• I rode California 2 in 1995. SF to LA in 7 days. Raised about $4700 for the Gay and Lesbian Service Center in LA.
• Joined the crew for Boston-NY (1) in 1995 when it was a 3-day ride. Managed the route marking crew. We lost no one.
• Rode Boston-NY 2 in 1996. Raised $6000 for the Fenway Clinic in Boston.

Name Dropping - You May Be Wrong In Any Assumptions You Make About The Names In This List, Which Are In Random Order

David Zeligson
Tom Lewis
Brian Dobday
Dan Pallotta
Jason
Ace Wheelworks
George MacNeil
Fenway Clinic
Lisa Howe
Michael Phillips
Stephen Sweigart
Richard Hoverstock
Barbara Lowe
Peter Smith & Jerry Thibeault
Frieda Howe
Alden Clark
Donna Burns
Michael Berzenye
Robert Cohen
Jay Rabon
Paul and Steve at Bicycle Bill's
Kevin Soyt
Andre
Dr. Joshua Algaze
Peter Manale
Larry Gilbert
Bill Shepardson
Dave Dalena
Marcia & Morty Vinocoor
Chuck Mangan
Buzz
Dr. Jonathan Stein
Pat Biggers
Hundreds More
Gary Pfitzer
Bob Flannery & Ken Mattsson
Brian Bauer
David Iwatsuki
Chicken Lady
Carlton Johnson
Leslie Rollins
Sharon & Terry King
Rich Aranowitz
Ken Withers
Bob McCormick
Ken Watts
Steve Gass & Jeff Bright
Diana Furness
Boston Frontrunners
Tony Furness
Phyllis
Pam Garramone
Bill Parrow
Pablo
Liz Regan
Rana Mukherji
Mark Sullivan
Earl G. Williams
Barry
Greg Mailloux
Sal Sorrenti & Dana Guarnera
Michael Cady
Dr. Andrew Keller
Geoff Moore
George Varga
Rick Spina
Charles Busch
Dan Heist
Barry Pettinato & Larry Ferri
Tom Boll
Richard F. Perry
John Moss
Michael
Paco Ojeda
Jim & Mary Curran
Bill Dell'Orfano
Arleen Gilbert
Sue Bowen
Chris Civiello
Bob Derry
John Murphy
Fran
Darryll Bennett
Richard MacInnes
Faith Hodgkins
Outriders
That Bike Shop in East Stroudsburg
Cathy Stephens
Erica Hoverstock
Johnny Gilbert
Gary Roy
Dennis Mack
Tom Manning
Baggage Crew D
Jonathan Cheney
Vance Walker
All Those Kids
Ben Robbins
Jay Hill
Memorial Hospital; Newton NJ
Mike Neuwirth
Frank Capecci
Ralph Oliva
Wellington Azevedo
Linda Gogolin
David Kohn
Joan Fitzpatrick
Bill Murphy
Eric Rosenbaum
Michael von Üchtrup
Chris Tebbetts
Edouard
The Moving Violations

Kansas City Boy Experiences Heaven, Baptism and Angels in Connecticut

Q. Why am I getting this?

A. There are four kinds of people in the world, and you're one of them:

• You contributed money so I could ride; or
• You supported my ride in some non-monetary way like accompanying me on training rides, visiting me (or trying to) along the route, greeting me in New York, or just standing along the route to give me a wave; or
• I never asked you for money for this year's AIDS ride, but I want to soften you up a bit for next year; or
• You didn't support me this year, but I want you to know what the ride was like.

A. No.

• I'm doing lists.
• See?
• This ought to be good bathroom reading.

• Raises more money for the Fenway Clinic than any other single fundraiser;
• Has riders who just will not stop (except at most red lights and all lunch stops);
• Has a crew of volunteers who will walk over broken glass and hot coals to satisfy any need of any rider and then smile and say they are happy (this is a fact! we saw it!);
• Has a staff that apparently runs on nothing more than air and weak sunshine; they never eat, and any coffee on the ride is totally imaginary
• Has a feeling of community, cooperation and friendliness that is unlike anything I've experienced elsewhere, and which I'm not able to describe even when I write on and on (and on and on) , but I do so love to try.

Start Here

• Train — well, I had to do something with my summer (and spring) anyway;
• Raise at least $1500 in contributions — I probably owed you all a letter anyway, didn't I?

Fundraising
My fundraising — or, more accurately, your fundpaying, went really well, thank you. I was amazed again at how generous you are. I reached the $1500 minimum in June. Continuing contributions since then have put my total at more than $6100.

The Day Before The Day
September 4, Wednesday, the day before the ride, was registration day down at Commonwealth Pier. This perfectly fine pier was renamed the "World Trade Center" some time ago. That alone is embarrassing enough, but it's worse when you anticipate a few thousand New Yorkers showing up.

! Clue For the Kansas Citians in the crowd, renaming Commonwealth Pier the "World Trade Center" is a lot like renaming the Bartle Convention Center "The Empire State Building."

