"Day 8": Some thoughts in closing

    It's Sunday evening and AIDS/Lifecycle 8 is officially over, but there are a few loose ends to tie up here. Janice and I enjoyed a great post-ride celebration dinner with our kids Josh and Rebecca and their "significant others" Debbie and Mark. We spent the night at Josh's house, and I got up early this morning and headed out for a bike ride (yeah, really did). It was about 6:30, just like any other day this week, except I skipped breakfast because the roadies didn't have my oatmeal, scrambled eggs, ham, fruit, and coffee ready for me. I got on my bike without a route map because the bike parking roadies weren't there to hand them out. I headed off aimlessly on streets I don't really know because the moto safety guys weren't out there to point out the turns. I rode up a long, challenging hill, and at the top made a really bad guess as to which way to turn because the route guys hadn't gone out to mark the route for me. I was already tired because my bike wasn't purring because my chain was dragging a little and I needed air in a tire since the bike tech guys weren't there when I started out. I rolled down the back side of the hill about a half mile, realized my mistake, turned around and headed back up the hill when my knee starting to complain a little because I hadn't done my customary "rest stop one stretching time", because the "rest stop one" guys weren't there. Even worse, Chicken Lady (hang on, readers, that will be explained soon) wasn't there to encourage me on the climb. And I realized my energy was lagging because I had skipped breakfast and there wasn't the rest stop food to refuel with. I finally headed back to Josh's house, about 22 miles of tough riding behind me, and realized just how much easier it had been all week because of so much support from so many people. Thanks again, roadies.

    I need to introduce a couple more people, new acquaintances of mine. The first is John (sorry John, I didn't get your photo). He's a roadie, assigned to bike parking. I had a few chances to chat with him during the week and was impressed by his complete dedication to the task of making the ride work for all of the cyclists. He has been a cyclist, and knows both sides of this equation. I asked him how long it took to get all the bikes trucked down from Lompoc to Ventura in the rain, unloaded, parked, bar-code scanned, and ready for us to hop on first thing Saturday morning. He said they were up until midnight, and then up at 4:00 a.m. to get ready for the new day. Yikes! Thank you John, and all the rest of you who took on this extra task while we slept...just another look at how this whole amazing thing happens.

    And then there's Chicken Lady...aren't those some fine looking feathers? Chicken Lady is one of the nicest and most humble guys you will ever meet. Famous for the chicken atop his helmet and some rather eye-catching attire, he is equally well known by the rest of the cyclists for his unending stream of words of encouragement, quips of humor, and unabashed delight. "On your left, Chicken Lady"..."My God, how many more of you are going by??". Totally committed to making the rest of us smile, always thinking "others first". We headed out to the bikes on Saturday morning in Ventura and found a plastic egg with a surprise on each seat. Someone saw him putting them there late the previous night (worked until 2:00 on the project) and told him he didn't need to do that. His response was "But I WANT to do this; I LIKE to make people happy!". His story? A longtime cyclist with ALC, he was flattened by a major stroke last year, and the prospects for his recovery were not good. When his rehabilitation began, his progress and recovery verged on the miraculous; the conclusion was that his muscle memory was exceptional because of his many years of countless hours of cycling in preparation for and participation in the AIDS/Lifecycle rides. Welcome back Chicken Lady...we love you! (To which he would probably reply, "Me???")

    Now we'll move on to Bruce...actually two Bruces. First is Bruce my tentmate (sorry, no photo available), who is a new friend and was a great partner through the week. We got to comiserate over missing our lovely wives, swap stories about our kids, and just plain enjoy hanging out together. Thanks Bruce!

    And then there's Bruce the shark who spent the week atop my helmet (except, ironically, the rainy day when he was confined to a plastic bag in my duffel bag because we awoke to a very soggy stuffed shark in a huge puddle in the tent...I wasn't interested in having him ooze on my head all day!). He reminded me of Bruce the shark from Finding Nemo...the three sharks were a support group for one another, with their mantra "fish are friends, not food". Their objective was to overcome a lifetime of conditioning and re-think their perception of the other creatures of the ocean with whom they swam, in hopes of being able to co-exist in harmony with them...friends, not prey. Bruce was constantly in need of reminders and interventions from his two buddies. I live in the straight world. King City, where I have spent the past thirty years, doesn't have an openly gay community. When I was raised in Southern California in the 50's and 60's, we were not taught to respect and understand the gay lifestyle or community. We were allowed to percieve gays as strange, wrong, and just plain messed up. It has taken many years to gradually work through a lifetime of misunderstanding, and I understand the difficulty that Bruce the shark faced in that movie. He sat on my helmet for a week as a reminder of attitues that I used to carry, and as a reminder that I had been welcomed with open arms into a community that I once scoffed at. That I was able to co-exist in harmony in this community is a testament to those who were willing to accept me far more than anything that I did. Friends, not prey. Thanks folks...that alone would have been worth the week on the ride.

