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.