Nonetheless, I rode my bike down there Wednesday morning. The big question of Bridgestone vs. Cannondale had been decided in favor of the Bridgestone. While it lacks the low gearing of my Cannondale, which might have been nice to have on some hills, it's lighter and more comfortable than the Cannondale. Besides, the Cannondale has seen most of New England, and the Bridgestone gets lonely sitting at home while I'm out touring on the Cannondale.

Grand Rituals
Upon my arrival George Varga himself personally escorted me and my bike to a security pen. Then I went to register myself. I got my red bracelet to prove that I had really raised enough money. And I got the very important yellow bracelet to show that I would be allowed to eat vegetarian. Then I headed off to get my green bracelet by seeing the brand new safety video.
Yes, the much-maligned mandatory safety lecture has been reduced to videotape! Veteran riders who skipped this year's ride will be reassured to know that not a single bit of Dan Pallotta's speech has been cut.

Besides the wit and wisdom of Dan Pallotta, the videotape had these advantages (veteran riders, I'm talking to you):

• it was shown hourly throughout the day, so we didn't have to stay in town late the night before the ride;
• that meant we didn't have to submit to the terrible food offered up by the "World Trade Center" kitchen staff; and
• we didn't have to listen to the directors of the three beneficiary charities talk about their organizations or the state of AIDS education, treatment, and research. While it certainly is true that the three beneficiary charities (including Fenway) are wonderful places, and it is true that the state of AIDS education, treatment, and research is an important thing to all of us. We riders had just spent an entire summer contemplating these very issues, talking to our contributors about them, and we wanted to hear about other things now.

What We Wanted To Hear

• that we are wonderful
• that it won't rain tomorrow
• that we are angels
• that breakfast starts at 5:00 AM (or even earlier)
• that we have magnificent legs
• that the map will be clear and the route marking perfect
• that we are a genuine elite
• that dinner starts at 4:00 PM
• that no hill can stop people as strong and dedicated as we are
• that we can start riding as early as 6:30 AM
• that if we were any better we'd get nosebleeds from the altitude, unless our swollen heads exploded first
• and that the showers will be hot!

American Marriages & Families Threatened
In all the hub and bub of registration I located David Kohn (well, he located me). David and I were to be tentmates for the duration of this monumental ride. When we finally made it up to the altar (cunningly disguised as cheap folding tables) we were quite amazed to find that the high priestess of tents (and tentmates) was none other than Pam, who had also been my rider rep. Pam had kept herself busy for months assuring that the entire ride would conform to my picky-picky standards. I think occasionally she would spend time on another rider, but that was okay. I'm generous.

! Clue A rider rep, like Pam, is the rider's interface with the ride office. If I need help training, need help raising money, or just want my hand held she does it for me. But her real job is keeping me out of the hair of the rest of the staff.

As soon as the secret tentmate ritual had been performed, Pam promised that we would always have the best tent, that it would never leak, that our tent would always have a great view, not too much sun, and would be convenient to everything we could want. Fair enough. I'm not sure all of this was communicated clearly to the crew, unfortunately.

! Clue I could tell you about the secret ritual, but then you'd have to do the ride.

Everything Labeled
With my tent tag around my neck and all of the proper bracelets, I was now permitted to approach my bike for the last time before the ride. I had to attach my rider number to the Bridgestone. With that tag and the four IDs hanging on my body I could have walked out of the building and gone right under a truck. The arrival of my bike and my corpse in New York would still have been assured.

Authority!
That evening I returned to Commonwealth Pier for the meeting of Safety Monitors. I had agreed to join this elite corps with only a vague idea of what it might involve. I can't think of a smartass way to justify my decision. It's just that safety on all my rides (and especially this ride) is really important to me.

My fellow Monitors were all as self-certified as I. That is, nobody checked to see if we really knew anything about safety. I'm sure some of you imagine these Safety Monitors are just a bunch of frustrated wanna-be hall monitors. You'd be right. The ones from New York seemed to be especially hyper and rowdy.

Perhaps you can imagine my surprise when I discovered that the staff person in charge of the Safety Monitors was Dan Pallotta himself! Theoretically, if I observed any of the "capital" offenses [a "capital" offense is one for which the punishment is immediate and complete banishment from the AIDS Ride] I was to contact Dan himself and he would pass his swift, certain and terrible justice! I trembled.

There are lots of safety rules, advisories and pointers on the AIDS Ride. I was glad to have it finally, definitely clarified that there are only three "capital" offenses:

• riding without a helmet (unheard of);
• riding in a paceline; and
• dancing the Macarena — this new rule took me by surprise, so for clarification I asked Dan "What about YMCA?" He explained that because of its great traditional significance we could allow dancing to YMCA as long as it didn't take place near any bicycles, but that the Macarena was totally forbidden for obvious reasons of safety.

! Clue When cyclists ride in a line so that all the riders except the first one have less wind resistance to overcome, then you have a paceline. It can be fast, fun and dangerous like so much of life. Many cyclists do not even wear a condom while pacelining. I experienced joy upon learning how a paceline was to be determined, measured, defined (knowledge is joy). Many times on the California AIDS Ride last year I had wondered "How can they tell?" A staff person driving by in a car certainly can't judge the wind conditions, our speed and our spacing to determine if we are really in a paceline, or just look like we're close together. Well, the answer is: a paceline is what I (Ron) say it is. That's a pretty damn perfect definition from my viewpoint.

