The intimidating section of road today is the hill known affectionately as “Quad Buster.” 10 miles in. 1.3 mile climb. With all the hills training I did I…well…frankly I killed it. Tore up the hill, strong. Someone was playing the theme song from Rocky at the top and a crowd was there to cheer us on. The down hill slope was super fun. You feel like a kid again going that fast, with the wind in your face.

Lunch at mile 43 in Bradley, a little town. A line of school children welcome each cyclist with high-fives as we ride in.

Reminds me of my beautiful daughter. Zoe, you would have loved these kids! A few years younger than you but so sweet and excited. They have signs that say “you are heroes!” I think you would have loved the bar-b-que the local bar-b-que joint was serving up too!

Making good time today. Back on the bike by 12:30p.

Rest Stop 4 today is something to behold. The boys are in drag, hot pink dresses, heels, wigs, make-up, at Mission San Miguel. One of the legendary California Missions on the Camino Real. As I ride up to the Mission and am directed towards bike parking by a stunning 6 foot blonde with fake boobs standing in the middle of the highway, I come to an abrupt stop behind a car that is trying to drive through the area that’s been blocked off for riders. An older man in a cream white Oldsmobile is at a stand-off with a drag queen in flaming pink. She tells him he can’t drive thru. He says he parks in there. She looks at me aghast and says “a crazy man is trying to drive in here. ” I’m standing with my bike, one foot still cleated in my pedal, right beside the driver’s side widow so I jump in and tell the guy he can’t park back there. I try to tell him to use one of the ten empty parking spaces directly next to him. He says, “but I park in there.” More looks of discontent from the queen. The man is pleasant, smiling, and seems a little uncomfortable with the while situation, perhaps even unnerved by the man in the hot pink dress and wig standing in front of his car. “I’m the pastor here,” he says to me gently almost under his breath. “What?” “I’m the pastor here,” he says smiling uncomfortably, “and I park through here.” The queen’s eyes get big. Another queen, in matching pink, walks up. “It’s the Padre,” the first one says. “Oh!” says the second one. “Let’s let him in. ”

I decide its a good time to park my bike.

The boys have set up a little stage in the courtyard of the beautiful Mission on which they perform choreographed Jazzercize numbers, a la Jane Fonda.

I am not making this up.

Catholic Mission San Miguel on the Camino Real. Drag queens and Jazzercize. AIDS LifeCycle, my friends.

The Mission is happy to host Rest Stop 4 each year. And each year the boys take up a collection for the Mission, raising several thousand dollars which helps with grounds upkeep and other necessities for the tiny budgeted Mission.

I go into the sanctuary and sit down for ten minutes. So quiet and peaceful. Some other riders sit in the pews. I imagine some pray for loved ones. I think of the complicated relationship religious gay men and women have with the Catholic Church. And I think this mash up of cultures is such a blessing. Something is being healed here.

Back on the bike for another hour and into camp, at the Paso Robles State Fairgrounds. In by 3p. Early today! Shower. Wash some ripe cycling clothing. Leave it out to dry in the glorious sun.

And rest up. 98 miles tomorrow.

Namaste Bitches.

DAY 4. ALC10. 1/2 Way To L.A. And I’m Still Not Gay

Wake at 5am. Breakfast. Abusive Yoga at 6am. Favorite quotes from my new yoga master: “I know it hurts Junior, why the fuck do you think we’re doing this?!” And, “Pull your leg back. Pull that bitch like she owes you money.”

98 miles today. Getting an early start. Except not. Tara has a flat when I find her in bike parking. 1/2 hour delay as I change the tube. Then more morning bike traffic getting out. On the road by 8a.

Where the hell are we? Oh yeah, Paso Robles. Riding back to the coast to Santa Maria. The daunting part of the ride today is known as “The Evil Twins”. Two long inclines. At the top of the second twin we hit the 1/2 way mark between San Francisco and L.A. Much celebration on the side of the highway. 1/2 way to LA and I’m still not gay. Though I have disappointed a few with that news. But I do understand now why gay men love cycling. The outfits!!

A tasty long descent for miles through misty fog was the reward of our long climb up. Beautiful.