    And finally, a few thoughts on commitment, completion, and closure. When I decided to ride in AIDS/Lifecycle 8, I decided that I wanted to ride every mile of the road, 545 miles from San Francisco to Los Angeles, no walking the bike up the hills, and no stopping to rest on the climbs. I didn't have to, and there's nothing wrong with taking a dfferent approach, it was just something I wanted to do and I committed to a serious enough training program to give myself a shot at that. In the process, I overcame Jolon Grade (Quadbuster), and rode it confidently. I was startled by the short 15% grade hill coming out of San Miguel, but I was prepared for it and rode it well. I was shocked by the grade on Halcyon Road (did I really hear 21% grade, or was that an exaggeration? Either way it was by far the steepest climb we faced), but I huffed and puffed my way over that one too. And as the week wore on, I actually felt stronger. So the rain-shortened ride on Friday was a big disappointment. Okay...we'll ride every mile that they'll allow us to ride. And that's good enough of course. But when Janice and I arrived in King City this afternoon and my bike computer showed 537 miles for the week there was only one acceptable course of action. There's a delightful little ride that I often do, from my office out to 1st Street, up to San Antonio Drive where we entered King City on Tuesday, and over to San Lorenzo Park where we spent the night. A loop through the park, double back all the way to my office, and you have done a nice eight mile ride. I snapped this photo in front of 222 S. Russ St. where I work. Done.

    It was late August when Marilyn Becker told me, very simply, "well, if you've always wanted to do this ride, then you need to sign up and do it." Nine months of training, over 4,000 miles on the bike, over $8,000 raised for the Los Angeles Gay and Lesbian Center, and 545 miles from San Francisco to Los Angeles on a bike. Lots of reasons...for the memory of my nephew Michael, lost to AIDS years ago, out of respect for his family so that someone might get a little better support than they did, for someone out there who is dealing with HIV/AIDS or who might be in line to be a victim for lack of testing and prevention, for myself to be able to say "I did this". AIDS/Lifecycle 8 ended yesterday afternoon. A journey that I embarked upon nine months ago has only begun.

    Ride on!

Afterword: The purpose of this blog has been to bring ALC 8 home to you, the reader. One can't really know an event without experiencing it, but one can know ABOUT an event if a close look is available. I hope this has been accomplished. Thanks for allowing me to share my thoughts, feelings, and observations. The benefit to me has been much deeper reflection on the essence of the event than I would have engaged in. Thank you for joining me on this journey. I would love to hear your thoughts either by posted comments or by e-mail to [email protected].

Ride on folks...David Phillips, rider #1462

Day 7: And finally...

    Okay...a little confession here...I slept in a hotel last night. When I woke up at 5:00 yesterday in a soaking wet sleeping bag, knowing that the bag would be stuffed into my duffel bag until the end of a long day's riding (in the rain??), I figured there was no way to have a dry sleeping bag for the final night in Ventura. So...call home, Janice booked a room, and that was that. Missed a stirring candlelight vigil on the beach next to the camp, a time for people to give some thought to loved ones lost. Truly sorry to have missed that; it was clearly a very special time of remembrance, mourning, and moving forward.
    But onward and upward...Saturday morning was upon us, and one last ride ahead. It was another in a series of spectacular rides through much of the best that California has to offer; nice cool morning, and a beautiful ride on some great roads as we headed out of Ventura, through Oxnard, and on down Hwy 1 toward the coast. It wasn't long until we were on that gorgeous stretch of highway that runs down toward Malibu...ocean on one side, cliffs on the other, and a line of cyclists on their way to Los Angeles. But first, let's pay a quick visit to rest stop one, and my new friend Alan. Alan is a roadie, and I honestly don't know what his actual assignment is, but here he is next to the van, doors open, some good dance music blaring, and Alan dancing non-stop. Totally immersed in the moment, reveling in the excitement of the last leg of an incredible journey, just dancing and dancing and dancing. The impact on the cyclists was great; huge smiles, an occasional dance partner, and yet another example of every roadie chipping in something to make the day a little better for all of us cyclists.
    Out of rest stop one, on down more scenic Coast Highway, and into rest stop two where my bike guy Adam (is it okay if I toss in a quick plug for K-Man Cyclery, my local bike guys who sold me my bike and keep it purring?) was quick to clean up a gunky chain that suffered all sorts of indignities in yesterday's rain, lube it up, and get me back on the road with a happy sizzling bike once again. Thanks Adam...sorry I forgot to snap a photo.
     From there it was just a nice jaunt down to Malibu Bluffs for yet another great lunch, this time overlooking the Pacific. People were sprawled all over the lawn, enjoying the warm sun and the great view, in much less of a hury than usual to get on the road. I'm not sure if the reluctance to leave was more because of the nice rest stop, or the realization that we were about to embark on the very last leg of the ride. I pulled my Redline R760 out of the rack, and thought, "Okay, let's wrap this thing up". Not "let's get this over with"...this was an experience I was in no hurry to end. But it was time to ride.
    On down the highway, up into West Los Angeles, and as I rode the last few miles toward the finish I was awash in a mix of emotions. A lot of satisfaction, a sense of accomplishment, a warm glow from the knoweldge that 2,700 of us had done something truly special, and yet a genuine sadness that it was all about to end. Final blocks...final turn...throngs of cheering specators, not cheering as we do for our favorite athletes for beating someone, but cheering all of us for accomplishing something truly meaningful. Into the Veterans' Center to a smiling, waving, cheering reception from countless strangers and my personal rooters...my daughter Rebecca, her special guy Mark, my best buddy since I was in 8th grade Pat Stacy (not in the picture...sorry Pat, my bad), and my adoring wife Janice. Wow. Home...done...mission accomplished. San Francisco to Los Angeles in seven days. My odometer read 524 miles, shortened a bit because of the rain, but all done. Very difficult to find the words for all this.
    The closing ceremony was rich and meaningful, a mix of celebration, congratulations, thank yous, and a desperate plea that public funding in California for HIV/AIDS treatment and support would not be slashed. The stark reality that all the funds that were raised by this ride pale in comparison with the draconian cuts proposed by our governor. Tough reality.
    But in the end, the day was about accomplishment. Physical challenges met, aching muscles and joints ignored, fatigue overcome, anxieties and doubts cast aside, and after a challenging and sometimes trying week we had accomplished what we had set out to accomplish; the audacious assault on the roads and highways of California to ride 2,200 bikes from San Francisco to Los Angeles to make a difference in the world we live in. A hearty pat on the back is in order here.
    Next year? That's a ways off...we shall see.