One of my peers spoke up to tell us that "we should set a good example" (six words), but he took at least 500 words to say it and never used the words "good" or "example." I did hear him say that "people are capable of exhibiting modeling behavior." His red bracelet labeled him a Boston rider, and I smelled Cambridge all over him.

At the conclusion of our Safety Monitors meeting we were given our Safety Monitor helmet covers. These had a white stripe down the middle and fire engine lime green side panels with the word "SAFETY" on each side. These were ugly beyond ugly. Even among cyclists, where loud and nerdy clothing is greatly coveted, these helmet covers loudly announced "I Am Seriously Emotionally Disturbed — Keep Away!" It took me back to Mrs. Swaney's fourth grade. I very seriously reconsidered the now-onerous task of being safety monitor. But the next morning when I saw that mere ugly nerdiness did not stay my fellow safety monitors from bossing other riders, I decided it was okay to join in. I wore the damn thing.

The job turned out to be easy. This was the safest bike ride I've ever been on. By comparison, a Charles River Wheelmen ride looks like a lot of drug crazed suicide cases. Once I had to speak to another Safety Monitor who didn't seem to know enough to get out of the middle of the road when there was a car right up her butt, but that was about the worst of it...

! Clue The Charles River Wheelmen are a bike club in the Boston area. There were quite a few CRW members on the AIDS Ride.

Day 1: Boston to Storrs; about 100 miles

Tom shows up in the quiet darkness with an appearance not nearly as dramatic as the San Francisco cab driver. He whisks us right up to the very front door of Commonwealth Pier, despite the Ride's claim that streets would be closed for blocks around. We join the milling crowd trying to find

• where do we put our bags?
• how do we get into Commonwealth Pier (where our bikes whimper for us)?

By then the doors to Commonwealth Pier are open and we go inside to check out our steel, aluminum, carbon fiber and titanium beauties. I am immensely pleased to see that the Bridgestone has not been disturbed the slightest, and the tires are not flat. Not all of us are so lucky. Someone is missing his multi-thousand dollar, titanium-framed, graphite-wheeled beauty. The real world intrudes.

Restrained Nerves
Now we discover there is no reason for us to be here before 6:00 AM. The extra hour is to allow for a few last minute registrations and safety video make ups. We have at least an hour to spend chatting, hitting the bathroom, sitting on the concrete floor with our muffins and bananas, hitting the bathroom, checking our spokes, hitting the bathroom, squeezing the tires, hitting the bathroom, trying to zone out, hitting the bathroom, and then finally ignoring the organized stretching and warm up exercises. After a last trip to the bathroom I have a real breakfast of one Power Bar (less than 99¢ a piece at Costco) and stretch out on the concrete to try to make it through these impatient minutes.

The riderless bicycle is presented. Dan Pallotta gets up on the stage and tells us we are angels, his voice cracking. Mayor Menino, taking a page from Mayor Curley, is five minutes late and gets our attention. He bids us well or something. I can't hear so well way at the back.

I haven't told you yet how now Commonwealth Pier has become nothing but solid cyclists from side to side, front to back. The only parts of the floor not covered with cyclists are covered with cycles, still in their security pens. Hanging overhead are the giant banners of all five of this year's AIDS Rides. Being the last ride of the year, we get to enjoy all of them. The banners are all covered solid with handwritten wishes, memories and names. My handwriting is up there somewhere.

And then they call my security area to get our bikes. I don't know if my area is really the VIP section, but

• we do get to go first, and
• we have Chicken Lady in our midst.

I put the map away. Check my helmet. Check the weather, which is overcast but not supposed to rain. Check my helmet. Check my fanny pack. Look at my wheels. Wipe my glasses. Look at the people around me. Too late to hit the bathroom. We all check out the helicopters which are now starting to gather thickly. I had no idea how well helicopters could fly backward. We crane. Check the helmet. We crane again and ahead we can see that the cyclists really, really are moving!

I Ride My Bike!
Just as in California there are railroad tracks where we start. We have to be careful not to slip on them, not crash into a fellow cyclist in this very dense pack, make an immediate right, not run into the beams supporting the overhead road above us, take a quick glance around for friends who might be seeing us, wave at Dan Pallotta, wave at the mayor, notice that they have a really loud sound system playing something, and then it's a quick left and we head for the haul road. By turn three we have spaced out enough that I can see the road surface and I start looking for arrows. I see none. We fly down the haul road through South Boston and then up onto Dorchester Avenue. It is here that Michael Cady catches up to me. Still no arrows of any sort that we can see. It isn't that we expect to get lost, but we ought to be finding out what our arrows look like.

! Clue Last year I managed the arrowing and route marking crew for the Boston - New York AIDS Ride. Michael Cady and David Kohn were on the crew, too. No one marks a route as good as we did.