In a little coastal town hundreds of cyclists mob a little cafe for some real coffee. I don’t know that I’ve ever had a double latte taste so good. When I return to Tara, she’s blown her rear tire. 2 flats in one day? Tara, baby. What’s up? Good thing I bought a second spare from the bike mechanics in the morning after the first flat!

On to lunch at mile 48 where I find Gabriel. Sarana had introduced me to Gabriel on Day On The Ride back in April and I posted a little story about him then. We rode together for the rest of the day. Gabo is HIV Positive and this is his 8th AIDS LifeCycle Ride. And he is a strong rider! I was winded keeping up with him.

He came to SF from Mexico City in 2001 virtually on his death bed. The doctors in Mexico at the time were basically letting HIV patients die. Offering no serious treatment. The stigma of homosexuality in Mexico, (ie the Catholic church) is severe. And Gabo suffered from serious discrimination and one horrifying gay bashing incident. Thankfully, Gabriel met some Americans who helped connect him to the community in SF. He went literally from the SF airport to SF General where he stayed for five months. No questions asked. No insurance. He was treated and cared for. Thank you San Francisco Department of Public Health.

He went back and forth a few times between SF and Mexico until finally realizing his only chance for long term survival was to stay in SF where he got a lawyer and appealed for political asylum on the grounds of discrimination and persecution for being gay and HIV positive. It took four years but he won and is legally a US resident here on political asylum. He can’t go back to Mexico.

He speaks of the irony of Mexico, the country he loves, where his family lives, that would have simply let him die. And the US (well, San Francisco, which might as well be its own country in this case) where he has his “family by choice” and saved his life.

The SF AIDS Foundation was instrumental in his recovery. Arranging hospice care when he was sick and helping him find housing as he got better. He served on the board of Positive Peddlers, the HIV positive group that rides each year in ALC and tries to break the stigma that surrounds HIV. Gabriel drives a school bus for SFUD for special ed kids. “They keep me humble,” he says.

He thanked me for riding. I told him it was truly my honor.

All this came out as we rode down the coast of California. Pacific Ocean on our right. As we rolled into Pismo Beach Gabo’s rear tire blew. Really? A third flat? He changed the tube and we hit the cinnamon roll bakery that cyclists go crazy over. A long line out the door. The servers all wearing ALC10 t-shirts. I’m telling you, when 2000 people buy your baked goods you can make some Ca$h Money.

We found out that the little town of Bradley that hosts the bar-b-que each year for ALC on Day 3 makes enough money on this one day to fund its entire school athletic program for one year! This rolling festive and fabulous band of cyclists has a serious impact in town after town all the way to LA.

Finally I pull into camp at 7p. Body feels good. Brain quite fuzzy. My next door tent neighbor Lisa calls it “bike brain.” “This is the day you hit the wall. It’s hard what we do,” she reassures me.

Tomorrow, only 40 miles!

In a red dress…

DAY 5. ALC10. Red Dress Day.

Woke up in Santa Maria to a tent city crawling with men and women in red dresses. Sequins. Feather boas. Fake boobs. Fish net stockings. High heels with toe clips for pedaling! This sea of red filed into the streets on bikes, a long red ribbon that stretched all the way to Lompoc. 40 miles in drag.

The looks from drivers and passers
by was something else. Some people cheered. I had a chilling moment at a stop light when a 60ish man in a white pickup pulled up next to me and looked at me out of the corner is eyes, literally the corner of his eyes, with fear and rage. He was utterly disgusted. And his glare was frightening. (Of course I WAS wearing a red dress. And up to that moment the only fear I had was that the taffeta would get caught in my wheel!)

A favorite quote from the day: “My skirt got caught in my break and yanked my balls.”

40 miles is a short day. But lots of hills. Rolled into camp at 3. Passed out in my tent for a nap.

Each night after dinner, in the dining tent, riders and crew listen to ALC community news. A chance for announcements, safety issues, route info, weather report, and so on. But the real focus is brought forward by the leadership of ALC: the CEO’s of thr SF AIDS Foundation and the Gay and Lesbian Center of LA. Stories of the social service programs of these orgs. Short documentary videos and anecdotes from the frontline of gay and lesbian activism.