(Note: there will be a "Day 8" post to wrap up the final loose ends on this series of ramblings. It should be posted tomorrow.)

   

Day 6: Splish Splash!

    The skies opened up over River Park in Lompoc late last night, and by early morning there were soaking wet sleeping bags, soggy bike shorts, and anxious faces. Concerned cyclists wondering just how bad the rain was going to be, how safe (or unsafe) the ride might get, whether or not the ALC leadership would allow us to ride, and just what the heck are we going to do when we get to Ventura late in the day with all that wet gear. Tough way to start a day.
    Life offers choices. Stuff happens, we react, and our lives are defined not by the circumstances but by what we do with them. Ride or don't ride? Take a chance of a disastrous day on the road or play it safe and catch the "sag wagon" to Ventura? Put yourself out there in miserable weather that might last all day or "live to ride another day"? There's no right choice, no right answer. There are 2,200 cyclists and each has to decide what is best for him or her individiually.
    I'm not really a serious risk taker. I like to have a pretty good idea of what the outcome is likely to be before I jump into something. But I can be a little tenacious, and I latched onto this burning desire to ride every mile of this route...no bailing out on the tough climbs and walking the bike up, no sag wagon rides unless I (dare I say it?) get hurt or have a serious mechanical problem. I've never done much riding in the rain, but I was pretty sure that a day of it would be long, cold, and energy-draining. I knew I had no way to stay dry, had no experience with "rain technique", and that there would be a degree of risk. One of my donors, my good friend Karen, responed to my letter to my donors several weeks ago in which I explained that I felt a commitment to them...if they were writing all these checks, the least I could do is prepare well enough to have a good shot at climbiing every hill and riding every mile. Her very generous reply was "You don't have to ride every mile for me". I appreciated hearing that (and know that the rest of my supporters would say the same thing), and this morning I knew that I didn't really have an obligation to go out in the rain on my bike and that a bus ride to Ventura was a good idea.
    So at 7:10 I rolled out of camp in the rain, wondering just how bad an idea this was. My strategy for the day was to ride slowly and cautiously, keep the stops brief, and get to Ventura as early as a conservative and safe pace would allow. On out of camp, a line of intrepid souls headed up the first bit of a hill in a steady rain. The riders all seemed cautious, riding more conservatively than usual, but spirits were high. There was an almost defiant attitude..."damn the torpedoes, full speed ahead!"...but not quite at full speed. Within minutes it became evident that something was different, besides the rain. Flat tires. They were happening much too frequently (ask your cycling experts to explain it...I still don't get it). It's pretty discouraging to be out in the rain having to change a tube, but on went the line of cyclists, climbing the rolling hill toward rest stop one. The rain, sometimes hard and sometimes light, continued to fall. Trucks whizzing by threw up sprays of water across the riders. Water run-off at the highway's edge offered a hazard. And more flats. About an hour in there was the much anticipated "rest stop one, one mile" sign.
    And then, within moments, came a sight that made no sense. Rounding the final bend before the stop revealed far too many bikes and people at the stop, and a vast sea of shiny silver-colored blankets. As we pedaled in and heard the words "welcome to rest stop one, we will be held here for awhile", it was evident that something was wrong. There had been a serious accident (not one of us...automobile) up ahead, and CHP was holding the cyclists back until further notice. It was cold, it was raining, and hundreds of cyclists were wandering around in survival blankets (thank you whoever thought to have those on hand for just such an emergency!) wondering what was going to happen. Finally the decision was announced; the highway patrol was pulling our permit to close a lane of a bridge on highway 101 for our exclusive use (a necessary precaution because the bridge is very narrow with no shoulder) and the ride coud not continue. The hundreds of cyclists were given the option of waiting there for buses to take them to Ventura (bikes to be trucked down) or ride back down to the camp and wait there for buses to take them to Ventura.