We turn onto East Berkeley and pass an EMT cyclist, who tells us he is not riding to Storrs, but is just along for emergency services in the city. We cross Tremont onto Berkeley and into the thick of the South End. Here we begin to see our friends along the route. I spot George MacNeil on one corner. Ben Robbins said he saw me here, and I believe him. As we cross Columbus I see Jerry Thibeault and Peter Smith and make a clear request of them. There are shouts and waves. Into the Back Bay and a simple left turn onto Commonwealth Avenue. Along here I hear Ken Watts yell my name, but I can't see him in the crowd along the street. We pass through Kenmore Square and onto Beacon Street. We fill the road shoulder to shoulder, and even though there are police up front and along with us, motor vehicles try to merge in with us. Most of the car drivers simply panic and stop, settling in for a wait.

! Clue For you non-Bostonians, South Boston and The South End are different places separated by hundreds of years.

! Clue Again, for you non-Bostonians, Cleveland Circle is neither a circle nor a Cleveland.

Our police escort ends at Cleveland Circle and as we stretch out into our mandatory single file, Michael and I are able to pass a long string of riders. Past Boston College, downhill, then a left onto Hammond Pond Parkway, where cars are already backed up for a half-mile. After passing Chestnut Hill Mall, we come to our first rotary, where we had police assistance. At this point we have spread out enough and hit enough traffic lights that I see no one ahead of me. I know that there are several good bikable ways through this rotary and I think I remember which way to go from the map, but there are no arrows and no one to point the way. I simply make a decision fast and go. I'm followed. I must be right.

Another rotary and we come to the VFW Parkway. Along here there are frequent traffic lights that begin to break us up into packets of cyclists. I'm riding near Chicken Lady and spirit is high. Before we get to Route 109 I've lost Michael Cady in the crowd, and have left Chicken Lady behind. I've seen our first accident. One cyclist had apparently brushed up against the high granite curb and gone flying. The police and an ambulance are already there.

Route 109 into Dedham and then a right onto Route 135 and we are at Pit Stop 1 too soon. I don't stop. Sure don't need to use the porta-potty, and I have plenty of water. Shortly after Pit Stop 1 I see what I think might be our arrows. I'm right, but it takes me most of the day to figure that out. The arrows come in two colors through the day, and are irregularly placed and unpredictable. They're pretty unreliable.

Beautiful Dover
Before long we're headed for Dover on the same route as last year. Dover has some of the most beautiful bike roads in eastern Massachusetts and I wonder if it impresses the New York riders to be riding through such a wonderful landscape in so few miles from downtown Boston. Here in Dover a rider alongside me breaks his chain pedaling up no hill to speak of. Before we get to New York I'd see another half dozen chain breaks. What have people been doing to their chains?

We eventually get onto Route 16 heading for Holliston. The bike was doing fine, and the crowd had smoothed out. I could freely ogle my co-riders, wave at passersby, and just generally bike-ride. Since I was one of the first ones out of Commonwealth Pier, skipped Pit Stop 1 and have been keeping up a pretty good pace, I know I'm pretty near the front of the 3000-something riders. I intend to stay there. Everything goes better when you're early. I pass one rider who seems to have a pretty strange riding position, but is sprinting like mad to stay up with his friends.

Utilitarian Holliston
Pit Stop 2 in Holliston is at the church I call simply "the one on the right" or "not the Roman Catholic one." You know. That one. Maybe it's Congregational. I'm early. Not a lot of riders. No lines for water or snacks or porta-potties. A big gang of tykes (that's "tykes" with a "T") is sitting on the church steps waving signs and getting into all the photos.

Suddenly up pops Bill Murphy who, despite this year's chronically malfunctioning ankle is shooting along at warp speed (he's keeping up with me, isn't he?) — or maybe he was just chasing some comely rider. A minute later and here is Michael Cady. I had thought he was ahead of me, but he had stopped at Pit Stop 1. The day is warming and we're both already pouring the sweat. A few calories, some more water and we're about to take off, when I see the rider with the strange riding position arriving. He complains loudly to his friends that he's dying already. We've gone less than 20 miles.

From Holliston we continue along Route 16 and then make the same mystifying turn that the ride took last year. At the top of the hill in morning rush hour traffic we take a left onto Route 126. This turn takes us over to Route 109, which brings us right back to Route 16. I still have no clue why the route goes this way. All three roads carry about the same traffic, except that on Route 109 we get to experience our first four lane highway through mallarama.

Favored Milford
Nonetheless, back on Route 16 we zip right through the home of the headwaters of the Charles River, blessed Milford. Memories of mountain bike rides flash briefly as we pass through and then to the quick steep hills of skinny Hopedale. Along in here I was passed by a rider on (excuse me, never one to show disrespect to a fellow AIDS rider) one of the crappiest bikes I'd ever seen. This rattly, rusty monster with terribly untrue wheels and traditional toe clips passed me on an uphill (!). The rider of this tinman of the roadway attempted a track stand at the next red light, and he almost did it! My fellow riders and I stared on aghast. In an attempt to sound positive I asked one fellow next to me to consider how well this guy could ride if he had a real bike. Later I saw him arrive in camp via sag wagon.

! Clue In a track stand, the rider stops (or almost stops) the bike and never takes the feet off the pedals.

