#alc2016

I finished the AIDS/LifeCycle.

It was a week of pure ride. 545 miles from San Francisco to Los Angeles. I “put the fun between [my] legs” as they say. NBD, just rode my bike between two major American cities. Sure, I stopped to eat, usually. I stopped to sleep. I stopped to take pictures. I stopped to go to the bathroom and to shower. I stopped to stretch and be stretched by the spectacular sports medicine and chiropractor teams. And I did stop once to have the state of my posterior assessed by the "butt nurse." Other than that, I rode.

I’ll post more about my experiences in the days to come, but for now, I’ll offer a general assessment. 

During orientation Lorri Jean, CEO of the Los Angeles LGBT Center, said to us riders, "Remember, this ride is not about you. This is not your ride." That message went over my head. I was doing this ride for my own reasons. Last year my boyfriend and I volunteered at the finish line. I was really impressed by the people riding into the VA. I asked a couple of the riders how it was, and they said it was “totally doable.” ALC was offering a discount for people who signed up that day. I thought about how I was getting more into cycling, the cause was worthy, and this seemed like a good challenge. I signed up, my greatest worry being that I wouldn't meet the donation minimum.

I trained all year, going on long rides every weekend. I got a real road bike. I got the clipless pedals and the shoes. I got all the road bike apparel. I even met my donation minimum with so much time to spare I actually raised my goal by a thousand dollars. I was nervous—it's a big ride, after all—but I felt pretty much ready. I knew there would be tons of support if I needed it. My focus was really all on myself.

Orientation day came and Lorri Jean said those words: Remember, this is not your ride. It hit me like a light mist. I barely noticed it. My energy was focused elsewhere. Was it time to get on my bike yet?

It wasn’t until Day 3 her words came back to me. I went to look for my bike on the rack in the camp parking lot, and it wasn't there. Instead there was a note saying I had to see the safety roadie to pick up my bike. I apparently had committed the crime of "unsafe passing." I was miffed. I was disappointed. I was probably a little bit angry. But mostly I felt demoralized. I'd spent all year practicing good safety habits like signaling, calling out, and looking over my shoulder, and I thought I had performed all of those pretty well during the first two days. I couldn't think of what I had done that was unsafe. Then again, I did a lot of passing, so I couldn't say I remembered every moment perfectly. I collected my bike from the safety roadie, and he gave me a gentle reminder to do all the things I thought I had been doing. At this point, I was starting to feel paranoid. I didn't know what I had done (or not done), and if they cited my bike again they might pull it and not let me ride for a day, or they may even kick me out altogether! I felt marked. Every time I saw a safety or sweep vehicle I strained to remember my every movement of the past two minutes. I felt as if I probably had messed up on something and surely this day would be my last on the bike.

It was in the throes of this wild paranoia that I finally started to come to terms with Lorri's words: This ride is not about me. This ride was not about riding the way I wanted to ride (always within the safety parameters). Or doing the things I wanted to do. It's not about my challenge to myself or my desire to ride every mile. It's about spreading a positive vision of the LGBTQ community and those affected by HIV/AIDS, not only in places like SF and LA, but everywhere in between. It's about going through a small town like Bradley or King City or Lompoc, where the LGBTQ community does not have a strong presence and showing people and their families that they're not alone.

And to do that, it's important that AIDS/LifeCycle has control of the ride and the riders. And it really doesn't matter if I think I'm right or wrong, in anything. It's their ride, and everyone must respect that. This reality was only reinforced in days to come, when the ALC roadies would regulate the exit of people from rest stops and particularly the "half way to LA" point, where after taking pictures people waited 45 minutes to an hour to be let back onto the road. I know it irritated me and others at the time—really, it would have been nice to have known from the outset how difficult it would be to get back on the road—but now I realize it's their ride, and they have their reasons. And those reasons are mostly safety-oriented. Every day on ALC, I just have to do my best as a rider, and if they put me on a bus instead of letting me ride, c'est la vie.

Another cyclist gave me yet an additional perspective on the ride. At the time I was feeling pretty low, on account of the unsafe passing citation, and my body was starting to freak out on me, particularly my right hamstring—I'd put my right sit bone down on the saddle, and the hamstring felt like it was going to snap. I sat at a rest stop with my new riding friends, Jon and Maria. Maria told me, "It doesn't matter if you don't ride every single mile. You raised the money. This is a celebration of the money you've raised and the people you’ve helped. This is the party. And if you need to sit down at the party, it's OK. You're still at the party."

Maria was right. This ride was not about devouring every single mile like Ms. PacMan devours dots. It's about raising money to help people. And I'd done that. Looking around me, at any time, I saw all the queer folk and straight folk and folks affected by HIV/AIDS—all coming together and having a good time and doing something that seemed impossible, even crazy. And I remembered, this is what it's about. It's about showing up and putting something positive out into the world because the world needs it, and we can give it.

The AIDS/LifeCycle is often referred to as the "Love Bubble" by those who've experienced it, and for good reason. As a participant, you're united with an incredibly diverse group of individuals in the common goal of increasing positive LGBTQ visibility and eliminating the stigma of HIV/AIDS. Most everyone is warmth and smiles. If you’re in need of a hug, swing a broken chain and you’ll hit someone with their arms open. (Don’t really swing a broken chain. It could hurt someone, and that’s not nice!) I’m not sure I’ll do it next year, but would I do it again? Yes. Will I stop half way to take my picture? Sigh. Probably, yes. Worth it!