    Muddy bike shoes, cleats clogged with gunk. Wet bike shorts. Wet jersey. Freezing. Frustrated. Hundreds of people lined up for the buses. Only one logical option...ride on.
There are moments in any difficult day that just jump up and knock you over like an exuberant puppy licking your face. Yeah, we were disappointed, yeah we were a little ticked off about being told "no further", but here we were in the rain DECIDING to ride back to camp, to finish every last mile that the ALC 8 was going to have to offer us. Zipping down the hill, cautiously but with a little more enthusiasm and confidence than earlier, there was again that defiant air, a sense of adventure, and somehow a feeling of conquest. "Pfffffssssssttttt." What's that? Oh no...not ME...not a flat?? Yep...my turn...427 miles into my ride, just two miles from camp, and I was at the roadside, in the rain, changing a flat. The new high pressure road bike tires are a little tough to change. I'm not a kid, and hand strength isn't my thing. But I finally got the tire back on the rim, pumped it up, and was releasing the pump when "Pffffssssttttt!!" Alright...here's what I said..."oh shit". The valve had broken, and now I had no spare tube. Just at that moment my new friend Doug rode along asking "need help?". I explained my dilemma and he gave me his spare tube. It just happens..."got your back". It's constant, ongoing, and beautiful to watch. Thanks Doug! That's Doug and me after I got back to camp. He said "when I saw the look on your face...."
    So how do you get 2,200 hundred cyclists from Lompoc to Ventura on a moment's notice? I don't know how they did it, but the ALC folks rounded up buses and got it done. Obviously this doesn't happen really fast, so those of us at River Park in Lompoc had a nice chance to enjoy a leisurely lunch. That's where I met my new friend Justo...that's Justo in the yellow shirt. He's an exuberant and passionate man with great life stories to tell. We shared a wonderful conversation during which he told me that he wasn't using cleats or toe clips. I didn't know whether to think he was crazy or just amazing; riding the hills on this course (or even just doing the miles) you need all of your leg muscles working, pushing the pedals down and pulling them up as well. That's why cyclists wear those funky shoes. I asked why he wasn't using cleats, and he confessed "I'm not a good planner". He cycles, he's an athlete, he's a dancer, but he didn't have cycling shoes. And then he admitted that after the Wednesday ride (90 mies to Santa Maria with the Evil Twins in the middle) his legs hurt so badly that the medical team said he had to take the next day off to try to recover. He was insistent that he couldn't do that, and they told him the only option would be to endure a process called "stripping", essentially a very deep kneading of those screaming sore thighs. Again, life offers choices. "Use your brain Justo...this is gonna hurt! Your donors will understand." He said that he has taken many falls in his years of cycling, but has never felt pain like the procedure the medical team did on his thighs. And he got back on his bike the next morning.
    If you talk to all 2,200 cyclists and all 500 roadies and all of the staff and volunteers, you'll hear 2,800 distinctly different life stories and 2,800 distinctly different reasons for participating in ALC 8 and 2,800 distinctly different stories of personal sacrifice and cost to be a part of this. But at the base there is a constant; we ride because we can, and because someone else can't. When Doug offers his spare tube, when Diana pours that water, when cyclist Andy raises those dollars, when Justo says "bring it on doc, I need to ride tomorrow", you get a little glimpse of heaven on Earth. This stuff isn't easy and it doesn't come cheap, but it is incredibly beautiful and so very uplifiting. One more day on the road and it's into Los Angeles.
    Ride on!

Day 5: Red dress day!