Our Fan Club
On the long descent and then climb into Mendon (home of the Tour to Mystic) I see the first instance of an amazing thing that didn't happen on the California ride last year. There on the left is a full-sized American pick up truck sitting in the driveway of a business. On the hood of the truck is a young man watching and not swearing at us, not brandishing a fist, weapon or beer bottle; but applauding! He is (it turned out) the first of hundreds — no, thousands of people who stand along the route, every day, all the way from Mendon to Chelsea in Manhattan just to applaud, just to see us pass by, just to support us (who are already having fun). Sure, in California we had our supporters; sure there were people out there waving us on, holding signs, displaying rainbow banners. But not in the huge numbers I saw in New England, not along the whole route, not like the lone woman on a curve in New York state who was there just to say "thank you" to every rider who went past. And in California the people who supported us got to stand there in (yes, of course) California weather! We had no California weather on the Boston-NY ride. But the people stood right there in even the heaviest weather. At one pit stop on day three it was pouring the heaviest rain possible. I was already soaked to the skin, and I had to be there. So it amazed me to see local civilians mixing in among us in the rain to tell us they thought we were doing a good job. I'd never seen anything like this before.

! Clue Mendon was the last place I expected to find a supporter of the AIDS Ride!

Once we are over the hill in Mendon I know it's all downhill clear to Uxbridge, where today's lunch stop is. I fly, ignoring ambiguous, unclear and even wrong arrows. I know the route here. I pass a team of older ladies sitting on the side of the road in folding chairs to wave at us. Naturally I stop and explain the advantages of having their Social Security checks sent direct deposit. They ask if they can have them sent direct deposit to the AIDS Ride. But of course!

Lunch
Arriving at the little town square of Uxbridge (home of the Tour Of New England) I get to dig into my first OK's Cascade meal of the ride. The veggie meal today is egg salad (very thin egg salad) on a hamburger bun. It becomes apparent that one of our unsung sponsors is the American peanut industry. For dessert we can choose from Paydays, Reese's Peanut Butter Cups or Planter Peanut Blocks; none of which are bike food.

! Clue OK's Cascade is a company from Washington state that from the thinnest of air, the coldest of night, using nothing more than a lot of sweat and diesel produces food, light, heat, power, water, showers and convivial conversation for all the AIDS Rides.

Bill Murphy and Michael Cady arrive at lunch just behind me and we all marvel at a new feature of the lunch stops. This must have started on the Florida AIDS Ride, or maybe this year's California AIDS Ride, where temperatures exceeded 100 degrees. It was the "misting tent." A big machine blows a mist of water into a tent. You simply walk into the tent, get misted, come out. I never took advantage of this lavishness. As the days went along I noticed that it was frequented mostly by those young men who had been mindful to bring their chests along on the ride. They would peel off their jersey, get misted, and then stride around the lunch stop all shiny until they dried. I never tried to stop them. I never saw a woman use the misting tent. The misting tent on day three was either nonfunctional, or so efficient it covered the entire state. It was unclear.

More Arrow Noise
Leaving Uxbridge with Michael, the arrows change from white to yellow. This irritates me more even though the arrows themselves become more consistent and predictable. Before we get too far along we spot a staff member driving in the opposite direction. We hail him, and explain our frustration with the arrows. He tells us they have used no white paint. Hmm. I suppose my hallucinations were due to too much excitement and too many trips to the men's room back in Boston.

We remount our bikes and move along. Finally we hit a stretch of road I had never ridden on before. I remember that last year in the middle of the night this part of Route 16 had seemed to be a long climb, but in hot daylight there's almost no hill here.

There's a change for Pit Stop 4. It was supposed to be at Webster Fish & Game, the same spot as last year. It's an ideal spot: right on Route 16 in a flat stretch, a big flat parking lot, shade trees and a lovely little lake. But it seems that this very morning, Thursday morning, the morning the ride started someone from Webster Fish & Game had contacted the AIDS Ride and withdrawn their consent to use the spot! Can you imagine! Suppose you were the logistics director for the ride. What could you do at the break of dawn with over 3000 riders just a few hours away from Pit Stop 4 (not to mention the crew for the pit stop which is already out cruising the countryside). Do you cancel the ride? Call out the National Guard? Do you just skip Pit Stop 4 and hope it's not a hot day?

Elks Rule!
Not a chance. Here in Massachusetts we call on those gloriously generous people at the Webster Elks lodge! There are probably days in your life where you do not consider all the fine things the Elks do for you and people around you. This is not one of those days. Somebody got an Elk out of bed early that morning and some Elk said yes, sure, use our parking lot — and even the indoor restrooms if you like! By the time we got to Webster Fish & Game (a name to be cast into the deepest pits), the ride was sailing smoothly past it and along the shores of Lake Chaubunagungamaug. We had to take a slight detour to get to the Elks lodge, but we would have done more just to be in the presence of such glowing civic citizens.