I have to say that this event is unlike any organized event pr gathering I have ever experienced, by far. Part arduous athletic feat, part serious fundraising enterprise, part vital social activism, part raging party, and all held together inside an incredibly well organized logistically near perfect roving village. I don’t know of any other community gathering like it. Nor of this magnitude. The people who run this event are what we can call real leaders. They have vision. Intelligence. Humor. Compassion. Drive. Communication skills unparalleled. All of which enables them to mobilize 3000 people down the coast of California to fight and end AIDS.

Tonight from the podium: “In 1994 we rode to grieve those we had lost. And we had lost so many. Now we ride to, yes, grieve those we’ve lost, but more so we ride to celebrate those who we will never lose because of the work we have done.”

Medicine has come a long way in 20 years.

Sadly people are infected every day. A stunning statistic: AIDS is the leading cause of death for black women under 40 in this country.

“Sweet Harmony”, an African American trio of gospel singers who have a connection to fight against the disease, sang a stirring rendition of Amazing Grace tonight.

How sweet the sound.

85 miles to Ventura tomorrow.

DAY 6. ALC10. Letter to Zoe.

Dear Zoe,

I joined 3,000 people tonight on Ventura Beach for a candle light vigil in memory of people who have died from HIV/AIDS. A silent procession from the dining tent to the sandy dunes. An overcast, starless night and the sound of waves crashing upon the shore. 3,000 candles held by 3,000 souls. A circle of people the size of a football field. Candles lighting up faces in quiet contemplation.

You are 12 years old now Zoe. You’re a smart kid and I know you understand, on one level, why I spent months training, long weekend days away from you to ride my bike—even left you stranded for a few hours one day, locked out of the house waiting for me to come back from a ride! I know you understand why I rallied 100 people to contribute nearly $6,000 and why I spent a week on a bicycle, sleeping on the ground, lugging my suitcase from the gear truck every evening after riding a hundred miles, setting up my tent, and getting up a 5am the next morning for the privilege to do it all again. I know you understand that this effort is for a good cause, that it’s for people who need help.

But I want you to understand something very specific about what I have witnessed this week: big problems in our world are only solved by people taking big actions. Real change only happens when real people make it happen. Zoe, if something is not right in your world, it will be up to you to change it. Complaining means nothing. (It is true that this week I have complained about the coffee. So either I get Peet’s to sponsor ALC, I bring my own French press next time, or I simply shut up and drink the brown water…)

And there are big problems in this world that need to be solved. Hatred and disease are at the top of the list, and the gay community has suffered more than its fair share of both. And I want you to understand that there are two behaviors at the root of these big problems: ignorance and selfishness.

The problem of ignorance is solved by informing people, teaching people, speaking out truths against lies. The AIDS LifeCycle Ride is a traveling information center bringing the truth about HIV/AIDS to small towns down the coast of California. Someone once told me “an enemy is someone who’s story you don’t know.” When you know a person for who they are, when you see them for the human being that they really are, it’s hard to hate them. You may not agree with them or their choices, but you honor their humanity. It’s natural. This ride is so much more than a fundraiser. They say the little town of Bradley that hosts the bar-b-cue fits the bill of a typical red-neck, conservative central valley town. But because the children of Bradley have grown up helping support the AIDS Ride each year on the day the ride comes through, they will never grow up to hate gay people. These are the kids who formed a high-five welcome line as we rode into to town.

There are 500 volunteer roadies who also have to each raise a minimum of $3,000 just to pick up garbage, or drive a truck, or work in the medical tent, or serve food. 2,500 riders and 500 roadies all working harder than I have ever seen a group of people work each day.  And everyone lives, this week, with an incredible spirit of generosity. Strangers stopping to help each other on the side of the road if someone has a flat tire. Patience and friendliness while waiting in long lines for dinner or to use the bathrooms or showers after a long and tiring day. Any everyone not only paid for the privilege, but they raised money too. No selfishness here.  It’s a gift culture. And as Tyler said a number of times, “it’s how the world should work.” Selfishness keeps people disconnected. Generosity connects people. And the world works better when we’re connected. The world works better when we’re generous.