    Day five...a beautiful ride from Santa Maria to Solvang, then across to Lompoc. Great roads, incredible scenery, perfect weather (well, other than some NASTY headwinds late in the day), but it all pales in comparison with "Red Dress Day". Here's the story (which might be part history and part myth)...some years back someone noticed that on one stretch of a long climb on day five, the line of cyclists going up the switchbacks looked a bit like the red ribbon that is used as a symbol for HIV/AIDS awareness. And then apparently someone figured out that if everyone wore red, it would really look like a red ribbon. And then, apparently someone decided to call it "red dress day". Well...take a few thousand people participating in an AIDS/Lifecycle ride and tell them that it's "red dress day" and just sit back and enjoy the view. It was stunning.
I was swept up in the spirit of it, got myself a darling little red skirt, and frankly I think I look pretty hot in it. I haven't yet broken the news to Janice and the kids that I liked wearing it (I probably have to come back and do the ride again next year if I want to wear it again). That's me with my new friend Andy (he's the one with the wings). Andy's an incredibly important part of this year's event. He's a cyclist, which means that he raised at least three thousand dollars for HIV/AIDS treatment and support. And in the photo down below, that's me with my new friend Diana. Diana is also an incredibly important participant in ALC 8, because she is pouring water at Rest Stop One. If someone isn't providing water, 2,200 cyclists are NOT riding from San Francisco to Los Angeles...not gonna happen. Alright ladies, what do you think about the skirt...does it work for me??
    So...we all get a lot of great laughs out of the red attire (honsetly, some of it was incredible!).
And we all get a lot of great laughs out of Rest Stop Four and their brilliant shenanigans. But it's not just a bunch of silly stuff. What it is, is people taking something that is as serious as this huge fight with HIV/AIDS, and as challenging as this bike ride, and finding a way to lighten it up. There's nothing funny about AIDS. And there's nothing funny about sore knees, aching muscles, and worn bodies at the end of the day. But it's all part of life, and if we're going to experience life fully, we need to find ways to blend the pain with the joy and laughter. That's a good thing.
    Last night we heard a piece of writing by a woman who has ridden every mile of every one of the AIDS rides in California. She talks of the pain and the fatigue of training for the ride, asks why she can't just stop, and answers "because I can't imagine what it feels like to have AIDS". Those words echoed  through my mind repeatedly today on each of the climbs. The more my legs ached and my breath got short, the more clearly I heard her words. We ride because we have to, because someone who can't ride really needs for us to do this. And so we push on up the hills, knowing that our pain is just for the moment, and theirs is inescapable.
    I feel pretty darned good this afternoon. I woke up a little sore (normal, I guess), started slowly, and found that within a few minutes I was riding comfortably. As the morning progressed, I realized that I felt GREAT, and enjoyed most of the ride just as much as I would enjoy any Saturday morning ride on the back roads near King City with my cycling buddies Dave, Ralph, and Chuck. As the day wore on, I started to wear down (again, normal I guess), and even though it was a relatively short 67 miles today, I was really glad to get to camp. I'm showered, cycling shorts and jersey are washed, I slugged down a couple of cartons of chocolate milk (for medicinal purposes of course), and it's only 4:30. Time to go do some serious stretching and try to get rid of some kinks.
    Tomorrow we're off to Ventura. Keep us in your thoughts and prayers, as the route takes us down Highway 101 from above the tunnels north of Santa Barbara down to Goleta. That's a pretty busy stretch of highway, often with tough crosswinds, and plenty of trucks whizzing by. We'll ride safely of course; we do that. The community of riders on this event is a couple thousand people who all have each other's back. It's a pretty special place to spend a week.
    Ride on!

Day 4: Half way to L.A.!!!

               

    Day four..."hump day"...get over the hump on Hwy 46 and you're halfway there...photo op! But first, a formal introduction is in order. That's me (the one with the helmet), and that's my baby (well actually my beautiful daughter Rebecca is my baby, but she's not on the ride with me.) She's a sizzling hot Redline R760; not the flashiest set of wheels in the bike parking lot, but she goes like the wind. The traditional photo at the Hwy 46 summit overlooking the ocean (which you can see when it's not socked in with fog like today) is holding the bike upside down over your head. Okay...fine...do that. But I have a little too much respect for my bike; thought she deserved the dignity of having her wheels on the ground in the photo. But let's back up and look at how we got here...

    Routine start to the day, tent and bag packed, great breakfast (man the food is good; could be because I'm always starving 24/7), and on the road out of the Mid State Fairgrounds in Paso Robles before 7:00. It was cool and a little damp; heard a little complaining about that, but I love to ride in cool air. Out Highhway 46 west-bound, and we're on our way. It's a beautiful ride out through a lot of wine country, rollling hills, and a nice wide shoulder for cyclists. And with the cool air, it was ideal riding. Rest stop one seemed a little early, but I've committed to ALWAYS stopping to eat, hydrate, and stretch, and the rest stops are overflowing with energy and anticipation.