The Future Comes Out For Us
After refreshing ourselves we continue into Webster where we pick up Route 12, and then Route 197. On the way out of town we catch up with Bill Murphy who is outside the grade school yelling up at the open windows. He tells us that last year he had been so impressed by the kids from this school cheering the riders on that he had decided to do the ride again just to see them. He's sore disappointed that the school yard is empty. But as soon as he starts yelling the kids run to the windows and the teacher sticks her head out to reassure him that they are making their signs as fast as possible (are we riding faster this year?) and they will be out really fast. Bill waits a minute or so and then the kids come pouring out to stand along the roadside to scream and wave signs. Balance restored to the universe, Bill continues with the ride.

The Constitution State
Before long we cross into Connecticut where we know the roads will get smaller, quieter and steeper. Here Michael gets a message on his beeper. We pretend he has to stop and check it. I pretend I need to step into the woods. Really we just think about those hills ahead and will they be as hard on a bike as they looked from a car last year. From here to Storrs the roads are mostly those narrow, twisty, tree-covered, Norman Rockwell fantasies that are so familiar to New Englanders, and so loved by all.

We pass through the little town of North Woodstock and approach a right turn onto County Road. I remind Michael that last year there was sand at this intersection that we had noted for the riders. There is still sand here this year, but someone has swept some of it. Too soon we are at Pit Stop 5, a place called Chuk's Farm. If you got any literature from the ride office this year, then you've seen photos of Chuk's Farm. It looks classically New England (more Norman Rockwell stuff). And the people who live there are of absolutely the best sort. One of the Chuks had gone out to her garden and picked tomatoes that morning and brought them down to the pit stop by the highway. We who rode near the front feasted on fresh, sun-warmed New England farm tomatoes. The pit stop crew keeps itself busy slicing them up as fast as we eat them. I do my best to leave little for those behind me. It makes me think of the giant fields of produce along the California AIDS Ride route and wonder why no one out there thought to contribute a little of the bounty. Smaller fields, bigger hearts in New England.

Moving Violations
From Chuk's we turn onto Route 171 to head down into West Woodstock. We are helped here as at many intersections by a member of the Moving Violations. The Moving Violations are a lesbian motorcycle club, a tough lesbian motorcycle club. No one dominates a road like the Moving Violations. One of these leather clad, cigarette-voiced dykes could halt trucks on a four-lane highway without even straining her attitude. I'm sure more than one officer in blue learned some things from the Moving Violations during the course of our ride. But as tough, mean and rough as they were; towards any AIDS Rider they were as gentle and loving as kittens and puppies. All we had to do was suggest that it might be our wish to cross a busy highway and a single motorcyclist would lay waste to all motor vehicles within sight to assure us of a smooth and quiet crossing. They were as strong as steel, as reliable as the tides, as solid as mountains. They broke the law, and we loved them.

We ride through Woodstock Valley and parallel a small river. We come to the confusing crossing of Route 44. It is (need I say it) inadequately arrowed. I see people going the wrong way, then catching their error. Last year this corner was generously arrowed. We finally turn away from the river onto little Chaplin Street. Hills begin. Then we get a short rest at Pit Stop 6. There's been a little confusion here since a property line runs through the middle of the field where the pit stop is. Arriving early in the morning, the truck with the porta-potties dropped their facilities on the wrong side of the property line. The owner of the property is there to complain. I eavesdrop. The pit stop crew seems to have only one functioning cell phone. Some things haven't changed at all from last year. But the great thing at Pit Stop 6 is ice cold water, the first cold water we've had all day. The talk among the riders is the great and terrible hills that lie just ahead of us. These are the hills that were most crushing last year, since they come after riding nearly 100 miles.

We leave the pit stop and turn onto Tower Hill Road. More hills. They seem to have run out of arrow signs here, as we begin to see all sorts of arrow signs along the route. We pass a road repair crew that is using their truck to block the righthand lane of the road, while they put fresh tar on the lefthand lane. The logic escapes me. We clatter through the fresh tar. We cross the "peach colored bridge" and I remember putting up signs and arrows here last year in the absolute dead of night. (It was dead calm then at about 4:00 AM and we hammered away driving metal stakes in the ground, but no one came out to check on us. No dogs barked1.) We drop into Mount Hope, and then begin the first long killer climb toward Storrs. It is along here, at the intersection of Wormwood Hill Road that I first see Mrs. Kennedy. I see her through a haze of sweat (my own, not hers) and aching lungs, but I'm sure it's her. The angel wings are the real give away.

Hill
This is a long, long hard hill and I drop it into the lowest gear; a gear I never need when I'm riding around Boston. In fact, the only time I've ever used it before was on The Great Hill Of Death on the Westfield Century.

I remember last year when I chatted for a moment with a rough, local citizen when we had stopped to fill up our gasoline powered AIDS-Ride-mobile. When I told him the riders were coming into town on the Gurleyville Road he was shocked, astonished, flabbergasted. I had heard rumors that the route this year would enter Storrs by an easier way this year. I'm really glad they stuck to the tough way.

On our right is a steep, heavily wooded drop off. Sometimes I can see the stream at the bottom running the opposite direction I ride. We eventually get over the top (many of the cyclists around us are walking). We get a screaming almost blind descent into Gurleyville (love that name). Then we begin the last and very worst hill into Storrs. We creep. The buildings of the University of Connecticut at Storrs become visible. We still creep. We have a stop sign. I ignore it; I'm going slower than a pedestrian. Finally we hit the traffic light at Route 195 and we are in Storrs — but not at the end of the ride.