And as I sat on the beach tonight, surrounded by candlelight and silence, I thought about you Zoe, and about the complicated world that you’re growing up in. And my hope is that you’ll have people like the people on this ride to work with you, to inspire you, to connect with you as you shape the world into the place that you want it to be; As you hold world in your own hands and make a difference.

Gotta go to sleep now. Tomorrow we ride to the finish line in L.A.!
Miss you and see you soon.

Good night.

DAY 7. ALC10. The Ride Home.

DAY 7. ALC10. The Ride Home.

Last day. Wake at 5:30a. Trying to get out on the road by 7a. We’re riding down Hwy 1 from Ventura to Santa Monica then we head inland. In Malibu the boys hop off their bicycles in front of Cher’s ocean-front palace and take pics! I’m riding with Johnny and Lisa. We’ve become a lovely riding trio.  Riding at the same pace, pushing each other a little, falling into a riding rhythm. When it’s good, you get in a groove and ride strong and tight together. A bit like a school of fish or flock of birds as we dart in and out of the flow of slower riders. The Pacific ocean is dark blue on our right. Sun trying to break through the high cloud cover. I’m tired from the week. But legs strong. Spirit strong. Excited to get into L.A. Thanks for great riding friends.

Fun facts:
Youngest participant on the ride: 18
Oldest participant: 83 (!)
Number of states represented: 41
Number of countries: 11
Number of eggs consumed: 44,600
Pounds of pasta: 1,200
Gallons of drinking water: 16,800
Portable toilets used: 1,055
Packets of “butt balm” used: 18,000

The candle light vigil last night was moving. And this morning I’m thinking about the fact that the gay community is self-defined by who they love. The only community defined by who they love. And they suffer discrimination because of who they love. And the disease that took so many lives, and continues to take lives around the world, took so long to address seriously in terms of public policy because of the stigma attached to who they love.

So it should be no surprise that a week spent together in this community has been a week spent inside a community bound together by love.

Now, my urban, harder-edged, even partly calloused self has to take a breath here and resist the temptation to temper the topic of love with a pithy or cynical statement. But a little context is useful. This is not the free love we know from the hippies. This is not the obligatory love we know in our families. This is not a Burning Man ecstasy trip or a brief feel-good vibe. This is love born from compassion, from the bond of being inside a struggle together. This love is born inside resistance. Resistance against the obstruction of freedom for human beings to love whomever they want to love. And it is genuine. And it is moving. And it is transformational. It is the transformational love that Martin Luther King Jr. preached about to activate a generation to social action and change the face of American race relations in the 60’s. It is the love that Gandhi harnessed to liberate India from Colonial oppression. It is the love that Mother Teresa held in her heart as she served so many needy people in Calcutta.

And I’m filled with this transformational love as I’m riding 60 miles on the last day of our 545 mile journey. And as we get close to the finish, people line the streets cheering us on. I left my riding crew after one margarita in Santa Monica. A traditional watering hole for some before the end.

Riding on my own now. In a stream of other cyclists through the streets. Anonymous but part of the whole. Sun coming out. Around the corner from the finish the streets are closed. Empty, except us cyclists enthusiastically pedaling onward. I can feel the end is near. Other riders around me exited as we enter the shoot lined with crowds 6 deep, cheering. Signs. Thousands fill the park. Cow bells. Horns. Hooting and hollering.

And then it’s over.

I dismount and walk Tara towards to an open area. Amy and Aspen are there with big hugs to greet me. I’m in a bit of a daze. Incredible sense of accomplishment. Mind blown by the enormity of it all. Body buzzing from physical exertion. Brain a bit fried and dizzy. Bright sun on my face feels great. Smiles and celebration all around me.

I hand Tara, my goddess of compassion (she was compassionate on my ass! I must say, no soreness), off to the trucking company that will drive her back to the Bay Area. I find my luggage. Connect with my ride to LAX. (Shout out to Sydney Mintz and Justine Shapiro).

I walk onto the airplane a little foggy headed, quite a bit fatigued. (I downed a liter of water at the gate). I’m still wearing my prized “I raised $5,000” jersey and my bicycle helmet is under my arm. And as I walk through the bulkhead I realize, oh, I guess I rode my bicycle to L.A. Months of training and 7 days of riding to get here. An hour to get back.

Worth every precious minute.