    From there, it was on toward the dreaded "Evil Twins". Misnomer if you ask me. Maybe "sassy twins", but not evil. They are a pair of fairly strenuous climbs, but nothing next to the previous day's "Quadbuster". Of course they do come the day AFTER the Quadbuster, so legs aren't quite as fresh. But I felt great, and went charging out to meet them. The first one rolled by quickly, then a bit of a descent before the second one. If I hadn't taken training seriously the past several months, it might have been a challenge, but as I climbed I realized that it was just going to be a nice workout.

    Well...it WAS going to just be a nice workout...but then I started thinking (uh-oh). I read recently a remark about a tough climb that said basically that cycling can be a real challenge, but not as much of a challenge as battling cancer. Obviously, the same could be said about battling HIV/AIDS. The difference between cycling and battling a disease is that we can decide to get off the bike and walk the hill if we want to. The guy with the positive test or the full blown disease can't ever take a break from the fight. I've been thinking about that a lot lately while I'm riding, and finding it to be an inspiring thought. So I was riding up the second of the Evil Twins this morning, getting close to the top, and I thought, "This is too easy. I've trained too well, and there's no fight in this fish!" So I dug down deep, and kicked my sizzling Redline R760 into a full-fledged sprint for the last quarter mile. I'm sure that the cyclists I was passing thought I was an idiot. I'm not one of those hot-shots who can do that sort of thing; I was near that "panic breathing" thing, and must have sounded like I was going to have a heart attack. I was pushing with everything I had, knowing that I was going to pay for it later but it just seemed like the way to ascend the summit and earn the photo with the bike at the Halfway to L.A. sign.

    Halfway to L.A. Something like 270 miles of this glorious experience in the bag, incredible experiences racked up along the way, and more of the same (or something different!) to come. There's no desire to be done with this, no longing for the end of the road, just an excitement to see what the rest of the journey has to offer. We're in Santa Maria. It was a tough afternoon ride featuring a REALLY nasty little hill on Halcyon Road about 65 miles into the ride. I'm tired, a little sore, and hungry (again). And loving every minute of this.

    Ride on!

Day 3: Home field advantage and the hippogriff

    When Hagrid teaches Harry Potter and his Hogwarts classmates about hippogriffs, he begins by explaining that they are very proud creatures. They are powerful, fierce, and extremely proud; they demand respect and humility. Draco Malfoy, impudent little priss that he is, defiantly approaches the beast brashly and is attacked. Harry bows low, proceeds cautiously and is granted immediate friendship by Buckbeak. Hold that image for a moment...

    I live near "the dreaded Quadbuster", the mile long climb up Jolon Grade. I have driven over that hill every day for thirty years going to and from King City where I work. I have long wondered what it would be like to try to ride a bike over that hill. But I wasn't really a cyclist until I registered for ALC 8, bought my first road bike, and came face to face with the reality that I was going to have to deal with "the beast". My first attempts were disastrous; I wasn't strong enough, and I tried to climb too fast. Ouch. Failure. No fun. I came to view the hill as a beast to be slain; I would have to learn to thrust a dagger through it's heart before I was ready for the AIDS/Lifecycle ride.

    Subsequent efforts were better. I was becoming stronger, and I was beginning to realize that there might be some value in approaching the climb with a little less bravado. I learned that if I would just slow down, acknowledge that I can't fly over the hill like the super-cyclists (I do love to watch those guys ride!), and stay within myself, I was able to make the ascent. In sports, home field advantage can be the difference between winning and losing; I definitely had a bit of that in my pocket as I prepared for day three of ALC 8.

    What I had learned is that the hill is NOT a beast to be slain. It is a hippogriff; it is a mighty force of nature to be reckoned with, and if it is approached with a bit of humility and respect, it just might allow the cyclist to become its friend. In fact it demands humility and respect. Attack it with arrogance and it will flick you off your bike. Approach it with an understanding that you're just a guy on a bike who has no special powers but wants to climb it, and you're treated to what Harry Potter got...a majestic flight, soaring high into the air where only the birds and the wizards are usually allowed to go.

    I rode the grade carefully today...a nice slow ride out of King City, a pause at the rest stop to refresh, stretch, and suck down a Gu (not a gourmet treat, but they seem to help), and an easy ride to the base of the climb. Low gears, easy pace. And then the ascent was on...nice and slow, a little slower, and then even a little slower than that. I passed some riders, some riders passed me, and this whole long line of cyclists gradually inched its way upward. It seems that most of them already knew the way to do this, probably long before I did. There were some "cross-trainers", people walking their bikes, but there's nothing wrong with that. The objective was for all of us to get to the top of the hill so we could ride on out through Lockwood, down to Bradley, and finally on into Paso Robles. And we did. The hippogriff had accepted our acts of humility and we were rewarded with a thrilling ride.