Storrs
We continue on through the campus and begin heading out of town. We turn right onto Hunting Lodge Road and I hear complaints from riders around me about the small hills that we still have to surmount. We pass the spot where I remember putting a "One Mile To Go" sign on last year's ride. We take a left at the end of Hunting Lodge and then up a sudden, sharp steep hill. Here finally is the entrance to tonight's camp. I see Frank directing traffic. Even after volunteering for the full day of registration back in Boston, he's on the security crew, too. I know he'll be going back to Boston in four days with major sleep deprivation.

I see they have wisely moved the welcoming banner from this entrance to a spot further into the camp. Last year my crew had a terrible time trying to mount it out by the highway. We cruise a few hundred yards and are surrounded by cheering crew members who we had last seen in Boston. They point us toward security and offer us electrolyte drinks. We check into security and walk our bikes a long, long way to the back of security (one of the tedious responsibilities of being near the front). We are satisfied to see the area still 95% empty, but are mystified to see a few knobby-tired mountain bikes there ahead of us. It's about a quarter to three.

The security area is just long rows of saw horses surrounded by a temporary fence. There's only one legitimate entrance, but we can easily step over the fence. It's all about the size of the Mall Of America. It's one area of the camp that will be lighted and watched all night long.

From the security area we cross through the line of porta-potties which snake like an aquamarine Great Wall of China along the fields, through the woods and apparently on to some invisible horizon. On the football/soccer/rugby/whatever field the grid for all the tents are marked out like the streets and avenues of Manhattan (which is now 100 miles closer). A few (should I point out only a very few) tents are already up. I find area "D" and Michael heads off for his part of tent city, which must be in the next county.

"My name is Dave and I'll be your obdt svt today..."
Here I encountered a vast and wonderful improvement over the California AIDS Ride. Our luggage had already been brought into our tent area and it had been sorted by tent number and Dave from baggage truck "D" introduced himself and he offered to help me set up the tent and fetch pegs and a rain fly for me. From that point on Dave and his co-workers rendered nothing short of Nordstrom-style service to me and my fellow "D" citizens. He even gave me a pointer to simplify tent assembly (one which I had never figured out in all seven days of the California ride last year — you know how these three-dimensional things confuse me). When someone wandered into "D" from "C" or "E" or even "M," Dave would gruffly ask "May I help you with something?" with all cordiality, but also with a slight hint of restrained pitbull growl. I could see this was going to be a swell camp.

And then I turn to see that Lisa and Liz are my neighbors in "D", just one row over. Why, what a very small AIDS Ride this is!

The whole camp is laid out pretty much the same way as last year, so I waste no time finding the sodas (not quite cold yet) and then heading for the sinks and showers. The sinks are still just as generous. One portable sink cabinet is divided down into six sinklets which are designed to be used comfortably by very thin children who are missing one arm. I crowd in and help my neighbors brush their teeth.

! Clue Have you ever considered a biker's mouth after a ride? He shoves pounds of sticky, sweet food and gallons of chemical-laden drinks through it, and then circulates about ten million cubic feet of air with it.

Not all of the showers are powered up yet, but I only need one — and there's no waiting. The water is hot, strong and limitless. I spend days in there.

Watch 'em Ride In
Since dinner hasn't started yet, there's nothing for me to do but watch the cyclists who are arriving. I recognize a few faces. Some of the busloads of people who were unable to ride the whole distance today are arriving, too.

Ride to Eat — Eat to Ride
As the time approaches 4:00 I make my way over to dinner. It's pasta cooked in the ever reliable OK's Cascade style: over. But it's pretty good anyway, so I eat twice. The vegetarian choice today is pasta without the meatballs. I make the acquaintance of a Cantabrigian during the meal. I am made the butt of humor at the table when I am the first person to attempt to open the sealed-for-all-eternity imitation cheesecake. My knife is back at the tent, so I have to rely on plastic utensils, my teeth and my nails. Eventually I extract the calories from this box, although it is rather aesthetically damaged. My satisfaction came later as I saw no one else could do it any better than I.

I run into Jay Hill here, who seems to be just returning to cycling this year after having been stolen from us by the Gay Games back in '94. He tells me he was riding his mountain bike, because his road bike had been ruined in a dooring less than two weeks before the ride.

! Clue "Dooring" occurs when a person in a car, who believes the entire world is structured for his or her benefit simply opens the car door into traffic without looking, at the very same moment that a cyclist, who has failed to protect himself from such idiocy, arrives alongside. The rider's bike stops moving. The rider eventually does, too.

More Eating
David Kohn shows up about then, so I sit through dinner again. The dining hall is certainly pleasant enough. The carpet is New England grass, sloping along a New England floor. The ceiling high overhead is a hot New England sky blue. All the lighting comes from the setting New England sun that hangs above rolling, tree-covered New England hills. We remember why it is we live here.

More Riding
We go to watch the cyclists who are still arriving. It's about 6:30 now. The people coming in now are really beat. I see more than one person with tears in their eyes, but I can't guess if it is the terrible pain of the day's ride, or their joy at arrival combined with a heavy load of endorphins. One late arrival I notice is the man who way back in Holliston had complained of already being dead. A look up the road shows no end to the string of cyclists coming in. Theoretically no one is allowed to ride after 7:00 PM, but I saw cyclists riding in after that.

I am a poor host
When David and I return to our tent we find attached thereto a note from Leslie who I had met just a few days before in Pennsylvania. Leslie lives in Storrs, not far from AIDS Ride City. He had managed to find his way through camp and penetrate my pitbull Dave's security to find our tent. But since we weren't there, he couldn't do much but wait, leave a note, and then head home. Making use of David's cellphone, I call Leslie. He tempts us with offers of a hot tub, wine and comfortable furniture. Ah, if only there weren't another day of AIDS-Riding tomorrow. But it is now nearly 7:30, the sky is darkening, and while the youngsters might want to stay up for the evening's organized entertainment the middle-aged residents of this tent hear nothing but the call of Morpheus. Leslie says he might return to our camp. We tell him we'd be here. Then our heads hit our pillows.

I wake seemingly moments later to find the camp quiet and mostly dark. It is 1:00 AM and the engines of the AIDS Ride are rebuilding themselves. When I poke my head out, the only light and activity I can see are over at the security pen.

End Of Day 1

Go to Day 2

• Prelude
• Day 1
• Day 2
• Day 3
• Day 4

• is the spirit of the AIDS Rides
• becomes corporeal only during an AIDS Ride
• leads thousands of her chicklets over the hills and through sticky traffic
• is a waiter in Redondo Beach
• is visible only to those who support the AIDS Ride—others see only an empty Nishiki cross-bike
• is the only being who can upstage Dan Pallotta
• is always dressed tastefully
• loves us all
• has raised more money for AIDS care, education and research than I ever can
• has ridden 7 AIDS Rides (there have only been 8 AIDS Rides)
• eschews any foot retention system

Sightings of the late Jackie Kennedy

Verified

• Just before beginning to climb the great hills into Storrs, Connecticut, she stood to the left of the road and encouraged us with a wave.
• As I was descending in the midst of the worst rain I've ever ridden in, she appeared in front of the "Welcome to New York" sign on the Connecticut border, a vision in pink. She told me I was riding "wonderfully." (But it was a little hard to hear).

Rumored

• On Fifth Avenue, in front of her former residence.

The late Jackie Kennedy's Outfit at the AIDS Ride

• Pink suit
• Pink pill box hat
• White wings
• Pearls
• When it rains, a pink umbrella

Who's Dan Pallotta?

• Created the AIDS Rides
• Runs Pallotta Enterprises, the corporation that runs the AIDS Rides
• Something of a cyclist himself, although I've never seen him on a bike
• Not a bad speaker, after a bit of rehearsal. Every thrilling bit of info is still there—and more! Beside's Dan's thrilling descriptions of the gruesome death that could be awaiting us out on the road, there are real riders depicting methods by which you can risk or avert this death. It's practically multimedia.

Some statistics for the ride

• 3025 riders (a majority from New York)
• More than 600 volunteer crew members
• Over 1800 tents
• 300 miles
• 4 days
• $6.3 million (and climbing)
• Total for all 5 AIDS Rides this year: $25 million

How Fenway put 1995's money to use (1996 will be similar)

All of these are for people who are HIV-positive or who have AIDS

• Medical care for the underinsured: $134,126
• Mental health: $175,499
• Substance abuse program: $61,453
• HIV Counseling, testing and support: $17,474
• Medical social workers: $47,808
• Research: $111,475
• Color Me Healthy/Sany y Salvo: $28,758
• Men of Color Against AIDS: $31,087
• Living Well Education Series: $8,475
• Gay and Lesbian Helpline: $3,845
• Renovation and expansion of the main building: $315,000
• Anticipated losses of government funding in acupuncture detox ($170,170), Ryan White ($347,522), and CDC funds for Color Me Healthy ($113,761)
• Emergency Fund for AIDS Services to guarantee continuity in health care in spite of the political winds: $800,000
• Temporary funding for operating cash flow: $103,384

Your pledge money

• $6100
• 60 contributors
• My personal contribution: $700

Mechanical problems I did NOT have on the ride

• Flat tires
• Broken spokes
• Dead odometer
• Indexed headset
• Untrue wheels
• Rattles
• Squeaky bottom bracket
• Broken cables
• Squeaking brakes

Snacks on the ride

• Granola bars
• Pretzels
• Trail mix
• Bagel pieces
• Orange quarters
• Ensure
• Gatorade
• Power Bars
• and once (just once) fresh tomatoes right out of the farmer's garden!

Additional responsibilities you have even though you thought your work ended when you sent that check

• to receive this thing in your hands (but you don't have to read it)
• to get a request for a contribution for next year's ride (and, yes, you do have to read that one)

The REALLY most frequently asked questions that I got before the ride:

• when is the ride?
• how was the ride?
• when's the very last minute I can give you my check?