    Quadbuster...hippogriffs...a metaphor for life? I think so. If we brazenly declare that we are doing this bike ride and you, prospective donor, had better donate, we will be flicked off the bike and the check won't be written. If we humbly go to our friends, our families, our neighbors and explain how critically important this ride is, then millions of dollars pour into SFAF and LAGLC.

    The beauty of the actual experience of this remarkable bike ride/road trip is seeing 2,700 people put the needs of others above their own. Lunch servers, water toters, cross-dressing entertainers, people at intersections pointing out directions, bike parking staff, and a couple thousand riders. All humbly offering themselves, bowing down, and being granted a remarkable ride. How cool is that?

    Ride on!

Day 2: No place for cheetahs

    545 miles...definitely not a sprint. I like to ride fast. I think it's great fun to get out on the bike, kick into  gear, and go flying down the road. One of my favorite rides is about an hour on a local road, ride as fast as I can, and get back totally winded and feeling great. Which reminds of a bit that I just read about the cheetah...fastest mammal on the planet...70 mph in bursts. But if it doesn't catch its prey quickly, the critter lives to tell about it, because the cheetah can't maintain its speed. No stamina, no sense of "going the distance".

  So we head out into the streets of Santa Cruz this morning, and it's cool and pleasant. There are about a bazillion stop signs and a bit of traffic, and it took the better part of an hour to get out to where we could really crank up the bikes and get moving. It felt great. In fact it felt so good that I promptly forgot that this was the early part of a 107 mile day (on the heels of an 80 mile day) with five more days to follow. I flew. I reveled. I was having fun. The "cheetah factor" didn't really kick in until after lunch in Salinas, almost halfway through the day, and time to head south down the Salinas Valley. And suddenly my legs didn't want to spin, my butt started to hurt, and all the excitement and enthusiasm kind of slipped away for a bit.

    But it's not a race. We're on an incredible quest here, almost three thousnd of us, roadies and cyclists,seeking to cover 545 miles in a week, to raise millions to help fight the battle against AIDS/HIV. To those who deal with this virus and disease directly it becomes a marathon, a lifelong commitment to  fighting the good fight day in and day out. And the effort to eradicate it, to support the victims, to educate the uninfected, is an ongoing effort that requires commitment and dedication. No cheetahs need apply for this duty.

    There's something special about living in the moment that can get lost if we treat this ride like a race.   Suddenly there's no time to take a side trip in Salinas to share the excitement and offer another word of thanks to a couple of guys who stepped up when asked to donate to the event. Joe Mitchell (in the necktie) and Jeff Daughenbaugh (in the surgical scrubs)...just a couple of really good guys, and if this were a race there wouldn't have been a half hour to swing by their dental offices and sneak a few minutes to talk about the ride that they helped support. And there wouldn't have been time to stop for a chat, a handshake, and a hug from Danny and Rita Patterson at the green bridge across the Arroyo Seco River. And what about those seals in Moss Landing...if it's a race, there's no time to stop  and watch them leaping out of the water and barking out their seal talk.

    Flying down the road on the bike is tons of fun, but taking a moment to stop and appreciate the incredible creation that we are riding through is more important than what time we reach the next camp. The miles of farm land that we rolled through today is a reminder of the real pace that defines life as we know it...there is no hurrying the crop of strawberries or artichokes or lettuce that were being harvested as we rode by. They are ready in their time and at their pace. Life is too short to live it in fast motion. Five nice long days ahead of us to slow down and wallow in the moment.

    Ride on!

Day 1: Tears, cheers, and "on your left"

4:30 a.m....BZZZZZTTT!!! Geez...what was THAT?? The alarm? Impossible...still dark. Fuzzy headed...something's different...YIKES! It's day one of the ALC ride!! What's first?? Oh yeah..bike shorts...bag balm (if you don't know, don't ask)...shoes...no, socks then shoes. Fifteen minutes and out the door, heading off to the Cow Palace. REALLY  prepared...legs are ready, cardiovascular system is ready, bike is ready, bag is packed. Traffic backed up? No problem...ready for that...we left early enough. A bit of confusion and noise in the lobby? No problem, ready for that too. A bit of wild and crazy stretching, ready for that too. And then the opening ceremonies started, and the cheeerleading, and the welcomes and greetings; ready for all that. And then the riderless bicycle was brought down the center of the Cow Palace arena floor, a tribute to those who lost their fight and can't be here, the ones this ride is for. Wasn't ready for that. All of a sudden the grim reality of why this event happens every year, why thousands of cyclists, volunteers, and supporters pull together to raise millions of dollars for treatment, support, and education to combat HIV/AIDS became crystal clear. Except it was really hard to see it through the tears. One riderless bike. Wasn't ready for that.

    Out to the bike parking, push our prized two wheeled babies out the door into the cool morning air, and mount up...time to ride. Time to pedal five hundred forty five miles for a grand and wonderful purpose. And time to discover that everywhere we go we're bombarded by cheers. Words of encouragement, high fives, smiling faces, silly hats and wild attire...a grand celebration, and it's all being heaped on the riders. Heroes, they say. Okay, but no more heroic than the supporters. You rock, they say...but no more so than the roadies who make it happen. But we'll gladly take those cheers and head out onto the streets. Out into the streets where the Mom and Dad hold up the poster, a photo of a young man named Gary, the dates of his birth and his passing, and the words written boldly, "THANK YOU!". Tears and cheers.

    And that's when the community of riders takes over. HUGE throng of bikes, way too many for the streets of San Francisco. How do I know if you're going to pass me? "On your left!", and a bike whizzes by. "Stopping!", and a line of cyclists is alerted to a red light. "HOLE!", and a potential bone-charring blast into a pot hole I could have hit is averted. The whole body of cyclists, working as one. Way cool.

    Cycling is tons of fun, but it's hard work. You get tired. You can get cranky. You can forget to eat or drink enough. And then you pull into the rest stop and the green guy explains, with a straight face, that those packets that appear to contain Pop Tarts "are actually S'mores that we all made around the campfire last night" (I don't think so!). And these smiling ladies? That would be the Happy Birthday crew at another rest stop. All of them awesome, entertaining, encouraging, doing their part to fight HIV/AIDS just as certainly as the cyclists.

    There are great stories to share about the miles (if you were one of those who heard me refer to day one as basically flat, just slap me upside the head and call me stupid), the pedaling (so far so good), and the stunning views (do the San Francisco to Half Moon Bay ride SOON if you haven't yet), but for tonight it's all about the big picture...tears, cheers, and "on your left". Thousands of people with broken hearts doing their little bit to make a difference.

    Ride on!

Ready or not...

Nine months, almost four thousand miles on the bike, a few aches and pains, and a lot of great fun have come down to this...it’s Friday evening, and the ride starts on Sunday. As we used to say when we played hide and seek on Las Flores Drive in Altadena , “ready or not, here I come!”.

A lot has happened over the final few weeks of preparing for this grand adventure... there have been two more successful rides up Jolon Grade (Quadbuster), and it no longer seems scary. There was a brief left knee issue, the now familiar ITB tendinitis. This time I knew what was going on and caught it very early...a bit of rest, a bit more stretching, and some Aleve settled it down nicely. There has been another five hundred miles of cycling, including lots of hills. There has been a continued onslaught on the food supplies at Safeway. And there has been one glorious evening over at Sol Treasures. For those who missed the fundraiser dinner, a veritable army of enthusiastic, generous, and energetic volunteers stepped up to put on a great evening of fine food and great music, raising almost two thousand dollars (bringing our fundraising total to a rousing $8,000!), and my sole responsibility that day was to go off for an eighty mile bike ride and show up for a wonderful evening. Cycling looks like an individual undertaking, but participating in this ride has taken a lot of help, and the evening at Sol Treasures really underscored that.

So…we’re within thirty-six hours of riding out of the Cow Palace in San Francisco , and honestly I feel like a kid waiting for Christmas morning, all butterflies in the stomach.  I do have to admit to just a bit of anxiety; there’s still the nagging thought that one of those cranky knees could start to act up, or too many long days of riding in a row could be tougher than I expected, or a meteorite could fall out of the sky right in front of my bike, or something…alright, the meteorite thing isn’t all that likely. But a five hundred and fifty mile bike ride is kind of a new experience to me, and even after all the preparation and planning and learning and conditioning, there’s just that little element of the unknown. Pretty darned exciting, but just a little scary at the same time.

What makes this all so totally different from so many things that I’ve experienced, is that this one isn’t just for me. There’s something energizing about knowing that all of us have pulled together to reach out and do something to benefit someone we’re never likely to meet. It’s exciting to me to look at a list of sixty donors who have contributed, and it’s going to be a lot of fun to go pedaling down the road knowing that so many people have jumped in to be part of this.

Alright. The bag is packed, the bike is in the car, and I’m as ready for this as I’m likely to get. I know that this is going to be a remarkable week with a myriad of great experiences.

Ready or not, here we go!!

David

I'm a SoCal native, transplanted to the Central Coast, and boy do I ever miss my Dodgers! Thirty year veteran dentist, Dad to two great young school teachers, love my wife Janice, and laugh every day at my two boxers, Ubu and Roxy. Lost my nephew Michael to AIDS in 1992, and as a ten-year cancer survivor I thought this would be a really great way to do something for someone who might not have to be quite as alone as Michael and his family were. Ride on!!